Where the hell is Gil going with this? Does the prospect of a magical peacock actually intrigue him? Is he so resistant to coaching that he’s willing give it a shot? Of course not, but there’s still a week or so left so let’s show Gil doing something to drive the point home to his team of losers. What was the point again? Even smart kids are irrationally swayed by delusion, I think. Also, stay away from the ravine. There’s a creepy guy down there.
February 26, 2013
January 15, 2013
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?
January 10, 2013
Sitting and rehashing a high school basketball game over the tepid macchiatos the Java Jernt is known for sounds like the most unappealing thing two adult couples could do. Kelly is openly stifling a yawn.
Cut to Mia and her Boo, the centerpiece of the winter plot. Is Mia disturbed by Fowler’s strange assertions about the peacock? Has she been around for his grieving prior to the peacock sighting? This would probably inform her feelings about this latest development. It appears that their love doesn’t have much back story.
Wow! This dialogue is worthy of Hepburn and Tracy. (Yeah we love some ancient references here. What of it?) So witty and lighthearted, as if they weren’t talking about a dead little brother at all!
On second thought, maybe hanging at the coffee shop would have been preferable.
November 22, 2012
Oh man, I am so full of stuffing and beer and then pie and then another layer of beer…what, oh, is this thing on, the blog thing with the coach of that Milford place with cookies and cufflinks, oh, yeah, blogging about that, right?
Cool, he’s playing Missile Command! Pew Pew! Quick, blast the Sputnik! Oh yeah right, the Irish kid who’s the sex machine to all the lad…I mean was the sex machine to all the ladies until those social media drummers started beating along with other percussionists of stuff that this strip’s creators are marginally aware of.
He’s blown a second eyeball, folks! A rare double explosion of the orbits! Is that why Terry is sashaying down the hall holding his books like Marsha Brady? And when did Gallags get the Hawkeye Pierce hair?
“Buh! Buh! Buh! Buh! I present my lunch tray, lads! Hows about some of that broseph time, gents?”
“Nah, man, if it’s all the same I’m gonna go. My girl is gonna shut down the magic kingdom if she sees me with you!”
“Ding Dong! How come I’m getting the bum’s rush, squire?”
“Blabbity blabbity marketing blabbity backlash, see a doctor bought those eyeballs blabbity.”
So, don’t believe your own hype?
What? Gravy shots? Yeah, I’ll be right there…..
Today’s winning referring search term is “sometimes i like to wear stretchy pants”.
November 17, 2012
“You see, I’m going to use this phone to ignore him. This phone, right here, levitating at the end of my fingertips. Do you want to know how to ignore somebody with a phone? I’ll tell you. Wait where are y’all going?”
“My sandwich is running low on whiskey and I need to go out to the parking lot for a refill. Keep going. I can fill in the parts I miss.”
“I’m going to go get my tonsils boxed. All this talk of Terry makes me want him more. Good luck with your ignorance campaign. I’ll try not to tell too many people about all the degrading sex I’m about to have with Terry Gallagher, the Irish kid on the football team.”
“Um, hi pretty stripe shirt girl. I’m new at Milford. My name is Hervé Villechaize, Jr. Can you direct me to the tray return? Oh, silly me, it’s right over there under that BIG sign. Perhaps, I shall see you around.”
Well, Chip, clearly you don’t know what a blitz is and Cyndy doesn’t know the meaning of the word ignore. You guys are perfect for each other! Go make some stupid babies while Grammy Anita bakes stupid cookies downstairs.
Hey, who are these guys. Cool street twits, discussing tweets on the street, with backwards hats and carefully cuffed slacks. “Yo check out some of these tweets, yo.”
“Dude, you just began and ended a sentence with yo.”
“Shut up, let’s just read tweets, yo.”
“Wow, talk about getting retweeted upside the head!”
“Shut up, yo.”
Thanks guys, here’s a few bucks. Go get a soda or something.
November 11, 2012
Look! It’s those freaks again! Ms Pinky (69.95, boys, giver a try), Screech-bot 3000 and either Rachel Maddow or Matthew Perry. Go Irish!
Uh oh Terry! Put a dollar in the douche jar!
“Pardon me, but I put the ball at the Milford 17. I’m Goatee Gary, the rockin’ referee.”
“But Gary, what I meant was that as a result of the penalty to The Douchening, the ball was put at the Milford 17.”
“Please don’t argue with Goatee Gary.”
Once again, we notice a severe lack of Gil Thorp. Remember him? He’s supposed to coach these simpletons. He’s the one that threw Terry into the mix based on his vicious streak. He must be saving it up for a classic smack down denouement. Until then, you know where to find him, sipping Dewar’s at the Airport Ramada.
Is that not the grimmest Marty Moon panel in quite some time? He looks like he’s flying some shitty old plane that he wants to smash into the desert.
“Speaking of hot dogging, Chip, I haven’t had access to your Oscar Meyer in days. Are we gonna sit around and chat about your Irish butt buddy all night? I might just have to go over there and see what all the fuss is about myself.”
“Oh cool, Cyndy. Hey could you ask him to lay off all the late hits and the dancing around and stuff?”
“I’ll make no promises. I don’t believe I’ll be able to get a word out, edgewise.”
November 6, 2012
GO MUFNRD! Down with Central. They’re so median. Slainte Sloan-Sha, of the Newport Sloan-Shas?
Wait, what? I think I had a stroke. No, it’s just Gil Thorp.
Oh good, the crafts are coming to transport these adorable meat puppets back to their home world.
You know, Gil hasn’t been showing his face much this fall. Actually, I think his appearances thus far this campaign have been:
“What’re ya doin? Chasing tail on the golf course? Why dontcha come help me mold men?”
“Hey, who can kick? How ’bout that kid over there? His accent is adorable!”
“Hey, let’s put Lucky Charms in the secondary. He can get out there and dance a jig on Oakwood’s face!”
“Mimi, did you find my gray slacks?”
“Did you look behind the couch or under the car?”
“Wait, I think I left them on the bus back from Goshen.”
November 3, 2012
“Hey, other guy. Ya wanna hear my latest scheme?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Well I got us a couple of nun’s habits and a bullwhip…”
We interrupt this comic strip to bring you one delightful panel of the passion that can only exist between a girl and a delicious patty melt. She wraps her rapturous fingers around that lightly grilled sourdough bun which in turn caresses eight sumptuous ounces of the best charbroiled hunk of what can be referred to by law as beef. Zippy the Pinhead, what are you doing here? I thought you had to drive your Nash Metropolitan through the Delegates’ Lounge at the United Nations? Nice wig, it almost subtly disguises your disfigurement.
Excuse me, Doyle Dane over here. I’m advancing the plot with more of my master plan to elevate the Irish kid to Homecoming Court. If I can achieve that, I can do anything. I might even be able to get Mia Meeks to look at me without giving me the finger. Now if you’re through with your perverse hamburger commercial over there, I’ve got a butt load of marketing stuff to do.
Excuse us, Doyle, but you’re just shoveling shit. This chick over here is selling this patty melt!
Steaming towards Midweek…
“Ha Ha Ha, because we both live on Beech Street!”
Ah yes, the dreaded tonsil hockey triangle, the cause of over thirty percent of all violent incidents at Homecoming. Wait, two more? Okay, I’m going to need a compass and one of those nice soft leaded pencils so I can inscribe a tonsil hockey parallelogram on some butcher’s paper.
C’mon Terry! Wave to Mr. Zapruder!
Now, we find that the driver of the car is Doyle Dane in a wig. He’s nabbing Gallagher to take him out in the woods to force him to reveal the location of his pot of gold. Then Terry will ease Cyndy Canty to womanhood while they’re both chained to a log in the deep woods, why Doyle dances in front of a mirror by candlelight in a nearby decaying trapper’s cabin.
Blogger note: When I saw the girl rapturously eating that hamburger in panel 2 of the 11/1 strip, the first thing I thought of was a scene from the movie Showgirls, where Elizabeth Berkley devours a hamburger. I mean, she attacks the thing. I wanted to find an image of that on the web. I can’t believe I could find that. I guess most searchers are satisfied with several shots of her licking a stripper pole. Personally, I find that the hamburger eating has more artistic merit than any other shot in that movie.