So ends the magical peacock season. Gil Thorp doles out a post mortem dollop of coaching, another life lesson: Believe in yourself, not in spirit animals. Certainly a few of these dolts cannot wrap their mind around Dr. Gil’s creepy self-esteem dogma, and they are plotting now how to get their hands on a pig of their own, maybe a peccary if necessary.
How are these simpletons supposed to carry any of this “wisdom” over? You never know where these mercurial nutjobs’ heads will be at from one day to the next and Gil’s not exactly instilling any consistency with his month’s long disappearing acts.
Here at This Week in MIlford, we would be remiss in not revelling the implications of perviness in Panel 1. Yes, of course, to those not skilled in looking for bizarre innuendo, it simply looks like a trainer escorting two injured players off the court (one holding a chicken cutlet to her head and the other with an eggroll taped to her shoulder). But given the putrid peacock infested winter we’ve had to endure up to this point, it’s impossible not to geek out and make as many “Jean Luc Picard escorts a couple unerage girls out to his ‘training van’” comments as possible. C’mon, Trainer Rick Scott even donned some mysterious back brace or truss of some sort. What gives? It could be an innocent fanny pack with a few more food items for any subsequent injuries, but let’s go with Sex Utility Belt.
“Sorry, Mimi. They’re done for the night. But I’m just gettin’ warmed up!”
Wait, there’s more. The Tilden Squad features the Valeey Conference’s only conjoined twins athletes, The Squint Sisters. What they lack in mobility, they make up for in wing span.
Boys. Clicking. Woo. Hoo.
Wait, shouldn’t there at least be a BONK? Maybe a HRONK? Perhaps a new sound effect for the arsenal of tried and true gags around here? Come on, throw us a bone!
Hey Trainer Ric Scott, you should check Mia for signs of a concussion. Do you see tiny peacocks flying around her head? Hey, look for her eyeball while you’re crouching down there. It may have ejected on impact!
Yes, Gil, think about it for a bit. You’ve got to pull off a cunning* stunt to bring this festering boil of a plot in for a landing. It might be fun to speculate what Gil has up his sleeve, for comedic purposes, but it’s near impossible to predict the banality that will emerge. Sit back and enjoy.
I thought that Scott and Mia had already put all the pieces together and reached the rational conclusions available by banging a few operating brain cells together. I was wrong. Gil Thorp’s invaluable insights are not to be minimized. Without Mr. Thorp’s guidance, these kids would be eating paint chips and worshipping squirrels as dieties.
*shout out to Dale’s Blackadder referencing comment yesterday.
The best you can say about this one is that it’s over? Not by a long shot, Marty. This plot still has a couple of weeks to limp over the finish line. Do you know something we don’t know? Is spring coming early? Did the peacock come out of its hole and see a couple of Milford idiots?
Are we (with Marty) watching the players untuck their jerseys in panel 3? Is that guy back there going to jump out the window? What happened to his pants?!
Let’s play basketball, girls. Watch out for number 21. She’s mean and she’ll whipcrack you with her crazy ass ponytail. If she gets near you, use bilateral mental telepathy to anger her further and drive her foot back in time into a teammate’s crotch. Then, look for a rain shower or possibly a rogue swarm of insects to stagger into, elude another anger ponytail and heave away. Go ahead and heave away. There’s only one spectator. Now this is basketball. There’s nothing wrong with my thumb, even though i can’t straighten it out. I injured myself putting out a fire at my house. My husband set all his clipboards on fire and poured a box of homemade wine on the fire. He thought he was Red Adair.
The last-second shot goes in and the girls celebrate by revealing the widest variety of freak hands ever assembled in one comic strip panel. Crazy tiny finger, amazing meatfists and rubber wristed, high-fiving Stretch Armstrong forearms all in a blender panel including bad hair and broken noses. Panel 2 says Woo Hoo in a psychotic way.
What the fuck is panel 3? What the fuck is it? You have got to be shitting me! Really, you’re going with that? No, really? Okay, it is touching (in its awfulness). These two nitwits share in their delusions. I hope they keep them to themselves.
“Roar,” says Scott Fowler. “You score many points. You so awesome.”
“Yes, I feel special. Special like…a peacock!”
“Huh? That not really work in this context.”
“Look out, special Lady Mudlark. Furious Jeffersonite throw inner tube at you!”
This story is going to be huge. Player’s Dead Younger Brother’s Soul Inhabits Peacock, Inspiring Player and Girlfriend To Shoot Better, Coaches Set Each Other On Fire In Celebration
Okay, just got back from Charleston…no trace of Mr. Bakst, but I did get a commemorative beer stein and a tattoo that I can’t understand. When I woke up in the sand trap of a Myrtle Beach golf course, it was just there. So what have I missed?
Mostly, it looks like Mia, really wants to see the peacock. I mean, really, show her the peacock already, Fowler. It’s the secret to shooting prowess.
Show her the peacock! Where is the peacock? Are you desperate for the peacock? How bad do you want to see the peacock? Hey is that Marsha Brady? Did something “suddenly come up”? Was it a peacock?
That’s okay, Fowler. It happens to the best of us. Just relax and don’t think about it too hard and the peacock will rear its head. (Hey, watch out for the Unitarian Universalist stop sign!)
Still no sighting? C’mon Fowler, do you need testosterone replacement therapy already?
Okay, now it’s just ridiculous.
Ease up, Fowler. You’re likely to be mistaken for that psychotic guy from the continually recycled crowd panel.
Mia’s a beast. She craves the peacock and now she’s a shooting machine. This is a fun plot. I’m looking forward to blogging about this on a more regular irregular basis.
We remain skeptical that we can keep reading this without wanting to stick an icepick into our eyeballs. Oh goody, more basketball. Peacock Boy and Stretch Armstrong save the day.
Meanwhile, more basketball. Who is more bored: TWIM readers, the three attendees or CENTRO, the nineteenth century scoreboard?
When you clank it, it goes Bonk!
Yeah, Cyndy Canty, next time work your way open then you can clank a bonk, hronk a foozle, hraak a peacock and generally muf a nerd.
Instead of a post-Bonk Bucket sesh, how about a little shoulder squaring at the Mfnrd Rec? How many of you thought Fowler’s advice would be peacock related?