Now this is more like it! Marty Moon gets wind of the dopey squabble among the Mudlarks and races back to the station (HA! HA! HA!) to dish the dirt for all the Milford shut-ins who turn to the radio for their infotainment! Classic! Boy that Marty can sure turn a phrase. A rocky place? Like Edwina McDunnough’s insides in Raising Arizona.
Meanwhile, Gil makes himself a snack. Hmmm, going with a Mary Worth grip on that spatula?
Now I don’t know about the rest of you, but if Marty Moon had a radio show, I’d be tuning in, recording it, digitizing it and archiving it for posterity because I’m sure his paranoid ranting probably would make Art Bell sound like All Things Considered. But why would Gil bother? He’s generally dismissive of Marty and everything he has to say. Maybe Gil hasn’t figured out how to work his fancy Bose Wave radio and it’s been stuck on WDIG forever. Or perhaps Marty broke in to the regular Saturday afternoon Polka Show to deliver his late breaking news story.
So they actually did it! Well, that’s something.
“C’mon guys! It’s dark in here and it’s all hot and it hurts and stuff!”
You know, the feeling never lasts. It just doesn’t.
Milford’s DP Combo? That sounds dirty.
Okay historians, is Marty making these names up in a sippy cup fueled crate reverie or did those guys actually appear in the strip?
Oh boy, this is going to make a great story! [/Mark Trail]
Another Big Outing from Bob the Big Knob. He had the Jeffs off balance, swinging wildly and missing like chumps. Speaking of which, check out the nonexistent game of Fartknocker Foley and the hair-raisingly icy shutdown maneuver employed by Teen Mom. To quote the movie, Shaft, “that’s some cold shit!”
On a side note, where is Jaxxxon? Did Team Mom hire a nanny or did they banish Jaxxxon to Chuck Cunningham purgatory?
“Let us contemplate the mystery of Richie’s older brother Chuck, who ascended the stairs with his basketball in season one, and never came down again.”
— Peter Griffin, Family Guy, “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Fonz”
Big Bob still gets to strut his stuff, but his time for braggadocio has passed. He’s strong, for sure, which is what he tells his battery mate, Freckles Fontaine. That’s when Gil stumbles out to the mound, eyes unfocused, unpupiled even, saying nothing. His hair was perfect.
Marty sips deep from the cup of 180 proof awareness, squinting in a crate. (Did Thorp really leave Ottewill in the game? What is Marty’s objective reality, builder grade lumber or a pantsless Gil stumbling back to the dugout?)
Meanwhile, this season’s central d-bag does what he does best, sprawling and flipping. Nevermind how, he just does it, okay?
Who is in the foreground of Panel 1? I really hope it’s not supposed to be Foley, because that would make no sense. It would be fun to spend a Monday morning disecting the angle and the visual evidence, but the magic school bus compels me to move on and join the fellas out on the berm. We gotta root for the girls and their weird gloves.
After the game, we can hit up Bernie’s Shifty Mart for Nutboys and Frescas.
“Can’t get loose, eh? Well ease up and get loose so I can go and get tight. Look, there’s six or seven guys behind you that can catch the ball, so stop trying to wiz it past these Wampus Cats…hey what’s that advertisement out there? a burger or sandwich of some sort? Hey, what’s your name again?”
“Big Bob Stuff.”
“No not you Blob Stuff, you, wearing all the silly gear. Do I know you?”
“I’m your starting catcher, coach, Poindexter Snordkin.”
“Wait, what happened to Rick Bozich?”
“Coach, maybe you should go back to the dugout. I think we can figure this out.”
“Okay, good talk.”
Ha, the disinterested stares of the players on the Mudlarks bench is priceless. What’s that behind them though? Saddles? Packed parachutes? (How did that guy from Micfoob get in there?)
Meanwhile, the coaching staff has yet to catch up on the detes of the spring plot. Hang in there guys. I’m sure the guy at the hardware store will clue you in later.
The genius of Marty Moon’s crate is revealed. He can ship himself to Leesville to call the game, since he probably doesn’t have a car or a license and he’s almost certainly not welcome on the team bus.
“Hi, I’m new character, Knox Foley. I’m at short and Jimmy Jarbo is at second. We’re really awesome at double plays. I’m not sure if you’ve heard this or not, but I’m kind of a dick.”
“A dick? Around here? Say it isn’t so!”
“Oh, it be so. I’m a supreme dick.”
“What about Jimmy Jarbo? Is he a dick too?”
“What do I look like, the William Morris Agency? I think I saw him over there humping a trash can. Find out for yourself.”
Dinny and Bobby are back up to their hilarious hijinks! Their snappy patter lightens the mood as Fowler reveals that Knox Foley swatted him on the balls with his glove.
Oh man. Marty just got zinged again. He’s gonna run straight back to the basement and start putting a plan together to kidnap the Mudlark starters and saw their right arms off. Yeah, Gil, Marty can influence things. You hear that Gil, Marty has influence!
Marty! You forgot to bring in the trash cans!
Okay Ma! In a minute! I’m working on something.
I guess Jefferson doesn’t have access to any magic fowl. You’d think the three piece suit of the coach would be enough to spur on the ‘Jeffs.
YAY! We’re in the playdowns! We’re in the playdowns!
YAY! We’re in the playdowns! We’re in the playdowns!
Well, bring out the peacock.
I think the peacock’s sleeping.
Well, I guess you’re gonna have to wake him up.
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!