Tuesday! Where we rush into a plot-line that we’ve literally already seen before. I’m not just just referring to when Darrin was born but in the 600 times his delivery was mentioned in the strip since. I mean, no wonder Darrin is having Deja-Vu about it, how many times has he had to sit through the story of his rush to the hosptial?
Odds that Fred is going to pop out of his medical drama to “help with the delivery” are looking pretty darned high from the looks of today’s strip.
‘Ello! 4th-trumpet and Westview Waterboy DavidO is checking in, giving much-needed relief to Beckoning Chasm after BC’s two week run of excellent Funky snarking.
On to the funnies!
Hoo-boy. Put on your Members Only Jacket and throw on your Michael Jackson album because we’re about to retread over one of the tiredest troupes in situation comedy, the “Oh God, I’m having a baby, let’s duck into the nearest malfunctioning elevator that has a Rabbi, a mime and a 300lb guy who easily faints in it.” routine that was required in every sitcom, by congressional mandate, from 1983-1994.
Today’s strip throws logic out the window in favor of comedy, though I still don’t see how a panicked trip to the hospital where you gnaw your fingertips raw with anxiety constitutes comedy.
This sort of strip is great at illustrating why cell phones are the bane of screenwriters everywhere. In the age of instant connection, Jess could have just texted Durwood to come pick her up; she’s really feeling it and it’s almost time. The suitcase would already be in the car in that scenario; no need for a pregnant woman to go hauling it around.
I can’t peek ahead, so there’s no way of knowing if this arc is going to go on for weeks or if the Sainted Grandbaby will be enrolled in Westview High this time next month. Either way, prepare for every single worn out fumbling-dad-goes-to-the-hospital schtick ever seen in the last three centuries.
So: the utter drivel we read yesterday worked like a charm on Les, and his writer’s block is broken. I guess that Les’ teleplay will be filled with similar, um, “observations” and, once it makes its way to the Lisa’s Story producers, it will nestle nicely in the bottom of a trashcan. Although I’d hate to sully a nice trashcan with whatever trash Les will flap out into a manilla envelope.
And now we have today’s strip. Sorry, Cayla, but despite what Les says, it didn’t take any courage at all. You’ve been a doormat for Les and Lisa for pretty much your entire existence, aside from a couple of amusing injuries you’ve inflicted on Les. Helping Les mainline his Lisa addiction is not a sign of courage. It’s a sign that you’re no longer willing to try. You’ve given up. Les will reward you for giving up, of course, by perhaps comparing you somewhat favorably in Lisa’s light. But the rest of the world sees you as suffering from a far worse addiction than anything Les has. In the real world, I believe this is called “Battered-Wife Syndrome” and it is not pretty.
It takes courage to fight for what you want. It takes courage to stand up for yourself. It takes no courage at all to surrender to a ghost that your husband still clings to after all these years. I don’t know what you expected when you married this blind, boring narcissist, but those expectations are clearly long forgotten. Now, your only available path is feeling endless self-congratulatory and wearying self-pity. That doesn’t make you brave. That just makes you even more pathetic than I thought possible, frankly.
Welcome to Westview.
Well, Lisa, I suspect you got a lot of blank stares because what you said is so utterly stupid that the staff was simply caught off guard, and was trying to be polite. You know, instead of saying, “Is that a joke? Are you making a joke? Or is the chemo kicking in? Because what you said was pretty damned stupid. Oh, wait, you’ve got cancer. Sorry, what I meant to say was that you’re really funny and profound.”
If I was in the hospital with someone suffering from cancer, and they said the same thing, I’d smile politely because that’s what you do when someone is suffering and you’re trying to be comforting. I would not, however, repeat the observation around the water-cooler the next day, because it’s clearly the rambling of someone in pain. Not the sort of thing to remember and smirk quietly to myself over.
There was a minor Woody Allen movie a few years ago called Crimes and Misdemeanors. In it, Allen is making a documentary about a comedy show host (Alan Alda). Alda plays the guy as a crass boor, and in one bit of documentary footage he talks about a writer he doesn’t want to work with anymore. “I don’t care if he’s got cancer, he doesn’t ‘write funny’!”
Now, we’re all supposed to think, Oh, that’s just terrible, what a terrible man. The thing is though, he’s right. We’ve all known folks who’ve suffered with cancer, and I have every sympathy imaginable, believe you me. They deserve to be treated with kindness and respect. Having cancer, however, doesn’t by itself make you a genius, or a saint, or a stellar wit. It can focus you, and those around you, into truly looking at each other and appreciating each other, and it might prod you toward improving your mind or your skills or otherwise pushing yourself into new things. But having cancer doesn’t automatically make your jokes funny, and it doesn’t give the guy who writes about you any talent.
I couldn’t resist. Besides–wouldn’t this actually be a much more interesting development? Les learns something from Starbuck Jones, it ties in with the whole “Starbuck Jones” concept, and we can cut to another cover–this time showing Starbuck’s ladyfriend, Lisandra! You can’t tell me Tom Baituk isn’t reading this right now and kicking himself. Just kicking himself, over and over and over again. You can say, “That’s not happening” but I’m enjoying the mental picture too much to listen to you right now.
Son of Stuck Funky 