Oh, so we’re back to the jokez! in today’s strip. If we’ve learned anything in the last week and a half, it is that Dr. Droopy and Funky both are willing to dish out this cornpone but neither is willing to take it (in fact, I would argue that this is quite literally the only thing we have learned in the last week and a half).
Well, as they say, “write what you know”… Certainly no one can claim that TB doesn’t know hypocrisy.
I apologize that the post title significantly oversells the drab discharge that is today’s strip. Funky has cataracts, just like many people over age 65. Cataracts make it hard to see clearly, as Dr. Droopy so helpfully informs us. Will Funky and Dr. Droopy decide what to do about these cataracts by Saturday? If you care about the answer to that question, please seek help.
If today’s post title didn’t tip you off already, I will warn you here and now that we are NOT done with Funky’s visit to the eye doctor in today’s strip. You don’t need to read it. You don’t want to read it. As much as I generally hope to see lots of comments on this site, I won’t be remotely offended if there isn’t a single comment posted today.
What is there even to say? That this whole strip could have been avoided had Funky just answered the doctor’s question in last Friday’s strip? There, I said it. Tune in tomorrow for more warnings, probably.
Boy, that is one clunky sentence in panel one. Why didn’t Batiuk just have her read the card out loud? All so those filthy newspaper casuals that haven’t been devotedly reading all week aren’t lost.
At least Donna likes the gift. And to me this feels different than Minty loving her stupid engagement tiger. In the hands of a more trustworthy author, this could be decent character work. Everyone thought Crazy was crazy for buying his wife salad dressing, but he knew her better than anyone and knew that she’d like it.
It’s an anniversary present, not an engagement ring/tiger. It can be a sentimental pun costing less than 10 dollars, if that’s how the couple rolls. I mean, my parents never get each other anything for their anniversary. They just use it as an excuse to go out to eat. At a buffet. Because my dad doesn’t have the patience to sit at a restaurant that takes your order. So it’s a plateful of lo mein and imitation crabmeat rangoon. The peak of romance.
Gifts are funny things. The closer you are, the more strange and esoteric your presents to each other can become. I gave my aunt a rock for her birthday this year. It was her favorite present, because my aunt is bonkers for interesting looking rocks. We get my dad a bale of socks every Christmas, and every Christmas he grins unironically and goes, “Gooood. I can use these!” One year my mom taped a tiny rubber hand to a CD album of I Walk the Line because I’d asked for a fistful of cash. Inside the case was the actual money.
My mom specializes in weird, yet meaningful, presents. One year for Christmas, she got me a book on Romanian orphanages, and wrote a little note inside, “Now you can learn about your heritage.” I laughed hysterically for ten minutes. All because my family has an inside joke dating back to the 1992 Olympics, where my mom swore that one of the gymnasts looked like me, and improvised an entire story about how I’d been adopted from Romania after failing to show any athletic talent.
The best gifts come with an unspoken message. And the message is, “I know you.”
All of this to say, if Donna had any personality whatsoever, and we had some prior establishment of Donna and Harry’s marriage, this wouldn’t feel so hollow and bland and borderline insulting. As it is, Epicus put it very well in a comment on yesterday’s strip:
Every Act III marriage is exactly the same. It wasn’t always like that during Act II, but now they’re all identical. Blissfully unaware lummox husband, perpetually disappointed-yet-patient wife tolerating her moron’s idiocy with wry resignation. Cayla, Holly, Donna, Jessica, Harriet…the only one that doesn’t fit the pattern is Mason & Cindy, where the roles are sort of reversed.
Poor Donna, look how excited she is in panel one. She reaches out with both hands to the bottle sitting on the weird, tiny, chest-high, table that floats in the featureless beige void. Some cheap sparkling wine. Something to take the edge off the fear gnawing at her subconscious that she’s trapped forever in this gradient colored nega-space. Locked into a bland box, where she slowly decays as the background fades, both the room and her person losing all color and detail. She’ll drink that bottle of cheap, carbonated booze and forget her horrifying existence for a while.
And then the reveal, and her face falls.
This must be payback for all the times she washed her hair with Crazy’s head cleaning solution.
But it’s okay. She can wash away her sorrows with rancidly effervescent salad dressing.
Son of Stuck Funky 
