I CAN'T BIELIVE IT!

In this installment of THE JOHNSON FOLLIES..........

Wait a minute. THE JOHNSON FUNNIES...?? Did the title change due to focus group pressures and corporate meddling? Sadly, yes. But when you're thirteen, it's hard to resist the siren lure of selling out. Especially when they wave a Charleston Chew in your face.

Anyway, today's installment involves Mark and/or Greg transporting a cat and/or dog in a cage and/or suitcase either from or to the airport--I've given up trying to understand the "plot." But let's catch the action now...

So we are at the airport. But, you ask, how could we be at the airport with a parking lot spookily bereft of cars? Relax, people, it was the seventies--no one was flying back then. Plenty of room to roll around in hysterics and laugh at one's sibling. Truly those were idyllic days.

And yet...

Aren't we at the house because of the grass and the sidewalk? But isn't Greg sitting on a concourse seat in the first panel? And isn't Mark wearing an airport hat?

Balderdash! We'd need a Sherlock Holmes to unriddle this Moebius strip of mind-bending perplexity! Or at least a Dexter to splatter some blood around to liven things up.

In the car trunk we have a jumble of "suitcases" worthy of a Braques: we see them from every possible perspectivial angle, including the seventeenth dimension according to superstring theory.

 

Most of all, what's the point of having a sibling if you can't laugh in merciless mockery for three full panels at their mistakes?? Laugh so hard, in fact, that you blow the mockee's arms back from the force of your full-throated gut-busting rib-tickling lusty hilarious laughter.

 

Uh, and don't tell PETA, but we have damning evidence of a mother who has asked her children to "pack" a large dog in a hot car trunk.

Then again, it was the Seventies. We were too busy snorting coke, hijacking airplanes with CB radios, and laughing at Horseshack to bother.

Next week: THE JOHNSON FOLLIES returns, the Charleston Chew having been indifferently snorted.