I Say Thee Neigh

Mother o' mercy! Demitrius, your teeth are quite simply horrific. Who were your parents, anyway? Did the English guy from "The Jeffersons" get it on with an Appaloosa? Or Liberty Belle?

But those hands... those delicate, fine-boned fingers, the sinuous movements they make... I believe Demitrius here is was born to be a hand model. (And he's instinctively protecting those lovelies with a pair of x-tra soft kid gloves.) It's just a shame he lived in the Time Before QVC* or else he could have gone legit instead of trying to hack it as a terrorist/psychic/party clown or whatever the hell he's supposed to be.

*Admittedly, the home shopping joints prefer people with beautiful miniature appendages, to make their rings and bracelets appear ginormous.

Really, Any Day Now, Something is Going to Occur

They're working for Kevin Kline?!

Naw, can't be that. As villain names go, though, "Mister Kline" doesn't have much oomph. Sounds more like a bitchy fashion critic than a would-be world conqueror. I'm picturing a spindly, aging man in a navy blazer with an ascot and a jaunty captain's hat. One hour earlier he sent Slasher and Demitrius on their way: "Into the moist Washington afternoon, my harlequins of righteousness! Soon the city -- nay, the very world will know what I think of that gown Angie Dickinson wore to the Emmy's!" (Aaannd cue nasal yet maniacal tittering.)

Gentle Pressure

Try saying this -- with Slasher's dramatic inflection -- the next time somebody at work hands you a memo. Guaranteed laughs! (Or a swift termination.)

Okay, let me see if I understand this. Slasher spent several panels hunkered down in an alleyway, assembling a device that could have easily fit in a nondescript cardboard box and just transported to that location without anybody giving him a second look. And he did this while wearing a bright orange aviator's helmet with attached goggles and green coveralls with gigantoid black polka-dots. So there goes the argument that that he didn't want to attract attention. So what was the point of all this? Oh yeah: DRAMA!!!

Next: Something happens! Possibly!

Love Me, Love Me, I Say That I Love Me

Oh, just flip the goddamn switch or whatever you freakin' drama queen!

Sorry. Only a few pages in and already I want to kick nearly every character in the 'nads. Hard. Especially Slasher, who appears to be enjoying a steamy romance with the sound of his own voice! Can you imagine what it must be like for Demitrius back at their crummy little hotel room? The sensitive l'il terrorist has to clamp his pillow over his ears while Slasher has loud, wet phone sex with himself (using two tin cans and a length of twine).

Fluffy Bubbles of Pure Love

I would have broken this down into smaller panels but as you can see, the ConwaySpeak tends to overlap itself. Except for in that first panel, which must be feeling awfully lonely right now. C'mon, First Panel Demitrius! Come out from around that corner. You could be smothered in word balloons right now! (It's fun!)

I love how Slasher's blocking makes it look like he's standing up and playing an electric organ.

(And speaking of my robotic dingus, I'm reminded that it's about time for its next scheduled maintenance. Three months or three thousand bouts of torrid lovemaking with Weight Wizard, whichever comes first! Tusker, put the pita pocket down, grab a drain pan and a big can of oil, and slide yourself underneath me.)

Because You Politely Requested It

It's my 2nd Bloggiversary today! (See?) That means posting will be light while I'm feted by my entire crew... under my strict supervision, natch. (Tusker, that ice cream cake you made in my likeness is sub-par. Start over!) Anyway, this is all I have for you today.

Well, I certainly can't find fault with Slasher's headgear, now can I?

But those jumpsuits--! Black polka dots on army green? Are they an elite unit of party clowns? Did they just come back from the paintball range and they didn't have time to change? Are those just oddly-placed sweat stains? And don't try to tell me it's "camouflage" unless they're going to infiltrate a Baskin-Robbins and skillfully blend in with the mint-chocolate chip.

(Also, I can't figure out why Slasher's hotplate has a detonator.)

Pinch Me; I Must Be Dreaming

You know how I'd take care of this joker? Drawn butter, and puh-lenty of it!

Wow! Just what in th' Sam Scratch is going on here?! Was Grant Morrison interning at Marvel in 1971? Did Stan Lee's gofer slip a little something extra into his coffee? (And I don't mean "Sweet 'n' Low.") Am I imagining the whole thing, and everybody else looking at this freak is seeing the Melter or some shit?

The cover is a bit misleading, as the fellow with the crab-claw cranium is not named the Slasher and his groovy orange costume is actually a demure olive green. Which I think is George Tuska's and Jim Mooney's woefully misinformed notion of camouflage.

Welcome to the crazy mixed-up world of "Iron Man" #41 (September 1971), without a doubt one of the worst comic books I've ever encountered in my entire life. And I say this as someone who's read "Oblivion." It's written by Gerry Conway at his most hysterically overwrought. And like a lot of Conway's books, most of the characters can be divided into two categories:
1. Snide, hateful jerk-offs who talk way too much
2. Whiny, self-pitying douchebags who talk way too much

Believe it or not, there are a few nice silent panels. Sadly, they merely serve as literary "palette cleansers" -- preventing your brain from becoming numb to young Conway's hackery before assaulting it afresh. Probably 95% of the panels are so stuffed with purple prose that the characters are reduced to the size of ants. In fact this comic is so bad I'm tempted to go all "Gravity Girl" on its ass and blog it in excruciating detail. I mean, get a load of this caption box from the very first page:

"Slightly moist?!"

I Suppose This Puts the Kibosh On Our Trip To 'Shoe Carnival'

In "The Fury of Firestorm" #6 (January 1982) an old Flash villain gets his hands around a powerful instrument.

Yes, it's the Pied Piper, Masturbator of the Pan Flute.

Y'know, I don't care if he's a musician; that outfit absolutely kills any sex appeal he might have had. Who'd he swipe the tunic off of? Woozy Winks? Not that he had many choices. I think it's interesting that back in the Olden Days of Comics patterned fabrics were only available in polka dots or in simple, grid-like plaids. No wonder the supporting characters were so square... everything they wore was the graphic equivalent of a cold shower! Only the superfolk knew how to dress for bedroom success: in the most flamboyant manner possible. To put it another way: if you were a guy and you wanted to get laid back then, you had to walk around with a fin on your head (Doctor Light being the obvious exception to that rule).

The Pied Piper was in dire need of a makeover. And he'd get several, eventually Not that I've been terribly fond of any of them. But he also got one in this very issue... kind of! Before I show you the "after," suppose you let me drop the needle on this old Bernard Herrmann record and adjust the neck on that tensor lamp just so. Okay, I'm good. BEHOLD!!!

"Do something!" Er... alrighty. Given my knowledge of Greek mythology, I'd probably jostle the deputy there and shout "Somebody get this man a wineskin, a flask of scented oil, and a slim, hairless teenage boy, quickly! Also, somebody send in a donkey covered in flower garlands! (That one's just for me.)"

Yikes, huh? I think I liked him better in the polka-dot clown costume. Poor Piper. He's got the most literal case of satyriasis in medical history. Yet in a cruelly ironic twist, his penis has completely vanished. On the plus side, this bizarre metamorphosis should keep him away from the pixie boots for awhile.

But wait! It gets worse!

Not only did he get horns and elf ears, but his case has been assigned to a gynecologist! He must have a really crappy HMO.

To be honest, they would have cured him already, but they need the cheese. (No penis! You do the math.)