09/13/17 Missile Chase Previous | Next First Strip Original Series | First Strip Current Series | Archive | Most Recent Previous | Next First Strip Original Series | First Strip Current Series | Archive | Most Recent The best–laid plans of mice and men often go awry (an interesting expression from a very touching poem by Scottish poet Robert Burns). First Strip Original Series | First Strip Current Series | Archive | Most Recent 09/11/17 Joyce Comes In 09/18/17 Aulton Is Gone 17 Comments Leinglo September 13, 2017 at 12:16 am 2 months ago Well… Crap. I guess we’ll get to see the Kreebrick wake up after all. Though to be fair, did anyone honestly think we wouldn’t? Gus September 13, 2017 at 9:53 am 2 months ago Chekov’s Kreebrick. Or Kreebrick’s Jabby. Gus September 13, 2017 at 9:53 am 2 months ago Or Chekov’s Jabby. The Gorram Batguy September 18, 2017 at 8:25 pm 2 months ago Next page, a giant hand emerges from the central planet and swipes at the spot that was previously occupied by Aulton. The Keebrick is attempting to hit ‘snooze’. ‘Just 5 billion more minutes.’ Coyoty September 13, 2017 at 2:00 am 2 months ago So she pummeled Krep’s head with a duck for nothing. Felixscout September 13, 2017 at 9:27 am 2 months ago What a waste of a quality duck pummeling. Jude September 13, 2017 at 2:02 am 2 months ago Weird. Before I read your short comments after the strip, I thought “The best laid plans of aliens and men oft go astray” (just a little different from what you wrote). Hm, wonder if Bikkie could’ve kicked that missile into another universe? I’m really curious to know what prank Krep pulled on his mom. I guess it’s funnier if we don’t know and leave it to our imagination. dreamchaser September 13, 2017 at 9:41 am 2 months ago Technically it’s “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft agley” – gotta love Scots! Allan MacDonald September 15, 2017 at 8:33 pm 2 months ago But the meaning is retained – I can see why our intrepid author and artist went with the Anglicised version for clarity! (I’m now wracking my brains for a gently teasing Scots epithet with which to sign off, but it’s a struggle! I think I’ll settle for an affectionate “ya tumshie!”;-) VillageIdiot September 13, 2017 at 9:44 am 2 months ago That’s the English translation. In Scots it is “gang oft agley”. Scots is a Germanic language closely related to Old English, Norwegian, Swedish etc. PeterK September 13, 2017 at 11:56 am 2 months ago Here I am now thinking the only story in the world I’d like to hear is this prank story. Unrelated: Who puts a safety on a giant ship cannon? I guess we are dealing with Nogg’s ship. :p Peter Rogan September 13, 2017 at 7:31 pm 2 months ago Frankly, I’d be frightened to death of a space-based giant ship cannon that DIDN’T have a safety on it, as they do for contemporary battleships. All it takes is one loose-fingered idiot: “What does THIS button do?” TB September 14, 2017 at 6:41 pm 2 months ago Note for next time: take a practice shot or two while diving for the target. Night-Gaunt49 September 14, 2017 at 8:59 pm 2 months ago When do big weapons ever have had safety’s? Muzhik September 14, 2017 at 10:49 pm 2 months ago Oh, I don’t know. It used to be that nuclear missiles required that a pair of keys be inserted into switches on the opposite sides of the room, turned, and removed simultaneously. I don’t know if that would really count as a SAFETY, though…. does it? Kaidah September 19, 2017 at 12:59 pm 2 months ago I laughed so hard at that last panel. It’s exactly what would happen if my kids tried pranking their mother. Meran September 26, 2017 at 3:52 am 2 months ago The complete poem, original language (because it sounds so much better!) and not that difficult to understand, for all that. Apparently the poet had plowed right over the nest of the wee beasties, making me think of The Secret of NIMH, honestly: Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, Wi’ murd’ring pattle! I’m truly sorry man’s dominion, Has broken nature’s social union, An’ justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An’ fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave ‘S a sma’ request; I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, An’ never miss’t! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, O’ foggage green! An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin, Baith snell an’ keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, An’ weary winter comin fast, An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell- Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro’ thy cell. Thy wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, An’ cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy! Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me The present only toucheth thee: But, Och! I backward cast my e’e. On prospects drear! An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear! Leave a Reply Cancel reply Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.