Nerding Day: Blondie and Dagwood Break Up🌭

How’s your air? Mine isn’t, but we endure. Back to Blondie, Dagwood, their clever beasts, and their dogs.

“What the fuck’s a Dagwood, and how do I kill it?” you might ask. Fair question. This month, I’m writing ~8000 words about Blondie, a comic strip you’ve correctly forgotten. It was once a flapper-themed waifu comic, and now it’s undead. After one fun storyline, the leads are trapped forever—making Blondie the ultimate polemic against marriage.

Immortality is a curse.

I’ve been extremely kind to Blondie so far, and I’ll keep that streak going with a fun aside. It is, without venom, Chic Young’s best moment. He hit the syndication jackpot before Blondie with the strip Dumb Dora. Unlike Blondie, Dumb Dora was about a dim pin-up girl courting rich dorks.

Oh. Well, Blondie 1.0 was a hit, but Chic didn’t have the rights or get paid much, because publishing. Standard Alan Moore stuff. At this point, some would shrug and keep doing the same thing. Others would walk, and shoot for something better. But it takes Chic Young to walk and do the same shit.

No blackjack. No hookers. Just Dumb Dora after bleach. That boldness speaks to me.

That said, my title’s wholly misleading. Today, after a necromancer (King Features Syndicate) welded their souls together, a Blondie breakup would be news. Back in the flapper phase, Dagwood and Blondie broke up when the leaves changed.

Why not? “It’s over” is a decent punchline, and Blondie occasionally learned men with human faces exist.

Look at that grin. They’re about to pump out life force.

Hell, even Dagwood considered putting impossible wealth and (and family, I guess) over his college girlfriend. I respect that. Honestly, I’d Eternal Sunshine my wedding for a breakfast burrito. Love is a beautiful, fulfilling experience. Much like chorizo.

Obviously not. A week of pork, at least. I’m not a demon.

Though Blondie was on demon time. During a given break (the tournament arc of romance), she summoned new Dagwoods before the next panel was drawn. It might be the strip’s best gag, aside from Chic’s sense of continuity in pratfalls.

Dagwood generally took it well.

Sometimes.

Still golden, by current standards. Dagwood’s not belt-firing anything, and swings at his rival instead of the vote. He has healthier outlets for his jilted rage, like playing with a fragile market until it cracks. Quite a different era.

While Blondie watches, like a bored Emperor. This story—a month or so of yearning and counter-yearning—has three solid bits. One: said watching. Two: Chic’s spin on the classic cartoonist fight-twister. Three: Dagwood outlasting the bell in a fight. That makes it, by Blondie standards, criterion gold.

We’re not reading it.

Nah, I wouldn’t do that to you. We’re pin.

I’m here for the time Chic threw a hard feint by characterizing a rival. For comparison, Dagwood’s filler defense above is a rancher from New Zealand. Prompting a month of geography jokes that lowered my red blood cell count. I’m not saying Chic’s dumb blonde jokes always suck. Just that these cause sickle cell.

My fucking blood! By far, the worst thing Chic’s done to black people.

The rivalry’s close: while Dagwood’s a braindead beetle-man, this guy’s slightly less rich. I’d recap it, but you see where things end up: our herochild fights, trading months of walking for a lifetime of love. Though they’re essentially the same failson. New Zealand Dagwood could’ve killed Burger Dagwood and stolen his identity, and I’d never know.

Gil, however, is another flavor of suitor altogether.

A total dick flavor.

Blondie loves him anyway, and knows he can be better. She’s kind of like Jesus, if the apostles resented not touching Jesus until their flapper comics took off.

Besides, Gil has his nice points. Well, nice point.

His lats and his lats again. After Dagwood, symmetry dazzles the newly-single Blondie. For slower readers (everyone before they soft-banned barbiturates), Chic opened with a soft hint at Gil’s virtues.

There’s also some maudlin backstory, where Gil gave his heart to a sassy, unbleached flapper. Rookie mistake. Smart Dora used her big words to run off with a deltless rogue. Chic likes his partners like his scripts: wholly braindead.

After a month of gloriously Dagwood-free adventure, Blondie and Gil get engaged. Look at the happy couple:

Well, happier. Per 1920s routine, they merge every asset and activity in their lives after a month, and open an auto garage—Gil’s dream of five whole strips. I know Hinge prompts too well to judge that. It’s healthier, in some ways, not to assume your new relationship’s iceberg-bound. But I suspect caution’s wreckage is easier to float away from.

Oh, that’s his ex, cribbing Dagwood’s line. Probably not important.

Can Blondie handle a humble life of skilled labor, for love? Absolutely not. Are you kidding? She learned about maps two pages ago. But that’s syndication’s magic: no one cares that much. You can remake characters’ souls as you see fit. Into pirates this week? Blondie loves pirates now. She always wanted to be a pirate, and move in with a nautical manchild. Now you’re America’s number one pirate cartoonist.

Still, just in case Blondie has trouble changing out radiators, they hire some backup. Could it be another heartthrob? Let’s make this triangle a square.

Huh?

A fascinating creature. What’s it called?

Nameless, fair enough. A common flourish in early spec-fic. Gil’s question’s much bigger for first contact: do they drink water? Are they carbon-based?

Malt liquor-based life! Chic’s never shown such imagination before. We still make rubber suit aliens today, and his creation doesn’t even look slightly human. There’s a lot to learn here. I can’t wait to bring this to the Afrofuturist Writer’s Workshop. We’ll see who’s banned after that.

But really, premium alien design. Eat your heart out, Andy Weir. I mean, don’t. I love you. We should be together. I can tell you all about Blondie, a comic I don’t even like, before pitching my hard sci-fi ripoff of The Horus Heresy. The world’s ready for Claymore 20K.

I need to know where this goes. Are they a hive intelligence? A drone may have trouble functioning, this far from other units.

Aha, they have a name! The hive’s called “Rudy,” and “Ah” is their plural pronoun. Sadly, Earth has a peculiar tranquilizing effect on them. Perhaps it’s the air? Or gravity? I’d dig a reverse John Carter of Mars situation.

Let’s learn more about The Rudy.

The Rudy perform Blondie gags. Unfortunate.

There’s some danger here—aliens are a big jump for a franchise. Every setting has a reality level somewhere between documentary and a new color of Saiyan. It’s part of a story’s soul. Let that go, and you inspire Fonzie Day decades later.

Maybe I’m too used to modern pacing. New aliens have their complete history summarized before the page break. Chic’s taking his time. It’s admirable restraint, and we could stand to rebuild our ashen attention spans a little. Let Chic cook.

Next, Gil tackles the big question:

Can an alien drone work a shift? That’s big for dealing with humanity. Our leading systems are working to death and working to death with red flags.

The Rudy attempt a human “shift.”

Classic sci-fi satire: the alien seeks death! After one shift. Their first day with a human job, and The Rudy demand freedom from this mortal coil. I’d reflect on my own habits, but there’s too much work to do.

And let Blondiemaniacs down? Death first.

Back to romance. Despite a bit of plot-propelling mob debt mucking things up, Gil’s dream has a chance.

Sorry, I got that wrong. Despite all the dames and extraterrestrials mucking things up, Gil’s dream has a chance.

Alright, they’re boned. Earth bacteria are eating The Rudy alive. There’s barely enough of them left to fight drowning. Good news, since this page is a grievous, hateful insult to The Rudy. Blondie’s paying the hose used on her forward.

I mean, come on. While the Emperor protects, isn’t this slant on human-alien relations a bit too cynical? Turn the misanthropy down from 11. Sane societies don’t treat sentients this way, period. And the tag team of Gil and Blondie could run anything into the ground.

Luckily for our mixed-species shop, Blondie has a guardian angel.

Wow, pathetic! Back to first contact. Wherever it goes, I’ll be less depressed.

Wow, dismal! Back to licking Blondie’s footprints. I’ll be less depressed.

Fuck! Man is born free, and everywhere lives in shame. Today’s sandwich-hoarding corpse improves on Gilded Age Dagwood begging for ankle.

Back to abusing alien labor.

Or rather, a clash in philosophy. Blondie explores what is best in life.

Honestly, the constructed language is a bit much. Most writers can’t handle a Texan accent without humiliating themselves. A whole tongue begs for mockery a century later. The giant, discolored gland The Rudy speak from deserves better.

I’m sure Dwarvish-to-Employed dictionaries sell, but most readers focus on the story. There’s no award for aimless worldbuilding, aside from those ten. I should make up a language. I mean, Kraktuk Zar’n Darkling Clown Bushido, right?

Back in said story, Gil makes eye contact with his ex. And follows fuckboy tradition.

As it is written.

Not all of my laughter is Chic’s fault, or even my broken mind. Art changes. It’s been just enough time that an unpunctuated, black-and-white “boo hoo” next to a straw-hatted philanderer is natural comedy. Rocking Grandpa’s Family-Shattering Zoot Suit titles the only funny video you’ll see this year.

In Gil’s defense, things are hectic. The Rudy remain ravaged by diseases man defeated centuries ago, and no one seems to care. Managing swarm-human relations is busy work.

Yeah, Gil’s not doing it. Diplomacy’s full of paperwork and shit, and he has Dagwood’s wife and labor to enjoy. But can you imagine how hard it would be? Not everyone’s cut out for Men in Black shades. Sunglasses won’t even be fashionable until Gil’s an old klansman, dreaming of the fraulein he let get away.

From here, the story drags. Gil cheats. Blondie boo-hoos. The Rudy sleep. Dagwood literally watches from the window. But there’s a break in the pattern, where the sci-fi A-plot and romance B-plot converge.

Gil’s love note.

Lawdy! What a rip-snorter.

Lawdy! I’m getting pissed.

The joke, to be clear: Gil’s such a rube, that a booze-powered beast could do better. And I should be laughing, because Blondie’s laughing in-comic, so it must be funny. And The Rudy are fictional—they don’t resemble anything on God’s Earth. And somehow, still, I’m pissed.

Anyway, begging only works eight or nine times. Then the lovers fight in front of The Rudy, the one line they promised they’d never cross.

After just a month of open cheating, Blondie taps. I guess she never really believed in love. Shocking, if the narrator hadn’t shouted that she and Dagwood were meant to be, while Gil should be beheaded off-panel. I don’t need or want realism, but I like some kayfabe. Let me feel smart for guessing you’re not switching leads three years in.

Bah-bah. What a heartwarming, irredeemable ride. I hope everyone in this panel chokes on wildfire air. Nothing can save this arc, short of a four-way suicide pact (Dagwood’s in the window).

Holy shit! I take everything back. This panel’s perfect.

The alien–no, fuck the gag. Blackface Homer Simpson dozes next to pure despair. The sleep of shoe-polished kings, beside life’s self-inflicted low point. Chic never puts the effort behind Gil’s tears into anything, and he still slapped kaiju-lips next to him for hate. It’s everything the author wanted, and a thousand things he didn’t. It’s like The Scream in blackface. Or Bojangles tapping in the corner of Guernica. I love it so much.

Why? I have Gil’s golden tears.

I can’t see this panel without choking on air. Normal air, not just wildfire poison. I’ve swallowed gum laughing at this image. It’s saved long nights of looking at headlines and wondering if I’ll die of natural causes.

You need it without my Fallout fixation.

You need it in full, next to the scab version of Dumb Dora.

You’re welcome.

Remember, real art never dies. Decades after reaching hell, Chic Young’s given me a new lock screen. I’d say that’s worth parole.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Joshua Graves, who got to the part where blondie was getting blasted by the hose and yelled “HELL YEAH, HOSE!”