Twilight of the Foobs

–I couldn’t let the grand (sort-of) finale go unsnarked, could I now? The below originated @ the   group:

Well, hey…at least April got away clean. Of course, in Lynn’s mind she never really mattered much anyway, not being ‘a real person’, so why not?

John and Elly’s last recorded communication to each other, after thirty years of being the featured characters in a real-time comic strip, is a generic cliche. Not, mind, the one in the title; that was covered yesterday, by a recently-introduced minor character who barely rates a mention in today’s wrapup. How, uh, sweet. Or something.

I see Lynn left out the footnote to Mike’s entry, about how he became an insanely pretentious jerk (OK, more so) as hack authors tend to do, and eventually his wife had to shoot him to shut him up about The Significance of Canadian Drama, and the jury brought in a unanimous verdict of self-defense…wait, that may have only happened in my head. Still works in context, though.

Dee opens a ‘sewing school’. In other words, her creator has something vaguely crafty and hobby-ish in mind for her, but can’t be bothered to do any research into what it actually might involve. Either that, or Dee is living one of those romance novels where she hits her head and ends up in the past – in this case probably the Victorian era. Hopefully there’s a hunky Count somewhere in the background; I always kind of liked Dee.

Anthony eventually wants to open a B&B. Whoa, boyo, don’t aim too high there, you might hurt yourself. Besides which, where the hell in a Southern Ontario suburb are you going to put a quaint little touristy inn? Were this any other cartoonist I would be assuming this is a slyly meta-ironic takeoff on the cinnamon buns; as it is, I’m falling back on the same reason Dee ended up with a ‘sewing school’…no, not the one with the hit on the head, although I wouldn’t be actively against that on general principles.

As was pointed out above, Liz gets to keep her job after all, because it’s all caring and nurturing and feminine and stuff. And she loves Anthony! More and more each day, in fact! So there, readers! Nyahhh!

…Meanwhile, outside Lynn’s petty little revenge fantasies, Liz is discovering that she knows Anthony so well because there is, in fact, so little to know. Also, he has no intention of changing that. Fortunately, her mother has trained her well; so she lets herself go entirely after the birth of their three eminently average children and takes it all out on her students, believing they sneer at her behind her back for being fat and frumpy and out-of-it. Which they do.

Jim’s story lost me right around the part where he’s FREAKING CONSCIOUS in that panel. Also, that he dies with Iris by his side (see note on recently-introduced minor character, above) but not, y’know, ANY MEMBER OF HIS LARGE AND THEORETICALLY LOVING EXTENDED FAMILY. One last pin in Dear Old Daddy’s voodoo doll for the road, eh, Lynn?
And do not try to convince me that Liz and Anthony named their ‘firstborn’ after him. There’s no way on this green earth that kid isn’t Anthony, Jr. He is destined to get beat up a lot, in junior high.

Meanwhile, Francie is missing because she is off living with her mom, who has pulled herself together and is now a successful VP of a multinational corporation. They share a chic, spacious condo in Montreal with Therese’s adoring and not incidentally gorgeous lover, an artist and sometime actor who shares her passion for adventure and discovery but respects her need for space. Francie herself is seriously thinking of going in for dance as a career. She sees her Dad occasionally, but is rapidly getting tired of the way her stepmother tenses up whenever Francie’s around Millboro, so doesn’t make much effort anymore.

…Wait, that’s it? We’re done? Damn. Guess I should say thanks for the good stuff anyway, Lynn. Too bad you had to go out on such a miserable, self-limiting whimper – but did you really have to draw yourself that way? You look like some sort of weird little gnome about to wreak havoc on the past, not perfect it.

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