It rubs the lotion on its skin

OK, this week's strips reminded me: If I understand correctly, Liz has made her final capitulation, eh? Drunk on boxed wine and the opiates of familiarity and predictability, she's been shackled in Granthony's dungeon since Christmas Day (which, because it was at Prince Michael The Great Canadian Novelist's free house, was the Best Xmas EVAH, according to all Pattersons, including boo-hoo-it's-my-last-xmas Grampa). What. The fuck. Ever. Good riddance. 

But I want to point out that if Mr. Gleemonex ever said anything like what's in the first panel of this one, he'd be wearing his own intestines for a hat. The fact that Elly just gets kind of cheesed about it, and then shows that she totally accepts the concepts that A)It's ok for a man to let himself go, especially once him has woman, and B)It's ok for her own husband to call her a fucking fat lard while B1) she puts away dishes he presumably ate from, as he sips coffee and reads the paper at his sweet leisure -- well, this is the key to understanding her marriage, her current obsession with looking old, and her constant lifelong pressure on her daughter to snare a man, any man, even the Human Tub Of Small-Curd Cottage Cheese, before her looks go. Gaaaaah!