How do you like that, readers? Where's your O. Henry now? Young G. Night Shamaconway must've been beside himself with glee, musing on the cleverness of this unexpected twist. Never mind that Illusion Demitrius still managed to knock the crap out of Iron Man, rendering the "twist" both pointless and incomprehensible. But you all must admit, you didn't see it coming. Because it's STUPID.
(In the background, Iron Man spots what could very well be a small puddle of vodka next to that broken bottle, and takes measures to secure it.)
*With all due respect to Patton Oswald.
Friday, September 28, 2007
In lieu of a background, Jim Mooney just inked in a portion of his thumbprint. Admittedly, he has big hands. And you know what that means, heh-heh...! Yup! Marfan syndrome. Rrrowr!
And look! Instead of the crabclaw tentacles, Demitrius has sprouted a miniature Slasher from his forehead! And the miniature mercenary is thin enough to fit through Demitrius's fingers! The skinny bitch.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
At least there's an outhouse directly in her path, in case she needs to throw up. Damn it, Tuska--! Or Mooney, maybe--! Anyway, I have an important reminder for whoever's responsible: not everything is made out of wood. Honest. Not even back in 1971. In fact, less things were made out of wood in 1971 than in any other year in the history of mankind. It was a glorious year for polypropylene, though...
And she might feel a tad better if she'd just peel that Facehugger off her kisser.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Here's what would have made her part in this comic about a hundred times better: if Young Gerry Conway had dispensed with that scene of her having that knock-kneed brainfart at the Bates Motel or where-the-hell-ever and just had her run from the airport directly into that alley. He could have interspersed the boring "Danger! Budget Death Ray!" plot with panels showing Marianne sprinting alongside the airport shuttle bus, and then down the interstate, and through the suburbs, past famous attractions (maybe all the way up and down the stairs in the Washington Monument) until finally she arrives at the end of the comic. And the whole time she could just be having a fit, flailing her limbs and hollering, knocking stuff out of bystander's hands, Ron Burgundy-style, and generally making a nuisance of herself.
I mean, that's how I'd have written it.
- Slasher's eye-lasers
- Demitrius' poorly thought-out and grossly undefined mental powers
- Air escaping from Iron Man's armor while it melts
- Tony's self-pity, which has transcended mere words to manifest as an endless, ominpresent keening, like unto the banshee washer-women of lore. (Christ, now I'm writing like Conway. Somebody, slap me! No, belay that, you'd just screw it up. I'll slap me! ...YEOWW!)
- Marianne, all the way from her crappy hotel room
- The squealing tires of the sinister VW van, as Lucie runs their asses down and ends this stupid comic for once and for all.
- Whitepants the Brave, pining for more sweet, sweet armor-humpin'.
- Senator Stogie, ramming his "appropriations bill" through some page's "subcommittee."
- Me, as I realize I still have one-and-a-half pages left of this four-color turdburger to blog.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
But no. Young Gerry Conway had to get all Sesame Street on us and interrupt the titillating (and no, that's not a reference to Demitrius' forehead) carnage for a lesson in "cooperation." And so Slasher (the vivacious, orange-headed Ernie of the duo) and Demitrius (the morose, pigeon-dancing Burt) inexplicably set aside their animosity so they can finish beating on Iron Man.
But Iron Man is doing a dandy job of self-destructing, a-thank you very much, with the aid of an armor suit that's powered by a watch battery, apparently, and -- of course -- his inexplicably Peter Parker-like self-pity. (It's kinda hard to move that big chunk of machinery off your back when you're wearing it, huh, Iron Man?)
Monday, September 24, 2007
Greetings, friends and/or fools!
This book is intended as an introduction to my theory of Transformed Non-Man Analysis, or "Transnonmanalysis" for short. At the core of my teachings is the principle that any philosophical position any of us takes in regard to our fellow men (including annoying loudmouth coworkers) can be boiled down to one of four basic ideas:
- I'm a fool, you're okay: this position is generally wrong. Odds are, you're a lithe, emotionally beautiful genius who is being oppressed by some talkative jackass in a stupid aviator's helmet. You must await the change. Release the crabclaw tentacles within! Then smack the shit out of that bastard. ...If you are a talkative jackass in a stupid aviator's helmet, forget what I just said. You're a fool.
- I'm a fool, you're a fool: this is better than the first position, but not by much. Take a closer look at your coworker. Sure, he's probably a fool. I bet he shows off with his fancy -shmancy laser beam eyeballs and Ginsu hands when a soldering iron/hot glue gun and a pen knife would have worked just as well, and without the unnecessary expenditure of energy. But are you really as bad as all that? Or has this jerk-off merely convinced you that you are? Think about it.
- I'm okay, you're okay: what're you, kidding me? Wake up, dummy! You're better than okay! Who else can accomplish such glorious feats of surrealism? How about that bozo over there -- the one with the Dr. Mid-Nite goggles? Can he grow to two stories tall? I think not. Look at him. He thinks he's a criminal mastermind, but he takes orders from some doofus who talks to his cigarette, and when he was told to get some camouflage jumpsuits, all he could dig up was some mechanics' coveralls with grease stains on them. And he calls you a fool! You know you only took this lame gig so you could earn enough dough to move out of your mom's basement and maybe have a little extra left over to self-publish that book of poems you wrote that's going to change the world! You know that.
- I'm okay, you're a fool: now we're talkin'! To quote an old Amerikanski song (I think), "buck up, Billy-boy!" Stage a bloody coup and kick your oppressor to the curb! (That's assuming you can even find a curb, since you seem to be trapped in a maze of blank walls. But still.)
Once you understand these four principles, you're well on your way to living a richer, more fulfilling life, away from the pointy metal claws and searing eyebeams of those who would oppose you.
And don't forget to check out my comrade Lucie's newest self-help book, "Smart Drivers, Stupid Passengers."