Featuring Angelina Jolie as the Abomination

Oh, and the other guy is the Chilean super-hero, "Capitan Jupiter." But who cares? I just can't stop looking at that monster's mouth! For some reason.

Capitan Jupiter is actually some dude named "Rex Vane." Which doesn't sound terribly Chilean to me. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've dated a Rex Vane. If it's the guy I'm thinking of, he told me he was a fashion model, but it turned out he was really an exotic dancer. I had to have a long talk with him, which ended with me asking him to move in with me. The whole thing ended in tragedy (after, like, four days) and I still can't look at a pair of leather chaps without getting all teary-eyed. Not that I've ever actually cried. I haven't! SHUT UP! *pounds on table for emphasis* But if "Rex Vane" doesn't sound like the name of a Chilean native, that's okay; he actually lives on Easter Island! ...Well, that's where his "secret headquarters" is located, anyhow.

Capitan Jupiter's origin is along the same lines as Green Lantern and Insect Queen, where space aliens dish out a powerful device to some dumb shmoe. In el Capitan's case, he was abducted by natives of Jupiter. After a thorough probing (I assume), they gave him a super-power belt, with six buttons on it:

1. Invisibility
2. Super-hearing
3. Professional-strength force-field. Saunter through a nuclear reactor with no noticeable side-effects!
4. Laser-beam eyeballs
5. Flight, up to light-speed, and he doesn't even get crushed down into a singularity or whatever the hell normally happens to something going that fast. Cool, huh?
6. Invulnerability to hostile environments, like outer space, the bottom of the sea, or a used-car lot

Okay, I'm going to be brutally frank, here: I REALLY WANT A BELT LIKE THAT. Storm Boy! Make me a belt like that! I need it by -- oh, let's say "Friday."

...Balls. He's not even looking up from his desk! Maybe he didn't hear me. HEY! STORM BOY! I said, make me -- aw, hells naw.

The husky li'l queen just flipped me the double space-bird! I'm going to have to cut this post short, now, to allow myself more time to slap the snot out of him.

See y'all tomorrow! *balls up fists and stomps away*

Tie Me Angry Dude Down

The Australian hero, "Blackwing"...

• ...suffers from symbolic hallucinations that represent his illiteracy.
• ...didn't listen to his mum when she told him, "If you keep making that face, it'll freeze like that. (Now, finish your Tim Tams, dear.)"
• ...has an intravenous drip of illegal steroids next to his bed, for use during both sleep and sex.
• ...forgot to treat those papercuts earlier, and now they sting like a motherfucker.
• ...bought those fake-ass wings at Hop Topic, and he wears them everywhere. Even to funerals! It's upsetting to me.
• ...styles his hair with Crisco (butter-flavored, natch).
• ...has pyrotechnic farts.
• ...has thighs so big, they can wear belts made for fat guys.
• ...lives in an outback town with only one library. And it only has humongous prop books imported from Gotham City.
• ...likes to scream obscenities into that walkie-talkie he carries around on his waist... but here's the deal: there's never anybody on the other end of the line. The poor screwed-up bastard.
• ...once made out with an emu. He told his friends he was drunk at the time. But he wasn't. He totally wasn't.

Don't Lose That Humber

Sorry, but my outrage is rather disjointed today.

• Welcome to Gotham City, where the moon is not only full every night of the year, but also careens about the sky like a freaking pinball, in order to keep Batman's big, chunky head in silhouette. Sure, the constant earthquakes and tidal waves are a bitch, but at least the city's number one hero can look way cool!
• I can't believe "Humber" is an actual brand. And yet it is. I'm still pissed off about it, though.
• "Blasting away like an Apollo Missile"? Huh. Do they even make those anymore? The name itself takes me back to my time traveling days, when the Cold War gave every romance an undercurrent of existential doom. Kind of like a Hemingway novel, but with synthetic fibers. Wow. I have nostalgia for a nuclear warhead!
• That poor, desperate dope in the foreground? No, it's not the baddie who got punched through a window. It's just the last dude who tried to make sense out of Don Newton's page layouts. All y'all, do yourself a favor: give up on that shit now. Before it destroys you.

Basically Anything That Is Awesome

"Gotham City belongs to the Mutants!"

Wait, I'm thinking of that other big bald dude who slapped Batman around in a junkyard. But anyway, there it is, folks! PINK MUSCLE SHIRT! Although the ensemble, when taken as a whole, looks more like hospital scrubs. He's a disorderly orderly! No, Mister Wayne, you may not have an extra helping of Jell-O! *SLAP!* For realsies, guys! With the sleeves chopped off (to better showcase his "guns"), the Perfect Fighting Machine has the air of a Hulked-out "Dr. 90210." (Yes, Dr. 90210 = Bruce Banner, with surgically-enhanced dimples.)

But then I see the bare feet, and I wonder if the Perfect Fighting Machine going for a martial arts thing, instead. And his mom accidentally washed his karate pants in the same load as her red blouse. Now all the other kids at the dojo are gonna laugh at him! The big, dumb dope.

Wow. The Batman really needs to quit smoking.

Dave Predicts!

I have the smartest, most perceptive commenters in all of Blogdom! Also, hello, SEATTLE!!! Are you ready to ROCK?!! ...Sorry, I don't know what came over me. I'm not even near Seattle. Anyway, as the clever Dave figured out, Marianne has indeed "stomp(ed) off in a huff, leaving Tony/Iron Man to wallow in self-pity." But what he didn't guess is that while the fitfully feminine Marianne has left an obviously injured and/or sloshed Iron Man to fend for himself, the armored AA member has been assisted off the field by another male. This athletic, white-panted Samaritan is ready to lend Iron Man "that proverbial hand"... in the privacy of Tony Stark's jet, natch. Of course, the whole time that guy is proverbially handling Iron Man (in the cramped confines of the jet's bathroom) he'll get an extra thrill over the idea Tony Stark could burst in on them at any moment! Poor dumb dope.

CHOOM: Cranks Hatin' On Ol' Marvel!

And if that wasn't bad enough, he's about to be smothered by a roiling cloud of his own word balloons! He can't win for losin'! Poor dope. And the final panel has him vomiting inside his own helmet. The End!

So. We had five whole panels of action, six if you count the one of him flying out of the plane, and it all comes to a whiplash-inducing halt with this panel where he passes out. After having saved... one person! But don't think for a moment that this story's frenetic pace is going to falter! No, you can all look forward to many, many panels of people driving places, people sitting and talking, people leaning against bedposts (fully clothed, darn it), and -- of course -- thinking, thinking, thinking! (You can thank me later.)

Legion of Substitute Costumes Bonus: Plant Lad

That's what happens when you forget to water Plant Lad!

Kidding. Plant Lad is a mighty hero with the somewhat useful power of turning into any kind of plant. Which is awesome when the plant is some giant alien number that can move around and eat people, but somewhat less awesome when it's, say, one of your lame immobile Earth plants. Although I suppose that'd be useful for stealth missions. ("I don't remember seeing this potted fern here before--! Oh, well. As I was saying, the new secret codewords for our terrorist operation are...")

Historians will argue that Plant Lad never got rejected for membership by the Legion of Super-Heroes. They're actually correct. Kind of. Technically, he never even got to try out! See, many years ago Plant Lad and I were brunching at that Tartarus-style breakfast joint, the Infernal House of Pancakes. (Try ordering a "Devil's Dozen" donuts there. They'll give you four donuts, every time. Tartarusians, they're not so good with the math.) I believe I'd ordered the sulfur-roasted ham slab-wich, while Plant Lad was enjoying a nitrogen smoothie. Well, you'd never guess who tottered in, blitzed off her royal ass after a long night of partying, with her platinum hair mussed, one white opera glove missing, her magenta collar askew, and a tell-tale vomit stain down the front of her purple bustier. Yeah. Her.

So Plant Lad, bless 'im, was perpetually agog over celebrities back then -- he must have subscribed to twenty different holomags on the subject... People, Pod People, Pod People en Español, Popular Mechanics (featuring page after page of various mechanics who are popular), The Bismollywood Reporter, you name it! And before I could warn him about what a massive skank she was, Plant Lad rushed over to her and started gushing, and she was having none of it, and the words were just pouring out of his mouth at lightspeed and part of me wanted to grab him and drag him away from her before he made an even bigger fool out of himself. But another part of me wanted to grab my Omnicom, sit back, and record their conversation for posterity.

Their talk went exactly like this:

Plant Lad: --just an incredible inspiration for me, I mean I watch all your holotapes and I buy all your biographical supplements as soon as they come out and I even bought your limited edition line of shoes, like in every color and every size, of course they're not for me, I mean I don't wear them or anything, I mean I'm not a freak, ha, ha, heh, but I have them on this wall of shoes I made, because it's just a really interesting design element for my apartment, they're all like on little floating platforms, I mean "platforms" as in places to put shoes on not "platforms" as in platform shoes, heh, I guess it would be pretty silly of me to put shoes on top of more shoes, ha, uh, I mean how ridiculous would that look, although if anybody could pull it off it'd be you, you're just so elegant and regal and stylish and I think you give the Legion a lot of class which I think is so important, don't you, and by the way I'm a superhero myself, my name is Plant Lad which I guess I should have said before, heh, ha, ha, oh, er. and I can turn into all kinds of plants, and I know that sounds kind of useless, heh, um, but it's really not, I swear, like for instance there are actually a lot of plants that can move around, and they can grab things and they're like really strong and CAN I TRY OUT FOR THE LEGION?!!

Princess Projectra (bored): Aren't you supposed to be dead?

Plant Lad: Heh, ha, no, see, that was--

Princess Projectra: Yeah, I'm pretty sure you died. Who are you?! Do you work here?

Plant Lad: No, heh, what happened is I faked my own death, ha, I guess that's where you're confused, but--

Princess Projectra: Yeah, so I'd like to order the Satan Scramble with Faust Fries...

Plant Lad: I don't work here, ha, ha, but anyway I think I'd be a really valuable addition to your team, um...

Princess Projectra: ... and could you get me one of those cardboard Prince Evillo crowns? I'm gonna make my boyfriend wear one the next time we do it.

Plant Lad: Oh, heh, ha, I said I don't work here, I'm a superhero, er, oh, um...

Princess Projectra: So you're out of crowns?

Plant Lad: Heh, oh, er, huh?

Princess Projectra: Forget the food. Your service sucks. I'm going to tell my daddy to buy your restaurant and atomize it.

Then she left. Plant Lad stood there gaping for a moment, and then he s-l-o-w-l-y ambled back over to our booth. He slumped down in his seat. "Was it everything you dreamed it would be?" I asked.

He just stared down at his placemat for about a minute. Finally, without looking up, he mumbled, "She smelled like drain cleaner."

Poor dope. To be honest, he probably wouldn't have made it into the Legion anyway. Y'see, Plant Lad's people go through "active" cycles and "dormant" cycles. The "dormant" cycle, which lasts about four months out of every Earth year, begins with them getting kind of logy and dull-witted, and then they just stop moving altogether and become as stiff as boards. (But not in the good way.) So he's basically useless 1/3 of the time. Unless you're me, and you're clever enough to put him to work as a figurehead on your pirate ship!

But I dunno. Maybe he could have impressed certain skank-like royals (who then would have sponsored him for membership) if he'd dressed flashier. Like he does now! I convinced Plant Lad that his tall, lanky frame can pull off any look, and especially the look of a rock star! Check him out!

Oh, Plant Lad! Orange is definitely your color! It speaks of exotic orchids, clay flowerpots, and... er, pesticides. The woven midriff is based on a trellis, and I echoed that pattern with the hood and with the cut-outs on his boots. To visually round out his alarmingly equine face, I gave him oversized mirrored shades. The shades also send the subtle message, "I'm too important to make eye contact with you; inquiries can be made through my publicist." His knobby chin is adorned by a scalloped, leafy goatee of my own design, and of course the logo I created for him is proudly displayed on his left breast. Now, that's the look of a winner!

And the rest of the known universe evidently agrees with me! I'm happy to report that Plant Lad now enjoys thriving careers as an intergalactic New New Wave musician and two-time Beat the Living Crap Out Of You League champion... when he's awake, anyway. For the present, though, he's securely strapped to the prow of the H.M.S. Exquisite, scaring the holy bejeebus out of enemy ships.

Not a bad life, if you ask me.

Damn Imperialist Venusians!

"Because God knows the ancestors of those dumb face-paintin' shmoes we passed on the way over here couldn't have done anything this cool! D'ya think maybe Leif Ericson made it this far south, or... naw! And I can't think of any other white guys who might've done this! I guess it's th' dang Moon Men!"

Professor Lang is so enraptured by his white colonialist fantasies that he doesn't even notice the legendary Ninth Wonder of the World: namely, Earth's Largest Chia Pet.

It's Fun to Stay at the J-A-I-L

As a former inmate there myself (from my travels in the DC Universe's Ye Olde Weste) I'm proud to give you a tour of the Red Gulch City Gaol (or "Jail" as you 21st Century people spell it nowadays back then). Here is their one jail cell... and that's about it. The sheriff and his deputy don't even have desks. All they get is a single chair and they have to play rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets to sit down. The cell, however, has all the amenities a fashion-conscious felon would ever want. There are pegs on the wall so you can hang up your chapeau, stubble razors (remember them?) only since it's Ye Olde Weste they're powered by steam, a goodly selection of hair pomades and alcohol rubs and boot polishes, a little iron so you can press your kerchief, and a complete manicure/pedicure set. I loved that little cell! Too much, actually! It got to where I couldn't pass by the Red Gulch Citibank without at least trying to rob it, just so I could get sent to the "pokey"!

And what's this dumb shmoe in for, you ask?

Voyeurism.

Rescue Me: Black Abbott

In the early 1960's, stylish women wore pillbox hats. In the early 1980's, pretentious supervillains were pills with boxes for hats. Case in point:

Ah, so that's where they got idea for the ending to "Se7en." Backstage at the CMA's, a dickhead in a box! I suppose the vet put that thing on him to keep him from licking himself. Y'know, I have this really strong urge to fill it with packing peanuts. ...What? You want me to get on with it? Alrighty then, you killjoys!

This idiot is "Black Abbott", one of many D-list supervillains who done got themselves kacked by the Scourge Organization. Yes, the Scourge Organization, dedicated to ridding the Marvel Universe of pretty much every supervillain who first appeared in either "Marvel Two-In-One" or "Marvel Team-Up." Which is actually kind of a shame, since a lot of these dumb shmoes actually had a lot of potential! Like Black Abbott, just for an instance.

Black Abbott had the kind of mental mojo one can acquire under the tutelage of bald, pseudo-Buddhist monks... sort of a pulp novel/David "Kung Fu" Carradine deal, drained of all genuine spirituality. And for some reason he dressed in a big, box-like hood, like a circus clown version of Anne Boleyn. Oh, and one time "psychic feedback" caused him to burn his own hand off. Er, oops.

That's right! Get pissed, you stupid bastard! Oh, he's positively livid! Look at 'im, clenching his teeny, impotent little fists! And who can blame him? He sucks! No wonder he got offed by Scourge! And off-panel at that! But here's the part that fired my imagination: Black Abbott's wonky, ill-defined ESP allows him to basically possess several people at once, and even speak through them. I'm sorry, that's just completely bad-ass. Ever see "Slither"? Then you know what I mean.

And y'know what? Black Abbott has used his "disciples" to impersonate him in the past, so he could still be around. Bring Black Abbott back, I say! But if I might make a few suggestions...

*he-hem*

He needs a new costume, of course. That's a given, and I'll get to it in just a moment. But more importantly, he needs a bit of a tune-up in the villainy department. I was going to quibble about the extra "t" on the end of his name but it looks like that's an accepted British spelling, so what the hell. (Still, I'm guessing most American comic book readers -- and most Americans in general -- read the word "Abbott" and think of the skinnier, more taciturn half of a certain old-time comedy team instead of the head of a monastery.) But--! How's about we add a "The" to the front of his name? That way he's the Black Abbott which sounds way more mysterious and hard-core. Not to mention it carries more historical weight. It sounds like a character from a Gothic novel, or at least a Sherlock Holmes story. And yes, readers, it's kind of like the early Batman villain, the Mad Monk. Nerds. Aannyway, I think "the" Black Abbott would have imparted more menace if he'd ditched the goofball duds and just dressed more like a monk. Specifically, a Satanic monk. Behold!

Now we're thinkin' outside the box hat! My early sketches had "the" Black Abbott all dolled up in everything from just a basic monk's robe to a gaudy Satanic ceremonial affair (with goat-head themed mask and shoulderpads, and even one of those Hellraiser skirts like Pinhead likes to wear). This, I think, is the happy medium. We have the monk theme with the hood, and the stylized cape evokes a monk's robe while still allowing him to run and fight hand-to-hand. Meanwhile, the body suit with the inverted cross gives him some standard supervillain flavor so he doesn't look too out of place while he's getting his ass handed to him by Power Man and Iron Fist. The gloves are fingerless, the better for him to gesture evilly, and to coordinate with the gloves I gave him my patented calf spats. And yes, I drew him with two hands. Why not? It could be prosthetic. Or hell, he's got magic mental powers, maybe he regrew the damn thing. I know, I know... it's obvious wish fulfillment on my part. *gazes sadly down at robotic dingus*

Note: stylistically, I wanted to try drawing in the style of Korean artist Min-Woo Hyung, as seen in his manwha series, "Priest."

Next Monday: a post nineteen years in the making!

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania
• Bonus: Annihilator and Son
• Red Skull 3

Marvel Super Hero Uncomfortable Cocktail Party Of Champions, Part Two

Picture it: June, 1982, outer space. Pretty much every Marvel super hero in existence -- plus myself -- had been teleported by an unknown person (the Grandmaster) to an unknown place ("Exposition Arena," TM the brilliant Bully). Inexorably, the assembled Marvel super tools self-segregated according to body type (robot, manimal, godlike), powers or general geographic location. It was like a junior high cafeteria, minus the tater tots. In fact, I said that exact thing to the Texas Twister right before he excused himself and moseyed over to where Razorback was standing. Then the two of them did an awful lot of whispering and giggling, with the occasional gesturing in my direction. I caught up to Razorback later that year in a truck stop men's room. I didn't hear any laughter then.

So I was the "odd man out" in Exposition Arena. That's okay; I'm used to it. Plus, it gave me a chance to do some stealth-mingling and spy on everybody! Y'know, scope out what they were wearing and what they were talking about! And then gossip about it to all of you guys, now!

For someone so vehemently anti-American-culture, it's funny how much Vanguard's hair makes him look like the lost Duke of Hazzard. That shit was shagged out and feathered to the last molecule. Also, as you can see here? He'd just dug a huge booger out of his nose and was trying to hide it behind one of his massive thighs. I'm not a fan of Vanguard's costume, by the way. It's awfully busy, and the combination of a Victorian-modest collar and gigantoid arm holes (which threaten to expose some nipple if he turns just so) is insane. Maybe a full, military-style jacket would have worked in this situation. The Crimson Dynamo, with his teeny little Dubya mouth and his pointy metal hat, also looks like a big loser. And the fact that the whole shebang is painted bright red? It's harmful to my eyes and other living things. He needs to tone it down, pronto. Throw some black on that shit. I do admire how he took the opportunity to give Tony Stark a nice verbal pimp-slap. "Obviously a sporting arena, Iron Man!" (Iron Man: "I only asked because I thought your oppressive, underhanded government might have a hand in this, but if thinking I'm stupid helps you forget how your shitty little country is falling apart, be my guest. Dickweed.") Not in this issue: a panel showing an awestruck Iron Man, with the thought bubble "This place is immense... are we in my briefcase?!"

Shamrock and Captain Britain (Crip and Blood, respectively) combine international and religious tensions with sexual tension as Captain Britain ogles Shamrock's ass... suspiciously! I did some research on Shamrock to see if she'd appeared anywhere after this and I was surprised to learn she showed up in a whole lotta comics! She even got an origin and everything! But then she broke her left foot in a slip-and-fall accident and decided it meant that her good-luck powers had run out and that she should give up super heroing. (Cut to Barbara Gordon, saying "Whiner!") As an only-in-the-comics consolation prize, she showed up in Excalibur as "the most sought-after hair dresser in all of Europe!" Swell. Now, get your bitch ass in the kitchen and bake me a pie! Oh, and leave it to Claremont to make even a tertiary character "the most sought-after *blank* in all of *blank*" No "Joe Lunchpail" types for the 'Mont! See that janitor back there? He's the most sought-after janitor in all of South America! And he's a master of Capoeira, to boot! Costume-wise, Shamrock was just kind of meh. My big gripe is with the cowl. I don't think full-head cowls are flattering on women. I prefer the kinds where at least some hair is showing. Even the half-cowls, where the women kinda look like Stephen Wright (or for you comics nerds, Vulko) is preferable to the kind that makes them look bald. Captain Britain's original duds? I liked them okay, except for the covered mouth on the cowl. What's the point? Did he have a halitosis problem? Hmm. I've seen him really tear into the fish and chips, so maybe he did! Plus, he was, y'know... English.

Hey, Iceman, I like Darkstar's new costume, too! Her old one was just a puffy-sleeved gray blouse, some tight pants, and some boots. It was very "Rhoda goes to Safeway" but not very "superhero." Iceman's costume can't be seen under his thick layer of ice -- which makes it rather pointless -- but at this point in time it was a hideous powder blue-and-white affair. I guess it's just as well we can't see it. As for the dialog, I have one word for you all: Ewww! "Thank you, Iceman. I've thought of you often -- and fondly -- since then. Why, just the other day I took a freezey-pop and jammed it right up my..."

In the dankest, loneliest corner of Exposition Arena, the Vision and Machine Man enjoy a highly efficient pity party. ("The Vision: My wife does not understand me!") The Vision's costume is one I've always hated. It's way too gaudy, given his name and personality. That big stripey girdle of his is the absolute worst. What, does he have a hernia? Oh, and I think he at least should have ditched the goofy "widow's peak" cowl -- the one that attaches to his solar gem (or whatever the hell that bindhi doohickey on his forehead is supposed to be) and which conceals his handsome crimson skull. I know it's an unpopular opinion, but I preferred his pallid, yellow-white "dead skin" look from West Coast Avengers to his so-called classic costume. I didn't agree with the whole "deprogramming and marriage break-up" deal but I thought he at least looked better then. Machine Man? Boring! For starters, he needs some kind of interesting logo on his chest. If Ikaris is a case of Kirby trying too hard, then Machine Man is a case of him not trying hard enough. That's the Shroud in the background, by the way. Looks like somebody yanked his cowl down over his eyes again! That's always happening to him. (Shroud: You guys--! Quit it! Mo-o-o-o-mmm!") Poor dumb shmoe.

Tomorrow: Part Three! (This is going to go on for a while.)

Not Your Friend, But An Incredible Simulation

One of the weirder things in Roy Thomas' most recent run on "Thor" was the "Godpack." And I'm not just talking about the crazy sub-Liefeld costumes and hair (although I'll get to those momentarily). I mean the whole concept is kind of batshit insane. Because the Godpack consists of apparently random shmoes who were transformed by the High Evolutionary into super-beings with no memory of their old names or, I suspect, anything else. Which is just creepy. And here's the kicker: their new super-powered bodies were designed to emulate various Norse gods. And Thor became the leader of the group. Which means Thor spent a lot of time bossing around artificial versions of his close, personal friends.

Of course, Thor is used to bizarre crap like that. Just imagine what it must have been like in the Wundagore Gift Shoppe!

High Evolutionary: Janice? I've decided to promote you to manager.

Janice: Oh--! Well, thank you, Mister Evolutionary! So did Laurie quit, or did you promote her too, or--

High Evolutionary (darkly): Laurie's services were no longer needed.

Janice: I... see. Well, I'd better put in a classified ad for a new sales clerk!

High Evolutionary: No need! Behold, Janice O'Malley, for I now present to you... FUR RED!

Janice: The hell--?! He looks just like my friend Fred, only...

High Evolutionary: Only much, much BETTER! The creature you see before you is indeed based on the Fred you know, but is a wholly separate being with a myriad of genetic improvements! I trust you don't mind.

Janice: I just want to make sure the registers are covered. Still, it'll be kind of weird working with a guy who has Fred's face --

High Evolutionary: And his habit of whistling snippets of music from "Candide."

Janice: Really? Yikes. The main thing is... it'll be weird for me to, say, see Fred in the laundry room of our apartment building and then see his face again on a seven-foot-tall creature with a bright red lion's mane.

High Evolutionary: And tail.

Janice: Ew. Well, "Fur Red," let's find a company polo shirt that will fit you.

Fur Red: FUR RED NEEDS NO SHIRT! GRRRARRGGHH!

Janice (warily eyeing the broad, triangular thatch of red fur on the creature's chest): Trust me. You do.

[The two of them head for the storeroom, with Fur Red huskily whistling the opening bars of "Glitter And Be Gay."]

OKAY! Time for individual evaluations!



Back row:

"Anak." Son Of Thunder! (Kidding. And boy, is that ever a joke for comic book nerds!) Ridiculously gigantic and strong bald Black guy. Because that's not a sad, demeaning cliche, honest and for true. His outfit is actually the most demure of the bunch, except for the daring use of Seafoam Green, a color normally found on vacationing grandmas.

And that's it for the back row. Because he's big!

Front row, left to right (we'll skip Thor):

"Bellam." You know what I love about comic book ponytails? I love that they can grow to four, five feet long and still bounce around in complicated snaking patterns without a single strand out of place. I wonder what Bellam's hairdressing secret is. Some kind of xtreme-hold gel? Or Crisco, maybe? Also note that the High Evolutionary spent most of his shoe budget on everyone else so when he got to Bellam he only had about five bucks left and had to buy a pair of flimsy sandals from some hippie out on the street. Also, the poor dope has an axe for a hand. Not that he lost his hand in an accident, mind you. Nope, the High Evolutionary designed Bellam's current body to lack one hand. It cannot be said enough: the High Evolutionary is a creepy bastard.

"Luminor, Lord of Light." Which is funny, since I would have guessed from his breastplate that he was Lord of Corrugated Cardboard. Got enough kneepads, Luminor? You do? Then could I borrow a couple? No? Yeah, I didn't think so.

"Blitziana." Nothing screams "ready for battle" like a chrome-plated sports bra, huh? Check out the gloves. I'm thinking Blitziana is dressed to go to the opera. Providing that opera is being performed by the Celestials. (I've heard that Exitar is simply smashing as Madame Butterfly.) Bonus Creepy Points: the Norse god that Blitziana is based on? Is Thor. I guess the High Evolutionary was thinking, "Yeah, I like Thor and all, but you know what he needs? A fabulous rack. And maybe Wolverine's hair." News flash, honey! Nobody needs Wolverine's hair. Not even Wolverine needs Wolverine's hair.

"Loga." What a clever way to reuse those old red curtains in the sitting room! Bravo, High Evolutionary! And those tights look like they'd pinch. Just a bit. Just a teensy bit.

"Zefra." I don't think my eyes can take this much magenta. Notice how if she poses just so it looks like she's nude below the waist! Which is totally not on purpose, I'm sure. And there's more segmentation on the accessories, which, I'm sorry, is just stupid. Once Weight Wizard got his foot stuck inside a Slinky. (Yes, they'll still be manufactured one thousand years from now. Hey, stock tip!) If those arm-deals are anything like that Slinky, Zefra should be bawling like a baby and accusing Thor of taking her for granted. Oh wait, I guess he wasn't really blaming the Slinky for that second thing. Also, check out her hair. At this size, I can't tell if she's wearing a really goofy Zatanna hat or if it's a dye job. But one thing I do know is that her Medusa Lite mane would have been sexier if somebody hadn't snipped off the last two inches of it. I'm guessing Bellam got tired of being shown up in the hair department and took a little revenge. Bellam, you little bitch!