I have to say, the way the artist executes Mimi’s concern, quickly morphing into cynical brooding about the fortunes of her softball team is pretty spot on. I’ll even ignore the weirdness of the cast.
What Mimi, needs is a little sage advice from the Gilfather:
“Oh, there there, honey. Don’t you realize that missing the playdowns is the result you want? No bus rides to Paducah and an earlier retreat to our luxurious veranda and some of that 180 proof lemonade! What’s more, when you can have an injured star player to absorb the blame you can practically throw in the towel a few weeks earlier. Say, I accidentally poured too much coffee in this cup and now I won’t have enough room for, um, cream…Here ya go hon.”
Ha Ha, it’s hilarious because Jimmy Jojo Shabadoo Jarbo thought Knoxious Fartknocker Foley LLC was showing some signs of being not as douchey as all other observations up to this point seemed to have indicated, except NOT!
It’s also hilarious because it’s just more legal mumbo jumbo that seems completely misguided and begs the question of whether the Foley Law Group has any idea what it’s doing.
Yeah, Knocker, my address is 1000 Cramitupyerpooper Lane.
We’ve secretly replaced several Mudlarks with unfrozen cavemen. Let’s see if Gil Thorp can tell the difference.
So Bobby Ottewill saw da boid, flipped out and started shooting up Oakwood’s gym. The violent onslaught continued as the Oakwood faithful were forced to flee.
Snap out of it Marty, it’s a throwaway basketball game!
Oh, nevermeind. So Gil, ready to name your starting nine for spring?
It’s nice that Marjie and Mimi are comfortable hanging out in Mimi’s office, discussing Gil’s “boys” and the Thorps’ collective issues with digestive enzymes.* (Maybe Mimi is referring to the Thorp kids, who for continuity sake have been converted into lesions of the mucous membrane?) Well, who can tell what’s going on? Both teams are cramming multiple games into the last desperate days because so much precious time was devoted to angsty deliberations over the peacock.
Oh, and one more thing: Playdowns? Playdowns?! You gotta be HRONKing my FOOZLE!
*Sounds like a job for Gil’s proctologist!
Ric Devore really got the short end of the stick. Last season, he was a promising slender soph and this season, he’s just a pawn in a game of weeks late “coaching” by Gil Thorp. You still have next year to look forward to, Ric. Maybe you can come out of the closet, join the Backyard Tire Fire street team or get a mysterious recruiting letter from the College of Charleston.
Uh, Gil, have you heard of a little blog called This Week in Milford.
A blog? What is it?
It’s a kind of website with posts and comments, but that’s not important right now. Let’s just say that the ridiculousness of these developments almost killed a guy!
Killed a guy? Wow.
Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but, seriously Gil. Try and keep up. Why don’t you take a day and sort it all out, then call in the “star” of this winter plot to recap the lesson he’s learned already and maybe rib him a little about how he’s responsible for the gullibility of his trogladytic teammates?
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.
P1: Great practice, Scott. Keep showin’ them your “giraffe”!
P2: Is that a Milford dad actually in the home? We don’t see that often. (Fowler’s utensil grip is pretty unorthodox. Don’t try that at home, kids!)
P3: Say your prayers, Meatwad! (“Say, Mom, what is this meat? It tastes kind of gamey.”)
P1: Hey, how did I get out here on the lawn? Why am I doing the sprinkler dance?
P2: Wait, the peacock thought it imagined Fowler? The Ford Taurus thought it imagined a peacock?
P3: Sports action! Thrilling dunks and vacant stares!
P1: Hey, you two in the back row! The action’s over here! Look, Fowler’s draining a 3!
P2: Flat-footed ref with hands on hips looks on, mildly interested.
P3: Marty Moon’s hairpiece is from the Herman Munster collection.
Here it is, the moment we’ve all been waiting for, the revelation of the trouble that haunts Scott Fowler. Ugh, Jay-Bird?! What happened to Jay-Bird? Was he sent to the camp with the Thorp kids? Mauled by Jaxon the chimp boy at day care? It was Pennywise the Clown, wasn’t it?!
Also, nice pointing.
Aw shit, a dead kid. That’s just fucking great. The timing is bad, but ultimately not the fault of Rubin and Whigham. They will however be fully responsible for whatever acts they are about to perpetrate to teach us all about grief in a sensitive and respectful manner. (And not the leukemia? And not the leukemia. Really?! Help us.)
Please, give us a b-plot that we can do something with.
This is perfect. Bulk up, Shelby. Until then, we’ll use other options to set screens. Maybe we can recruit Bathsheba Butt (of the famous Butt Sisters). I hear she sets a mean screen.