Better than ever except Iris is still dating Zak, Dawn is still in Italy, and the shower radio batteries are still dead. But other than that, better than ever! If you enjoyed Wilbur the last six months, you're going to really love him now! He's not even suicidal anymore.
18 comments:
Which one is more unbearable: Depressed Wilbur or arrogant, happy Wilbur? The way Wilbur's carrying on, you'd think he had won the lottery. Dopey seems to forget that his lousy column was being carried in syndication, so others can read his garbage. He's just fixated on the fact that Iris wants to read his wonderful columns.
Okay, so manic-depressive Wilbur is in an up-cycle. End of story? Pleeeeeeeze, end of story? Please?
-- Scottie McW.
P.S. Terrific comments as always, Wanders!
You know? This comic doesn't disappoint. Right when I think it couldn't get any worse, it does. And yet I keep reading it.
Since KM never starts a new story in mid-week, I groaned when I saw today's strip - aaaaaiiiiiiieeeeee!!! Not another week of Wilbur and his Hallelujah Victory Lap! As @Regina W-P points out, both Wilburs are detestable. Tomorrow: Arrogant Wilbur buys new batteries for his shower radio, puts them in backwards, and is plunged into depression yet again.
Someone (maybe @meg?) should write "At Home with the Alloras," wherein Mr. A. regales his family with stories about the dummies he regularly deals with at Charterstone.
Today's Boldface Haiku is titled
"The Squeaky Clean Wheel Gets The Grease".
I'm back, World!
And better
Than ever!
...KM just threw in that therapy scene to save her own ass, didn't she? She just gave lip service to an actual solution so we couldn't jump down her throat for trivializing depression. If she actually wanted to say anything about therapy, she might have Wilbur learn to cope with his column being dropped, or try to learn where all that anger directed at something so small is actually coming from, etc.
But nope! Look kids, I'm sensitive! I recommend therapy!! Also Wilbur's problems all get solved by an ass pull because this is a self-indulgent hurt/comfort fic. :)
Wilbur's therapist at Medical Group is going to put a lot of other therapists out of work in Santa Royale - one session and suicidal, depressed Wilbur is fixed. Hooray - until that credit card bill comes again next month with a $28,345 emerald ring balance.
(Or did the therapist just prescribe Vicodin?)
I picture this phone call to Dr. Sweater Therapist: “Hey Doc, Wilbur here. You know, the guy that had to get the three floating heads and Dear Wendy column off my chest? Yea, that’s me, the bald guy with the bad combover. I don’t need you anymore. My columns are back and I’m better than ever. I’m king of the world!!!! By the way, so I don’t get suicidal again, do you know where I can buy some batteries?”
Exultant Wilbur now plans to sing the Hallelujah Chorus followed by Ode to Joy and then Oh Fortuna in the shower. Sadly his shower radio doesn't work and he crashes back down to depression.
But now that I think more deeply about it there is something troubling about the thought of naked Wilbur singing The Hallelujah Chorus.
In recognition of @Tim’s extreme sensitivity, Wilbur will instead sing When the Saints Go Marching In (naked version).
The Santa Royale paper brought back Wilbur's column because no other newspaper wanted to be associated with it.
I would totally read "At Home with the Alloras."
Just when I thought Wilbur couldn't be any more pathetic...here we go.
I hope Wilbur's therapist recognized his bi-polar disorder.
After getting Wilbur back on the what-passes-for-normal track, Mary heads out to settle other important issues.
Text to Mary:
Mary, it’s Oprah. Where ARE you? I need help.
Text from Mary:
Hello, dear. I’m sitting here in the quire in St. George’s Chapel, right behind the bride’s mother. Where are you?
Mary, I’m back here in freakin’ steer-AGE!!! And they wouldn’t let (my best friend) Gayle in because they think she’s a journalist! You’ ve got to get me up front, stat!
I’ll see what I can do, dear.
Meanwhile, up front at the altar, Prince Harry stares at his phone, grimaces, then sends a brief text.
Almost immediately, a Beefeater is seen to be escorting Oprah and Gayle to seats next to George and Amal Clooney. Mary tries, but fails, to suppress a smug smile. Oprah silently mouths, ‘you’ll get a car, Mary’ (later reported by the professional lip reader in attendance).
Later, mid-evening, Mary’s phone rings.
Hello, Mary, it’s George, I’ve got a little situation here.
Prince George? You’re up much too late, dear.
No, Mary, it’s George CLOONEY.
Sorry, dear, the music is so loud here.
Mary, the security guys at the gate won’t let us in. Can you help us out?
I’ll see what I can do, dear.
A minute later, a loud whistle sounds, and a booming voice says, ‘ Let ‘em in, boys, they’re okay.’
‘Right you are, Mrs. Worth, we’ll send them through. Go ahead, sir, ma’am, the old lady says you’re on the list.’
Alternate ending:
Mary comes out to the car, grumbling, ‘ Let’s make this snappy, I was dancing the electric slide with David Beckham.’
Amal refuses to get out of the car; Mary Worth is wearing the same gown Amal is.
@Meg: Another home run! However, you should have Mary next to the Queen. She wouldn't sit behind a mere "commoner". I would love to see the look on old Prince Phillip's face when Mary starts to meddle with the Queen, telling her how to get her wayward, divorced children in line.
Thank you Meg. I'm so glad I swallowed before I started reading your story/comment.
It looks like Wilbur is about to hit his most muscular pose to show off his massive arms.
And how did a mayonnaise swilling couch potato get such massive arms?
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