By no stretch of the true meaning of "legitimate" could anonymous posts be considered worth of that description. Thus, complaints from an anonymous source are not legitimate. As it is said by wise folk of old: "Put thy money where thy mouth is."

The books are worth the price, and it's worth noting that anonymous whiners likely pay as much as (or more than) the price of one volume (roughly $20) for a two-person meal, digested and excreted within 12 hours, while a graphic novel can be enjoyed repeatedly by more than two people ad infinitum. A tank of gas likely costs you more than $20 and likely lasts less than a week. The monthly cable bill is probably more than three volumes of this work.

It may be a cliché to say it, but "you get what you pay for," anonymous whiner. You pay low price for low quality and shell out serious cash for serious, quality work. Witness the "dollar menu" of your favorite fast-food hole and compare it to the gourmet menu of that place you always avoid because you think it's "too expensive." I'm sure you dig the toadburgers, but we all know the better food is on the tables of those who pay the price.

Class issues aside, it's why Americans keep getting fatter and stupider - they don't want to pay for quality, so they buy cheap (and in quantity). They stuff themselves with the fast-food dollar menu, binge on hours of TV, then wonder why they feel bad, are so unhappy, and can't seem to drop that 10-20 extra pounds that hangs accusingly over the waistband. America is in recession, but two things are growing: American Waste and American Waists.

Of course, if you like cheap burgers and fries, then spend all the money from your minimum-wage job at the fast-food chains, keep watching TV, avoid all printed materials, and waste into a pile of fatty tissue that is likely worth more to liposuction surgeons than anyone else on this rock.

Some of us want to live, however, and that means to be alive, to be engaged, to be stimulated by the world around us. For some of us, a dollar is a lot to pay for a crappy burger, and sixty bucks is a small cost for unlimited aesthetic pleasure.

With her previous brainless reviews, I thought Stephanie Zacharek had ascended the pinnacle of her idiocy. Now I see she has proven me wrong, suggesting there may be no limit to her simple-minded criticism. No doubt she has miles to go before she sleeps.

My cat Dexter fell from a 3rd floor window when he was a young cat. The bone in his right foreleg was shattered. Surgery and recovery eventually cost over $2000. But he was my cat, my pal, my writing buddy, who sat atop my desk in the sun as I worked and sometimes climbed into my lap to help. We sometimes sat in the afternoon sun watching squirrels play in the tree outside my window. At night he curled up next to me and slept until morning.

Dexter later developed the classic male urinary tract problem. It recurred several times throughout his life, eventually accumulating well over another thousand dollars in expenses. More than once he came close to death, but he always recovered, often exhibiting more strength and vitality than before. This recurrent problem weakened Dexter's kidneys so that, at the relatively young age of nine years, he passed away from a kidney infection.

There were many times I faced the option to end his life. Something always compelled the choice of life over death. Finally, as he lay suffering from the failure of his body, I had no choice. All the previous times meant nothing at that moment. At that moment I knew the thousands had been worth it. As I held him in my arms, listening to his breath become shallow and feeling the life seep out of him, I knew that I hadn't paid thousands to save a cat or a pet, but had instead saved a friend, a friend who was now leaving me. He had been a source of much joy and laughter and warmth in my life, which is (as all our lives are) all too often bereft of such things.

The empty place in my heart that echoes now with the absence of his presence tells me all I need to know. Love is worth every penny. Every penny. Anyone who puts a price cap on love is a fool.

Ha ha! Old guys waxing nostalgic for "funny pages" makes me larf!

Comics today are fantastic and funny.

Old farts pining for their golden days: neither funny nor fantastic.

We've not only got such gems as The K Chronicles or Boondocks, the current era of cartooning (i.e. post-dusty old Andy Capp and Dick Tracy) gave us The Far Side, Bloom County, and other greats strips, now regarded as "classics."

Lighten up, old dudes! I'm your age and not (yet?) so seriously full of myself that I can't enjoy the humor of the whipper-snappers!

Psychotic megalomania at its finest!

What a field of GOP contenders: a half-mad POW and two backwoods preachers turned businessmen.

The Democratic Party could nominate the corpse of Paul Wellstone and beat these pathetic jokers.

A Clinton shaded the truth?

Oh. My. God.

I am aghast. Aghast, I am.

I just knew the Democratic Party would find a truly creative way to shoot itself in the foot and deprive Democratic voters with a chance to choose their nominee.

At home, barefoot, pudgy, and working on his memoirs.