While most of the now-reassembled idiocy of Winkerbeans mopes at a Pete-level in today’s strip, Holly is taking charge! How, exactly, she expects a photo of Act II Funky with the mayor of Centerville to help Adeela remains to be seen…
Before we get into the explanation for this bit of Batiukverse history, let’s take a minute to appreciate the magnificent uselessness of Amicus Breef, who today is repeating the exact same legal vernacular he spit out two days ago… like a 14 year old who just learned the phrase “subpoena evidence” and keeps saying it because he thinks it makes him sound smart. It has been some time since TB introduced such a remarkably incompetent character, which is saying something.
OK, now for the tale of the time Funky and his mullet met President Bill Clinton. It was the summer of 1993 and the Westview school district was facing its latest challenge in getting voters to approve yet another school levy (or “tax issue” as Fred and Nate referred to this one). Dinkle decided the best way to drum up support was to get the recently elected President Clinton to appear at a rally headlined by his WHS band. Being a well-known former band geek, the President actually showed up, endured the band’s performance, and finished things off by playing a saxophone duet with Dinkle. On his way out of town, President Clinton demanded pizza and Dinkle recommended Montoni’s. Thus:
Dinkle also gave the President a gift for showing up at the rally… *sigh* It was a box of comic books, of course.
Link to today’s strip.
Normally, a Funky Winkerbean reader would see today’s episode as one of those typical Sunday “filler” strips that has nothing to do with anything, but is just supposed to be lighthearted and fun.
But Tom Batiuk can’t resist tipping his heavy hand when he’s about to get serious. I guess it’s his way of saying “Polish off those awards, boys, the Batiuk shelf is ready for ’em!”
So we see Adeela all happy and carefree, just before the mean ol’ USA comes crashing down on her, for no reason at all (I’m guessing; there could be a reason that will turn out to be incredibly stupid). Maybe she has a brother who’s bombed here and there, and she’s guilty by association. Or it might be something we’ve never guessed (because it has never been shown.) As I mentioned yesterday, whatever it is will be so inaccurate and poorly thought-out that it should win awards–just not the good kind. The point is that Batiuk will make her life living hell, for no other reason than that’s the only kind of life available in this strip…and, for that, he should win an award. A good award, too. He thinks.
Seems odd that we had to go through nine years two weeks of talking about driver’s licenses to get here, but there you go in Batiukland.
And that’s all from me for now. Thank you for your indulgence; I appreciate your comments and your insights, and I also appreciate those who read but do not comment. And now, please welcome back reigning champion Epicus Doomus, who returns tomorrow.
Let’s have Peter Gabriel sing us out of here…
Link to today’s strip
We’re only on our second day with Isaac the Robot Manservant, and Funky is already tired of the tin can. Look at his poor face in panel two. He was briefly excited at the idea of conversing with a sentient android of unknown origin. But the robot is just another smarmy asshole. Like everyone else in Westview.
Which is too bad, because robots make the best smarmy assholes. Marvin, Bender, HK-47, L-Ron, Lore. The only robot type more popular has to be the wide-eyed innocent Johnny Five type. Unfortunately for Isaac he apparated in the universe of insufferable twits, where his personality is only so much white noise and static.
Thank you to everyone who pointed out yesterday that our metallic mirage is supposed to be a Starbuck Jones side character who was shown on several of Batiuk’s prized commissioned comic covers he loudly auctioned off for roughly the price of a used car. I guess it explains why Funky would hallucinate him. The bulbed-headed desk lamp is probably rattling around in his subconscious from seeing him on the covers of comics when Holly was collecting.
Horrifying covers like this one.
Link to today’s strip
Comic Book Harriet here; stretching out her snarking muscles to warm up for this marathon of nonsense.
A long long time ago, when the world was young and Bush was president, I decided to join the Cross Country team. I wouldn’t call what I did on that team ‘running’, because that is an gross insult to the vital skill set that allowed our ancestors to chase down game and flee sabertooth tigers. If we are being extremely generous, we could call my half-hearted efforts ‘jogging’. Just like you could be generous and call the multicolored scribbles of a toddler ‘art’.
As my oxygen deprived brain would send gasping signals to my leaden legs to shuffle forward in a jerky shamble, my entire torso was consumed in the effort of sucking in air and huffing it out like I had swallowed a miniature iron lung.
Sometimes, when one of the more naturally athletic teammates would approach from behind to lap me, (again), they would attempt to engage me in conversation; but a few painfully wheezed one word replies were all I could ever manage.
Never in a million years would I have taken the effort and energy and oxygen to laboriously explain to myself, on an empty track, self-evident and pointless facts OUT LOUD.
Thought bubbles, Tom. They’re a thing.
Link To Today’s Strip
Sigh. Nothing like two days of gags about the pin on a weightlifting machine. Killing time in an arc that itself exists to kill time…the Batiukian Paradox. Thank God it’s Saturday.
Link To Today’s Strip
These “Funky at the gym” arcs don’t really give you a lot of material to work with. Another bland gag from a bland character in a bland setting in a bland comic strip. Of course it could be worse, but that’s all relative. At least it’s kind of a joke, so there is that. In fact in December you could go back and review 2020 and pick out the ten “best” individual strips and this one would probably make the cut, which is not an endorsement. Actually it’s downright depressing.