Now, don't get me wrong. I'm a healthy hetrosexual, and I get all the right urges around flesh-n-blood women (well, you know, my WIFE being the only one, of course), but that said, I've got to admit to an (admittedly somewhat disturbing) affection for cartoon chicks. I'm not talking the wierd Japanese anime stuff that gets some guys all a-twitter, but the good, honest wholesome ladies of the sunday morning comic pages.
I'm sure I speak for many of you red-blooded young men out there when I admit to my fond adulation of Mrs. Bumstead, other wise known as Blondie. Through the years we've been privy to a certain voyeuristic whimsy as she cavorts about in her form-fitting dresses and filmy nightgowns. Oh, sure, she PLAYS the demure one when it's time to cater a dinner party, but I think we all KNOW why Dagwood is really
always late for work in the morning. Heh.
And then there is one Mrs. Jessica Rabbit, as fetching a pen and ink enchantress as every graced a stretch of celluloid. Sadly, it's just like shopping for a house; all the good ones are usually already taken. Kind of like back in high school, when the absolute hammers would always link up with the scrungiest "I'll bet my Dad just HATES
him!" leather-clad rocker jerks, this million-dollar babe is shackled with, well, a mangy lookin' rabbit. Now I'm sure that Roger's got a winning personality and all, and we all know how chicks just go ga-ga for that sense-of-humor crap, but come ON
. A rabbit?! Maybe there IS something to this whole "shoe size" thing. Anyway, I doubt I was the only one that nearly came unglued the first time Jessica breathed huskily, "I'm not bad; I'm just drawwwn that way." Martha, ma pills! Strangely, I've got a sudden urge to play patty-cake.
Ah, but now, my heart has been stolen by another. It's sort of a guilty pleasure, really. Her name is Jan, dear sweet Jan, Chris Muir's
horn-rimmed, brunette hair-scünchied feministe. She exudes that classic dissonant contradiction of an angry Blue-state feminist's mind in a Red-state cheerleader's body. Oh the self-loathing and angst she must feel every time she is faced with the subtle betrayal of being harnessed with a nice set of, uh, objectification nodules.
She's every young college Republican's dream: that angry feminist do-gooder who sits two rows up in Poly-Sci and argues with the (male) prof about the oppression of gender roles, decrying the evils of capitalism and male hegemony, and all you can think about is how ROCKIN' she looks in her mercerized cotton and natural fibers. And I just KNOW that you've never played the sympathetic metrosexual just so you can hang out with her at the student union building and pretend to discuss the institutionalized repression of womyn at the hands of the testosterone oligarchy, while you are really just watching all the wonderful things that happen when a braless nature chick gets hopping mad. You sexist beast.
So, I'm sorry Blondie, Jessica, but I have to follow my heart, and faithfully read Day by Day, you know, for the articles.
We can still be friends, though, right?