Marty Moon: The Straw That Stirs the Milford Drink

Today’s strip just serves to bring the glaring plot holes, inconsistencies and missed opportunities into stark relief, not unlike Marty’s face in P2.  Without belaboring the obvious – oh, who am I kidding? Let’s belabor the obvious:

1. If an Aagard scores 26 points and there’s no one there to report on it, does it make a sound? Last winter’s saga of Aaron and his opioid-addicted mother ended with his transfer into the protective custody of the Hiatt-Brown family. Rubin brought Aaron back this season, but Big Ken Brown is no longer around to make things happen. Couldn’t those loose ends have been tied up in a panel?
2. Nice use of parallel drinking by the not-broadcasting broadcasters, one with hooch, the other with Yoo-Hoo (or does that just say “Poo”?). The glaring sign behind Marty’s head must be meant to offer a contrast to his apparent sour mood. It also offers a nice segue into a song parody but I fear those days are behind me. The idea that WDIG can’t or won’t run games without Marty to call them borders on the absurd. Absurd doesn’t begin to describe the Milford Pirate Network’s approach to the games. If they’d been up front about why they popped up then played it straight, they’d still be on the air and no one would’ve cared that there was no coverage from Marty and WDIG. But noooo, MPN based its whole schtick on taunting Marty, so no Marty, no MPN. For that matter…
3. … no Marty, no Gil to antagonize or be antagonized by Marty. Hence Gil’s call on Pocket Square Sporting Radio Station Manager to no doubt try to get Marty back on the air. As with his meeting with Marty, Gil’s on neutral ground where drinks are involved but this time it’s only coffee (unless Gil’s secretly making it Irish).

If all this is a pivot towards turning this strip from Gil Thorp into Marty Moon, I could be persuaded to stick around. The travails of a drunken shock jock looking to redeem himself to unwitting victims of his shock doesn’t cover new ground but it has potential.

late metapost: Over lunch I came across this article about Latinos attempting to assimilate in the American South. No one in the story is Puerto Rican, but it touches on an angle Rubin has chosen not to pursue to much extent in this arc.

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Glory, Glory To Old Georgie

I think the only hurricanes Marty’s been exposed to are the ones at Pat O’Brien’s, amirite? That would have required him to travel to New Orleans and, judging by his tone-deaf pronunciation of Jorge’s first name, he’s probably never left his mom’s basement the Valley. Then again, ask a New Orleanian to pronounce “Chartres” and you may think otherwise.

Equally tone-deaf is Marty’s assessment of the impact of Hurricane Maria on Jorge’s life. I’m willing to bet Paloma heard Marty, or someone from the Milford High Token Libertarians Club heard him and will tell Paloma about it over an enchilada burger at The Bucket. If this leads to Paloma starting a campaign to get Marty fired, I’m all in. Odds are it’ll only lead to Gil shaming Marty into an on-air apology to the Padillas. Wonder if we’ll see Jorge’s name spelled out phonetically when that happens (“Whore-hay”)?

Meanwhile, as further proof of his cultural assimilation, Jorge’s transitioning into the Aaaaron Aaaagard Woody Woodpecker ‘do (or is it the Andre frohawk?).  Try not to stare at his freakishly large right hand too long.

metapost (a bit after 3pm EST): I see over at the ‘mudgeon (again, folks, I don’t look at the CC before I post, honest!) a good bit of outrage at Marty’s tone-deafness and an alleged response from Rubin himself, to the effect that Rubin has put these words in Marty’s mouth to make an example of him. We’ll see how Neal makes Marty eat them.

Much discussion of the life and death of Roberto Clemente in our comments today as well. I make no attempts to disguise my age through my commentary, but I am really going to age myself now by admitting that I saw Clemente play. Granted, my age was in the single digits, but I saw him play nonetheless. I remember being shocked and grief-stricken when he was lost, not unlike what I felt when Thurman Munson was killed several years later but made even more tragic by the humanitarian effort Clemente was trying to carry out. Here’s an image of Clemente on his 1960 Topps baseball card, looking unamused at being referred to as “Bob.”

In Control, Until They’re Not

Okay, nothing too out of the ordinary to start off with today.  New Small Mudlark Jorge Padilla gets vertical and grabs a board. Gil sticks with his hyphenated game plan and Milford gets the W.  Playing at higher altitudes didn’t give La Junta the advantage at presumably closer to sea level and oxygen richer Milford. Maybe it was the size-shifting basketball that gave them trouble.  They have a long train ride ahead of them.

Panel 3 provides us our Whisky Tango Foxtrot moments of the day. This was a home game, and Milford has banners. How long have they been there? When was the last time we saw a Milford hoops team win the Valley, or anything more? And what’s with that out-of-control, writhing mass of humanity? I need to post up the color version to try to sort them out.

Who are these people? Is that Jorge doing the jazz hands thing in the back? Where’s Aaaaron Aaaagard? Being so much taller than the rest you’d think he’d stand out. Is that Big Ken Brown, still with the team front and center? Who is this freakishly large guy at front right, and what is he doing to front-and-center guy’s left arm? Looks like he’s trying to break it. I’m throwing the Recycled Art tag on him; his profile looks an awful lot like the generic Whigham everyguy profile. Heck, the whole panel just looks like Whigham cut and pasted every rando player he’s drawn for the past few years, with no regard for scale, proportion and perspective.

“All I Said to the Ref Was ‘Don’t Space the Floor’. And He Blows a T!!!!!!! Yeah, Right, Whatever.”

This is getting already getting off on the wrong foot. Okay, she undoubtedly has a temper which eventually warranted the technical. You watch the other team shoot the technical(s). You move on.

But I find it hard to believe, as I pointed out yesterday, that a cabal of referees are in some smoke-filled room in a warehouse somewhere, the same one that used to be The Riddler’s hideout, discussing ways to stick it to players from a certain country. Sure, they’re watching game film analyzing mechanics and procedures when it comes to skewering all players from Yemen. That way, the refs’ll be ready to screw up a Yemeni’s post play by calling 3 seconds the first time the poor schmuck sticks his toe in the lane. And did I mention the handouts that were published discussing ways to call all fouls on Bulgarians but none on the Latvians? Unless there’s blood. Don’t let the game get out of control.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way. Anybody who has played ANY level of basketball, from Joe Schlabotnik to Wilt Chamberlain, from sandlot courts to Y Leagues to Church Leagues to High School Basketball to Industrial League on Thursday night at the elementary school gymnasium to North Carolina/Duke rivalry to the NBA knows THE TOP OF THE KEY IS NOT 3 FEET FROM THE BASKET!!!!!!!!!!!!! No wonder why Aardvark is having a career night.

And when running the break, as I’m presuming is developing in P3, the Pony Express-U. S. Marshal Convoy method is really not going to lead to a lot of easy buckets, even with the hapless Mudlark trailing them. The mail might get rejected in the 5th row.

Okay, that out of the way, as promised, I have a song, sung to the tune of Frank Zappa’s “Valley Girl” that confronts a pouty female who really has nobody to blame but herself.

She’s a Valley Girl, She’s a Valley Girl Okay, fine                                                           Fer sure, fer sure                                               She’s a Valley Girl, so sweet & pure

 

My coach was, like, freaking me out!!!!          She, I’m sorry, dresses like Ellen DeGeneres, gnarly, gnarly.                             Oh, well, at least she didn’t buy her clothes at the Milford Kmart, I’m like, Goodwill City, y’know.                                    And then there’s the ref, we’re talking Lord God King dripster.                                  He, like, not only can’t call a game but picks his nose during a time-out–and slobbers on his whistle!!!!!!!!!!!!!                   Gag me, gag me, puh-LEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Downtown Milford, there she goes            She just bought some new gym clothes    Tosses free throws                                           And flips the ref.                                        She’s got a whole lot of nothing left

 

Like, Oh my God, there’s The Bucket.         Their patty melts are so AWE-some!!!!!!!!! But the counter guy suggested lobster claws. Oh, I’m so sure, no way I’d EVER touch an insect, let alone eat that piece of rubber. Do they want me to throw up before the game? Gag me with a Spalding basketball!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Last idea to cross her mind                            Had something to do with where to find     A pair of shorts                                               to fit her butt                                               And jogging track to slim her gut

 

I mean, New Thayer is so bitchin’ and then there’s, like, the Oakwood Galleria and, like, all these really great shoe stores!!! There’s beaucoup of them in the San Gilberto Valley. I used Daddy-O’s Gold Visa Card to buy a pair of, like, Air Jordans, I mean, those Nikes are SO AWESOME!!!!!!!

 

She’s a Valley Girl on the hardwood floor  OK, fine                                                           She’ll score some more                                  Mudlarks rule                                                   They’ll win the war

 

Anyway, he goes, do you wanna play for the Ironwood Ingots? Oh, yeah, right, could you, like, just picture me sitting in, like, a photograph with a buncha slimy girls with icky B. O. and no teeth??? The coach hadn’t used a razor in 3 days??? Hurt me, hurt me, just don’t kiss me. I’m so suuurrreee. No way!!!!!!!!! And I heard they inbreed!!!!!!!!! Maximum groty!!!!!!!!!!! YUCK!!!!!!!!!!!

She’s a Valley Girl                                             She’s a Valley Girl…

 

Today’s headline in the Milford Enquirer

“Local Teen Wins Harassment Suit Against O. J.!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Judge Ito: ‘I definitely saw a pattern trending towards Puerto Ricans, gloves or no gloves.’ ”

“Cochran: ‘My client will never get a fair shake in this town. This whole Mudlurkian system was rigged from the get-go.’ ”

 

Gang, you may fire when ready. You guys make it happen.

Less Pondering – More Punishment!

Oh boy, more pondering. Gil Thorp may turn into Pinky and the Brain after all. (A search on “ponder” takes you way back in the murky depths of TWIM history, where I was pleasantly surprised to see that I wasn’t the first to drop an R.E.M. reference into a post.)

Mr. Rapid Weight Gain Zebra calls for his Mr. T cereal and Mimi reactively sits Paloma because, y’know, that’s how the Thorps roll.  Act up and you get benched, no matter how much good you may be doing the team otherwise.  No benching them for two minutes at the beginning of the next non-conference game against some patsy school you’ll beat by half a hundred or against some prep school that’ll beat you by that same half a hundred, either. Nope, you gotta learn your lesson right away, even if that means the rest of the team folds like a house of cards and blows the lead your benched player helped them take. Of course, that happens often with high school kids IRL, especially in Milford.  Even college and pro teams blow leads once they realize they have to beat their opponents and the zebras. Just ask the Georgia Bulldogs and Jacksonville Jaguars.

Admittedly we see so little of Mimi’s basketball coaching style to know whether this approach is SOP for her. We know she’s all cool with her bigs breaking jaws off the court, so why such the big deal now? Get Paloma back in the game now and get the W tomorrow; Death Valleys ’til she pukes on Saturday!

What’s More Hazardous: The Veer or Coloring This Strip?

After seeing the snazz Mudlark blackout unis on Friday I decided to post the color version again today and boy howdy, was I not disappointed. What a jumble of day into night, sky above then sky below, then sky in the middle of a guy’s chest, then sky above again. Of course you’re gonna fumble multiple times when your game ball has been replaced with a jumbo size Idaho Spud bar. You think that’s nuts? Check out The Secret Pelwecki’s gloves with fingernails!

That’s about all I’ve got for today except for another grammatical fumble.

The Best-Laid Plans Aren’t Much Fun

October 17, 2017

Yep, the same ol’ same ol’. Marty asks a not terribly snarky question, Gil delivers a douchey answer. If your game plan is as dull and nonspecific as the one Gil delivers in his pre-game pep talk, then what exactly are you giving away repeating that verbatim on the air? If I’m Marty I’m throwing Gil’s crap back in his face on Saturday morning, as the next two strips will reveal.

October 18, 2017

Another situation where the home team wears white at night. Is it really that hot in Nebraska this time of year? Other minutiae: weird perspective in P1 (at least three different planes), funky stadium architecture in general (do the bleachers face the field?), Milford’s uni numbers glow in the dark but their helmet decals no longer do. (Also wondering why Gil didn’t retire True Standish’s #11, since it doesn’t look like he’ll be sniffing any championships again anytime soon.) Minus points for Whigrub for not having a QB shout “Omaha!”

October 19, 2017

“Coach Thorp couldn’t tell me his game plan ’cause he didn’t have one!” – Marty Moon, on his first broadcast after the Millard West game

By the light of the 2×4 Lego brick Milford is stymied and humiliated. Not only are the Mudlarks held scoreless in the second half, they get groped in the process. Adding insult to, well, just adding insult, the now-balding Marty Uncle Gary takes another opportunity to twist his tiny knife into Rick, hoping to drain the boy’s desire to play football by a thousand paper cuts. Shouldn’t Rick be dragging himself onto the team bus for a long, sad ride back to Milford? Or has Dr. Pearl cut Gil’s athletic budget so deeply that the players’ parents are forced to shuttle them to and from each game?

 

 

Open A Hole And/Or Go Over The Top!

I infer from Nick’s acrobatics that, although Kevin tried to open a hole, he’s worn out from that carry for three yards and a cloud of dust and is no longer able to block effectively. Well done, Gil.

This, however, is immaterial as Nick is the real decoy. Indeed, it’s looking grim for Oakwood as, not only were they focused on the secret Pelwecki, now they are eyeball explodingly shocked by this additional dissimulation. Well done, Gil.