Today we observe that rarest of instances in the Funkiverse: our hero, subjected to the withering disdain of a functionary of the state, gains the upper hand by delivering a well-timed, snarky zinger of his own. Funky knows it, too; dig his expression in panel 3: the arched eyebrow and the entirely appropriate sardonic smirk.
I’m going to let this one pass. Feel free, the rest of you, to have at it.
Of course “you don’t qualify for the grace period”…Ohio has no grace period when it comes to driver’s license renewals. And if “last year” means your license expired over six months ago, Ohio law requires you to get a permit and then re-take the driving test. Now there’s a rich vein of humorous material to be tapped. But the word “grace” suggests “holy,” I guess which suggests, to Batiuk, “last rites” are in order for Funky’s expired as in “dead” license.
Well, Groundhog Day was a week ago, but readers will be forgiven if they feel like they’re re-reading yesterday’s strip today. Panel one, Anono-Lawyer uses a legal term; panel two, lawyer guy turns it over to Funky and Holly. Panel three–the payoff!–Funky says something pitiful.
Since I said everything yesterday that could be said about this setup, I’ll use the remainder of my time to share a couple hunches. First, that building we see out the window in panel 2 seems rather lovingly detailed, especially in light of Mr. “Halftone Gradient” Batiuk’s usual disdain for drawing scenery. Perhaps it is a Real Place in Ohio?
Secondly, as this blog nears its seventh anniversary (thanks to every one of our readers and contributors!), Funky Winkerbean is coming up on forty-five years. I would not put it past Tom Batiuk, assuming he plans to mercifully retire FW at the fifty-year mark, to end with a drawn out “Funky Dies” arc, in which every single abandoned plot line is resolved. Better get to work on that now, Tom.
You know, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that Funky’s wordplay is actually kind of clever. It’s certainly far superior to anything Les Moore has ever come up with.
And I guess that’s the reason why he has to be insulted. How dare you do something that Les is incapable of doing–providing some amusement, however dim. Telling, isn’t it? If it’s not Funky running himself down, it’s everyone around him–including his creator. It’s times like these–strips like these, I should say–where I don’t wonder why Funky has the grim, fatalistic attitude he has. What kind of life is it where the only response you can expect from a little joke is disgust? Just because you weren’t born with the name “Les Moore”?
I’m not saying you should be ROTFLOL at his joke, but it’s kind of clever and relevant to the situation. And Funky can’t even get an indulgent smirk.
You can bet that if this joke came from the death-hole of Les Moore, people would be laughingly falling out of their chairs to show how funny they found it…and yet, they’d also be reflecting on how true it all is, and how it has enriched their lives.
(It might be hard to discern that over the sound of readers everywhere projectile vomiting, but it would be there anyway.)
It’s probably good that Funky doesn’t (so far as I know) own a shotgun. I’m sure he would have gunned down anyone near him before turning the gun on himself–probably many, many years ago. Necessitating an Act IV, I’m thinking.
Never mind the title of this entry; sometimes it’s really hard to be clever, as Frankie (and a certain cartoonist) can well attest. So, like a certain cartoonist might say, you grab a word out of the material in front of you and think, “What goes with ‘dirt’?” You might find yourself surprised by your findings. And not in a good way.
Anyway. So, Frankie and Lenny see Mason and Marianne walking away toward the studio soundstage.
Somehow, this gives Frankie ideas. Big ideas–the kind his boss, Fred Flintstone, wants. The kind he knows Fred will see, and he’ll get that maniacal gleam in his eyes. “Boys,” he’ll say, “boys, this–this is good. This is really, really good. Yabba-dabba-do!”
And, using a bit of imagination, I can see the headlines now:
As Alfred E. Neuman once offered, “Perfect for framing or wrapping fish!” What he once said about his own portrait might now apply to certain sections of the newspaper in their entirety.
Son of Stuck Funky 