Like a bad peyote-fueled nightmare, a crazed French soldier from the early twentieth century drops on of his arm to tell you "SIGNS ARE ILLEGAL!" Signs? What signs? Signs of life? Street signs? "Signs" in the way postmodern linguistic critics use the word?
Well, whatever he means, you should be reading the rest of this post! Follow me after the jump for a whole bunch of Beetle Bailey and a little bit of Marvin. NOT FOLLOWING ME IS ILLEGAL!
This business of outing the comics started with Beetle Bailey, and it's still all about Beetle and Sarge. I mean, just check out last Sunday's:
If it started at panel 3, it would actually be kinda romantic.
The last four panels of this strip make up one of the saddest and most poignant little vignettes of homoerotic longing you'll ever see. Denied their one outlet of physical contact, Beetle and Sarge take a long, wordless walk away from the base that defines their lives, through the countryside, through an enormous ice field in the middle of the city, and finally to some incredibly starry place of refuge. C'mon, guys, you're miles away from anyone. You can at least let your hands touch.
See? It's not just an immature queer saying all this about BB
But this week they also both whipped out their beards. Beetle, who wants to come out more than Sarge does, rubs his companion's nose in one side effect of their closetedness on Wednesday:
I'm thinking Miss Buxley, as a Grace to Beetle's Will, loves playing a part in this whole game of protecting Beetle's career. She may even like making Sarge jealous.
Louise and Sarge's relationship is a bit further a long, and a lot less whimsical, as portrayed this past Thursday:
Apparently, Louise, unlike Miss Buxley, is not in on the secret. Consider his rejection of her marriage proposal: "Gee, honey, I'd really love to spend the rest of my life with you, start a family, live in a house with a white picket fence, but my dog just barked, and I'm going to interpret that as a 'no' and then alter all of our plans around it. But I really am attracted to women, Louise. Honest."
Of course, this relationship isn't all about romance and appearances. Friday gives us a glimpse into their sex life:
I know the "joke" here is that Sarge thinks Beetle's so lazy that he is nearly clinically dead (his brain hasn't died, but if his heart has stopped, his brain isn't too far behind). But consider for a moment that Beetle actually went to the doctor. I could see Sarge making the aforementioned joke and the Beetle would have a witty comeback and then be decapitated by one of Sarge's voilent fits of rage. So I'm guessing that's not what happened.
No, Sarge made a jibe at Beetle that stung even deeper because Beetle found it to be a little true, and a little embarrassing. The only situation where Sarge would be concerned about Beetle having excessively low blood flow would of course be that he can't have an erection. While this is a strange way to talk to a doctor about erectile disfunction, there's no other way to broach it (hey, Doc, I'm fucking my superior officer of the same sex... why am I being discharged?), especially for someone without a medical background who might think that ED is caused by low blood pressure or a slow pulse.
But there's even more TMI here. One of the joys of being a versatile gay guy having sex with another versatile gay guy is that if one penis is down, there's always a back-up. If the average guy can't get it up 5% of the time (I have no idea what the real percentage is), then two vers gay guys would only have to give up on anal one in 400 times. Awesome, I know. But since Beetle's erection is so important to sex that he needs to go to a doctor when he loses it, we know that he always tops.
OK, and a Marvin bonus:
No, I'm not going to make a gay joke about Marvin's panel two comment. A lot of straight boys think girls are yucky when they're young; that's part of the whole Battle of the Sexes thing that I don't care for but acknowledge.
No, I just wanted to point out the panel three comment, and how Marvin is beginning realize he has a shit fetish.
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