So now the Knocker is channeling Doyle Dane, ie throwing around stinky old, “professional” aphorisms in an attempt to advertise his career path to his peers. Great. The legal profession in itself is not inherently douchey, but a douchey teen aspiring to a legal career and exhibiting self-aggrandizing douche behavior when not yet out of high school is not helping matters.
So Mr. Jarbo is clueless about the accident? This is shaping up to be a typical lazily constructed backdrop for whatever the “theme” of this will be.
Ah, yes, the famous bird’s eye view of Marty’s crate, the panel that establishes Marty’s inclusion in objective reality…
Ah, yes, Big Bob Stuff, a nickname that sounds even more ridiculous when it’s repeated by anonycatcher…seriously, who is that freckled guy? Do we know him from other plots? He has freckles and he’s apparently seen, and been impressed by, Big Bob’s stuff, er Big Bob Stuff.
Down go the hapless Jeffs, quivering in fear of BIG BOB STUFF!
So the dugout chatter reiterates the focus of this plot so far: Nobody knows about the Chaldeans and the Knocker is running his mouth about “the case”.
Does anybody even know if Joe stocks Nutboys at the SpeedCo?
“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.
Welcome to the Foley Law Group, a law firm occupying a 1100 square foot bungalow which was the former residence of Grandma Foley (who retired to Charleston rather hastily a few years back). The Foley Law Group employs temporary, part time (when it’s raining) help in the person of jerkwad shortstop, Knox Foley. If you fell on your ass in a parking lot, the Foley Law Group is singularly suited to handle your claim for damages.
Hiya Dad, what are we working on?
Well, son, I’m working on the Foley Law Group Website. It’s missing something and I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Oh man, the boss’ kid is “helping out” today.
Yeah, he’s a joy to have around, so now I guess we’ll have to work out here in the foyer. We have to talk to the old man about getting some more space, and maybe doing something about the grandma smell in here.
Tell me about it. I’m sharing office space with a bunch of Mason jars filled with unidentifiable vegetables.
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.
All right, new plot! Running back Chip Visci’s giant mom is baking tiny cookies in her tiny oven! Yes! Check out that dowager’s hump! Check out that wonderful cauliflower arrangement on the counter next to the oven. Oooo! Look at how she lays down the law with a mighty “SWAT!” of her oddly flat spatula. This is what Gil Thorp is all about, isn’t it?
“I’m Anita from next door. Welcome to Beech Street! Please accept these cookies and don’t stare at the strangeness that is my neck!” Where could this be going? Is Chip Visci going to horribly burn himself trying to learn to make cookies while his Mom is abducted by the “new neighbor” and chained up in the basement, forced to bake cookies for some cult?
Put your speculations on hold for a moment everybody, we ain’t done down at Milford Country Club! That’s right, Gil still hasn’t secured any low or no-pay assistance from Steve Boone.
Next up: “Steve, why don’t you drop by the airfield and wax my Beechcraft?”
Welcome new character, Strawmom Mercer. She’s old fashioned and uptight and she spouts implausable phrases like “promoting teen motherhood”. She’s a great fit for Milford. Too bad we don’t get to see her organizing all the other Milford Mom’s to collectively shun the town tramp, Darby Kiser.
You know what this kind of parental posturing achieves, don’t you Strawmom? Your tattooed darling is going to put down her spoon, call one of her other sluts in training and hit the mean streets of Milford looking for a little teen motherhood of their own! Hey check it out! There’s a person with a penis walking down Eastern! Maybe he will put his penis in the Tasha and Friend and make them into fashionable teen moms!
Or Tasha and Friend might be smarter than the Mom Patrol thinks. After all, they’ve seen the foul smelling, macrencephalic chimp beast that probably ate his way out of Darby’s uterus. Who could be encouraged by such a thing?
Besides, there are so many things on sale in Milford, and not enough time to shop for them. There’s a half price sale on wads of stuff at La Crap.
Speaking of stuff, Big Bob Stuff finally got his date with Darby and he’s charming her with his bizarre table manners. Perhaps he watched The Lady and the Tramp for tips on setting a romantic mood?
At first, I thought Big Bob Stuff was sharing one of his meatballs with Darby, then I realized they had moved on to one of Riccozi’s many fine dessert selections, The Foot High Slab o’ Cake. Nothing says romance like shoving food into someone’s face!
Amanda Carey wants all the details of the date. How were his fork skills? Did he slurp his spaghetti? Amanda needs all the details as she’s had her feet fused together at the big toes, so she’s not going anywhere.
The first game requires the long bus ride to Green Cove Springs, Florida, which creates ample opportunity for the jackasses to be jackasses on the two day bus ride home.
Yep, mega-awesome jackasses.
Wait, is that Sackodog and Matt the Hatt traveling with the team, or just a douchebag hat on a non-descript Mudlark giving me false hope that something interesting is happening?
Did that Layfayette General just fart out a hot dinner roll into the catcher’s mitt? Is that really the start of a double-play or is Alpo having a full body dry heave?
Gents? Wait, what about the game?
More jackassery…but wait! There is more softball action! Yay!
Mega-Awesome Dinny is gonna put some moves on that “girl from the alternative school”. Guess what, Dinny. She doesn’t socialize because of some “thing”, but you’re not to know what that “thing” is. So you can assume that that “thing” is your repulsive face or your stupid, jackass attitude. But guess what? It’s not you, it’s her. Actually it’s her “thing” and you’re really better off knowing about it or seeing it right now. We’re all better off.
All right, another loss smashed into one panel along with another injury and the appearance of a cool cart to remove wounded players from the field. (Apparently, the Milford schools aren’t suffering the same financial shortfalls as the schools in the Funky Winkerbeaniverse, where they’re pulling the plug on athletics.) At first, I thought that cart was some kind of John Deere boombox in the foreground.
Taken as a whole, it’s a Dork Dangler Dickishness sandwich.
Now Gil is going to mentor Dirk Dinkly in some good ol’ Dale Carnegie winning friends and influencing people clap trap? Kind of late for that, isn’t Gil? Nobody’s gonna buy it coming from coming from you anyway Gil. You wear your shallow self interest on your sleeve.
I don’t even want to know what Dink is doing back in his man cave, watching ESPN and chatting with Wildcat while sporting weird pants bulges.
And it’s another Sunday in the park with Brody and a couple of Milford leaf peepers. I don’t get it. I mean I get that Brody is supposedly developing an awareness of idiomatic expressions so that he doesn’t always take every word literally, but nothing prepares you for people who just babble incoherently.