Marooned

This is a portrait I sketched of Weight Wizard the other day. He'd been sitting so long, just staring into space (i.e. that stuff right outside the spaceship) that I wanted to capture it. Those big, soulful eyes--! Even when he's pensive, he's beautiful. And that little Hercule Poirot mustache I made him grow makes him look ten years older, and three times as Belgian. Granted, the severity of his expression and the fact I used red pastel (the only thing within reach) makes him look like a Soviet dictator on a bad hair day, but hey, it's a sketch! What the hell do you people want from me? Blood? 'Cause that's in short supply right now. But yeah, Weight Wizard's a pint-sized hottie! I just wish... well, I'll talk more about Weight Wizard in a bit. You probably want to know about how we're doing with the whole "Tusker destroyed our main engine" problem.

I'm happy to report good news in that department. Yes, things are looking up! We're still reliant on our backup engine, which doesn't have anywhere near the power we need to propel the ship, but we've finally cobbled together a plan for getting out of this whole big mess. And it's thanks in large part to Storm Boy, believe it or not! Y'see, he's at long last off the sauce, and he's a real fountain of ideas now. Sometimes his thoughts run away from him and he starts off on some dumb tangent and he's babbling so rapidly I can barely understand what he's saying. However, all I have to do is slap him (which he seems to enjoy) and he gets right back on track. Kind of like when you whack the side of a holovision set to make the picture come in clearer. Simply put, the plan is this: we're going to use the countless bolts of Tharrian heat-absorbing fabric we've "acquired" and some other parts salvaged from the ship itself to construct some massive solar energy collectors. They will power up a battery of Storm Boy's design that should give us enough juice to limp into the nearest spaceport for proper repairs. As a reward for his hard work and sobriety I've promoted him from "Swab Trainee" to "Bosun." The news was enough to render him speechless. Finally.

Later, I overheard Storm Boy whispering to Rainbow Girl about some "surprise" he was cooking up for me. I don't know whether to be excited or scared.

Weight Wizard, on the other hand... I'm not sure what's going on with him. He seems pretty restless, like he always gets before he fakes his own death and runs off. Of course, there's nowhere he can go right now. Last night I tried to set up a romantic evening for us in our cabin, with candlelight and kangobronc steaks and a selection of scented oils and metal polishes, and also I had the stereo playing "our song" ("Superbeast" by Rob Zombie) over and over, but he never showed up. I hobbled throughout the ship, looking for him. I finally found him in the ship's library. He'd hacked into a file of love letters for Plant Lad from his various boyfriends. (I'd taken the liberty of having them forwarded to the ship while he's in his current dormant state). He was crying. It broke my heart. He looked up at me and went pale. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something. But he just couldn't conjure the words, somehow. He pushed past me and ran down the corridor. Maybe... maybe I'm smothering him. But he'll get over this, whatever it is. He just needs some time.

Rainbow Girl, Storm Boy, and Tusker are hard at work on the solar collectors and the battery right now, with me checking up on them every hour or so. And I ordered Weight Wizard to pitch in. It's not like he has anything better to do, what with my dingus having altogether vanished. And it's good for him to focus on something other than the two of us. I don't know how much he's contributing, though, because the rest of the crew isn't very fond of him, or vice-versa. So none of them ever ask Weight Wizard to do anything. I can see him through the porthole right now. He's just floating around out there in his spacesuit, all by himself, at the end of his tether.

Becalmed Before the Storm

From Rainbow Girl's diary, August 23, 2987:

"Everything's screwed up.

The big news? We're adrift. Despite constant instructions to the contrary, Tusker found his way into the engine room. Once there, he managed to spill an entire gallon of Bismoll MacMattercuddy's Famous Double-Plutonium Espresso into the reactor chamber, causing a chain reaction that melted the core and destroyed the main engine. We're running on backup power right now, so all the lighting is dim and also RED for no good reason except Blockade Boy must think it looks 'cool' or something. The backup engine is powered by a little hand crank that must be turned every hour. Kind of a pain. I'd make Tusker do it but I'm afraid he'd SNAP IT OFF. Oh, and have I mentioned we're "laying low" in the Gorilla Nebula, far away from inhabited planets and trade routes? Oh, yes, we're quite possibly screwed.

I snagged Storm Boy to help me figure out some way to work around the destroyed engine. But now that he's on the wagon he's really kind of manic and useless, and he can't concentrate for beans. Every piece of machinery he laid his eyes on suggested some outlandish and impractical new invention to him. I just wanted the ship to have a working engine and he kept pestering me with rhapsodies about banana clips that electronically hypnotized head lice into working as a profitable miniature circus, or a combination vacuum-bagpipe that plays music while you clean. And in the middle of all THAT, Weight Wizard showed up in a nude panic demanding to know where we kept the crowbar. And when we asked him why, he just looked down at his feet and said, 'No reason.'

A few hours later and with very little accomplished Storm Boy and I swung by the galley for some breakfast. And there was Weight Wizard. I could tell right away something was amiss, because he was wearing clothes. And he was much friendlier than usual. Normally I can't get two words out of him. (He's one of those smug-yet-frosty types... he's always hanging onto Storm Boy, and usually when I try talking to him he'll either say nothing at all or he'll smirk and whisper something to Blockade Boy. It's irritating.) Oh, and even more suspiciously, he tried to make small-talk. Like we were old friends. But there was something about his eyes that seemed OFF. He looked shell-shocked. So I just asked him point-blank, 'Where's Blockade Boy?'

He shrugged. 'I'm sure he's around here somewhere.' I asked him if Blockade Boy was still upset about getting voted off Next Top Hero. He guffawed, ruefully. Then he mumbled something about Blockade Boy having 'bigger stuff to worry about.'

Just then, Blockade Boy slammed through the swinging doors. He was dragging himself forward on two of his best, most pretentious canes. And the techno-organic bug that had infected his legs and dingus had taken over his arms, shoulders, and a good deal of his torso!

He hobbled over to Weight Wizard and they argued in hushed tones about something or other. I'm pretty sure the word 'dingus' was bandied about. I interrupted them to insist Blockade Boy go to sickbay for a thorough examination. Then Storm Boy interrupted ME by blurting out 'You look HELLA COOL!' He had a peculiar expression. Kind of a surprised smile, like a kid on the first day of Klordney Week.

Scans showed that all the organic and mechanical matter that used to be irretrievably intermingled in Blockade Boy's lower half had VANISHED, leaving everything below his waist a hollow, jointed shell. Like a ventriloquist's puppet! Furthermore, his magnetic codpiece has fused to his crotch, where his robotic dingus USED to be. And the rest of him -- bones, nerve endings, gears and fan belts -- is just DANGLING there inside his chest! To be honest, there is no scientific explanation for why Blockade Boy is even STILL ALIVE. It's weird. And Weight Wizard was not taking it well. AT ALL. Blockade Boy will try to put his arm around him, for support, and Weight Wizard will try to shrug him off, so Blockade Boy will then put his OTHER arm around him and hold Weight Wizard's arm there so he can't let go, and then the two of them will basically WALTZ wherever Blockade Boy wants to go. It's awkward.

I don't know what's going on.

But whatever it is, it can't possibly end well."

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.)

She Got Tired of People Asking, "Who Are You Wearing?"

At least, I assume she's the one who scribbled all that crap on the front of her own desk. Of course, the people I feel sorry for are Donna Elam and Marlene Baron. Because I'm pretty sure they intended for their designs to be worn by Millie, her rival Chili or (less likely) Millie's less glamorous friend and doglike one-woman support team Toni, and not some stuck-up scam artist who appears in only one story. Of course, I have other questions... like, how does the rest of Donna's outfit look? Is it just a blouse? Or does it connect to a skirt, or culottes or maybe some huge flared trousers? Or the bottom half of a pantomime horse costume? Or is the model agency lady connected below the waist to some kind of blocky machinery, like Captain Pike or Korvac the Machine God? (Certainly, I could relate.)

Also of interest: Millie's handbag by Hefty! (What's she got in that thing? A severed head? Or the model agency lady's lower half?)

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

Gender Reassignment Challenge: Starfire

Before I get to the main part of the post, I have some good news and some bad news -- not affecting this blog one whit, so you can cut the hysterics. Honestly, you're more Pavlovian than the "Dancing with the Stars" audience! Quit yer bawlin'! ...Aw, heck, I'm lashing out at my audience again. I'm sorry! I think I'm having a meltdown! No, wait... that's just my robo-dingus. Hang on while I replenish the radiator fluid. Yeow! Too hot! Shoulda worn gloves! Or at least a condom! Gimme a sec...

...Aaand I'm back. Sizzling comets, what was I about to say?! Oh yeah! The good news: frequent commenter and all-around cool guy Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator invited me to participate in his group blog contest thingie, Last Gladiator Standing 2. That's where the elite invite-only crowd is divided into two teams and each week they individually write posts "in character" with predetermined story elements. After that, an independent judge (not Jon) picks the best post. That person's team wins for the week. The losing team has to e-mail Jon with the name of the person on their team they want to get rid of. (Do you see where I'm headed with the "bad news" part?) Yup, the bad news: I was the first guy voted off the island/boardroom/house/dance floor. Which, if you're a Shear Genius fan, makes me Paul-Jean -- or if your taste runs more toward "Dancing with the Stars", makes me Tucker Carlson. (Never thought I'd say that!) And no, changing that reference to Paulina Porizkova doesn't help. But I appreciate the thought.

Okay, let's get down to "bidness" as the ancient Mayans used to say. Last week I showed you how I imagined Starfire would look if she was evil. This week I'll show you how I envision Starfire, the hot extraterrestrial dude. And boy howdy, was it a tough challenge!

First, the before:

The art is obviously by Tom Grummett, but the design is pure Perez. Check it! We're talking early 80's George Perez at his finest right here: segmented boots, floral amulets, alligator-skin wrist guards, and a carnivorous perm. That hair-do could have headlined its own comic! Its arch-nemesis: one of those scores of disembodied mounds of straight black Japanese hair that one finds everywhere in manga and J-horror films -- and it would be a ninja, natch. Say! Why am I goin' on like this? I suspect most of you aren't even looking at Starfire's head, much less her hair. Yes indeedy, Starfire's astounding orange rack (doubtless covered with a short soft fuzz, like a peach) and the scientifically improbable way those thin purple strips keep in it check are the main reasons I even brought her up in the first place. Starfire's appearance is undoubtedly, whole-heartedly, in-your-face and poke-your-eyes-out feminine. Now, how can I transmogrify that into something suitable for a male hero?

Glad you asked!

I really, really, really wanted to give the male Starfire a ginormous Tamaranian beard like some of the "real" Starfire's relatives had (and a shaven pate for contrast). So why didn't I? For one, it would have obscured the costume. (And I didn't want to repeat myself by making the shape of the beard substitute for a costume element.) Secondly, I wanted to preserve the idea that it left a trail while Starfire flew around, and even I had to admit that a "beard trail" would have looked freakin' goofy. And thirdly, it wouldn't have read as "young" as I wanted. My compromise was to pull the hair back in a Samurai ponytail deal and let it flow from there. I coupled it with a modest Donegal beard because I wanted to make him look more leonine. (Starfire's people are descended from a feline species, after all.)

Costume-wise, the biggest alteration was in the color. Not that a guy couldn't rock a purple outfit -- I've designed plenty of them -- but in Starfire's case, the hue didn't exactly scream "bad-ass warrior." So I shifted it down the spectrum slightly, to blue. I didn't have to change the boots or the wrist guards. I did remove the texture from the wrist guards because I figured it was more masculine to have a simpler, more graphic costume. I also ditched the two bejeweled amulets, although I left a cut-out down around the waist where it would have gone. I made the collar bigger so it covered the neck and the shoulders and I integrated it with the straps on the torso -- which I widened to create a vest.

Do I like it, personally? Eh, not bad. The size of the hair always has been and always will be ridiculous and clown-like to me, so that's a wash. The rest of it I'm pretty happy with. Starfire Dude looks like he could have come straight out of a Jim Starlin comic. He and Adam Warlock would fight and then team up... to do each other's hair!

You'll notice the art is more stylized than is normal for me. That's because I want to experiment with more expressionistic linework. I definitely think this guy looks more solid than my mannered "air guitar" Lionfang drawing from last summer (your time). The big difference: I didn't use any photo reference for Lionfang, whereas I did for Starfire Dude (just like I've been using for most of my drawings). That's one pic (of a bald guy!) for above the waist, another pic (naked, natch) for below the waist, and the face I just made up. Who knows what kind of kooky crap I'll come up with next week? Not me! See you then!

Previous Gender Reassignment Challenges:

• Saturn Girl
• Scarlet Witch
• Looker (and a slight revision)
• Storm
• Marvel Girl
• Black Canary
• Phantom Lady
• Snowbird
• Dazzler
• Mantis
• DC's Enchantress in the Silver Age and the Suicide Squad and the
  Shadowpact
  

Rescue Me Bonus: Son of the Annihilator

I'd like to start out with a belated tip of the cap to Sleestak for suggesting yesterday's post! Thanks, pal! Now, let's get down to business.

The main story in "Action Comics" #356 (November 1967) starts out on a bizarre note, as the Annihilator, a doughy Eurotrash doofus in an absurd costume, orders Superman to leave the Earth within forty-eight hours... and Superman agrees! Because the Annihilator is a dangerous individual. And he's obviously, unpredictably bat-shit crazy... a man who would willingly dress like that is capable of anything!

But the proceedings take an even freakier turn when the Annihilator decides to do what any publicly-loathed celebrity does to improve his image: adopt a kid who can show up in a few newspaper photos before he's handed over to the nanny for the rest of his natural life! His new son? A smart-mouthed teenage delinquent. Because, really, isn't that the obvious choice? Let's take a look at the irrepressible little scamp, starting with the cover.

What's wrong with this picture? (And no, the Annihilator's "Nostril Libre" mask doesn't count.) Here's a hint: it was published in 19-freaking-67. And yet the Son of the Annihilator is dressed like Marlon Brando in "The Wild One" (a film from 1953!). It's yet more proof of how DC was getting thoroughly drubbed in the Coolness Wars by Marvel Comics. Sure, Stan Lee was a middle-aged crypto-fascist conservative, but at least he could pretend to get his grooviness on! DC wore their John Birchian squareness right on their covers where every hippie could see it. But wait! It gets worse! Thanks to the cover artist (I'm guessing Neal Adams?) the Son of the Annihilator appears to be a darkly handsome "bad boy" whom any teenage girl (and more than a few teenage boys) would swoon for. So far, not bad. But let's see how interior artist (Wayne Boring, I think) depicts him!

Yipes. Kinda homely. (And he stole all his insults from old "Dead End Kids" films.) Well, maybe he looks better when he smiles.

Gah! He's hideous! Who's his biological father? The Prankster? Criminy! I can forgive a lot in a guy (evidenced by my continuing relationship with Weight Wizard) but a deficient personality and an ugly mug? Good night male nurse!

All that aside, I must say that "Action Comics" #356 had an intriguing undercurrent. Leather-loving outsider "caught... with the meat in his mouth" approached by a brawny, elaborately-moustachioed older gentleman who wants to be called "Dad"? (Haw! Your father's mustache, Pocketbook Pete!) I dunno. It just really resonates with me for some unknown reason.

Anyway, like a lot of father-son relationships, Annihilator and Son hit a rocky patch when hijo ingests some contraband substances.

"All right, son! I'm glad to share my super-power with you." Which of course the Annihilator is going to say, since his own super-power has worn off, and the smirking little shit he calls "son" would punch his goofy noggin off his fat neck if he so much as looked at him funny. ("Daddy-o." Aw, for chrissakes, DC Comics of 1967--!) You know what I would have liked to have seen in "Infinite Crisis"? Son of the Annihilator and Superboy Prime going all "Rock'em Sock'em Robots" on each other. Just get rid of both of those annoying dillweeds at the same time.

So. The Son of the Annihilator is a lot of things, but one thing he's not is cool. He needs one of my patented Blockade Boy makeovers, pronto!

Ah, that's better. The Son of the Annihilator... wait, he needs a name that's not so clunky... I believe I'll dub him "Kid Annihilator" or KA for short... anyway, Kid Annihilator has a shagadelic rawk 'n' roll haircut now, complete with muttonchops. He doesn't bother to cover up his facial hair with a mask like the Annihilator does because he doesn't care about protecting a secret identity. He has the Annihilator's logo on his chest, but it's bordered by three orange shapes that hark back to the radioactivity symbol. That relates to the glow of his powerful fists. His boots are fringed because it's current and groovy and youthful (for 1967) and also because I like the contrast between supercostumes and street clothing. (When it's not overpowering or overdone, I should add. Like trenchcoats... ugh!) In my sketches he had a fringed vest to match, but I decided it covered up too much of my design. And the color scheme is all secondary colors because it compliments the Annihilator's primary scheme and it's more far-out, maaaannnn! Now this guy would look at home battling the Teen Titans... who are as hip, sadly, as 1967 DC ever would get. In my head I can see a dynamic Nick Cardy cover with Kid Annihilator smashing his way through the Titans in front of the words "Make War, Not Love!"

What else do I see in my head? Oh, you don't wanna know. You couldn't handle it! What? You're sure? Okay, I'll share one more thing: I can see Weight Wizard's face after I disrobed in the Conjugal Visit Pod at the addiction treatment center. I take it he'd never seen a robotic dingus before. And he'd especially never seen one with my self-designed Robot Hand with Pimp-Slapping Action attachment! Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sharing too much. Suffice it to say Weight Wizard learned his lesson. For now! And inbetween visits, he can think of me while he tries to scub off the huge motor oil stain I left on his back. Er, I'm sharing too much again, aren't I? See you next Monday!

Me Am Here!

HI! HI! HI! Me am BLOCKADE TOT! Me am awesome super-baby living on moon! Me am three years old! Me not especially good with personal pronouns! Me am from many many years in PAST! Funny man in purple robe SNATCH me from day-care on moon-colony! Him plop me down here on planet Earth in front of future-self's computer to see what me do because he am avid reader of future-self's blog and him think it BORING right now! Me not know where future-self is but me think me am SWELL REPLACEMENT!

What can me tell you 'bout me? Me like: macaroni and space cheese, rainbows (though me never actually see one), horsies, rubbing mommy's feet. Me hate: moon rover sickness, Winath sprouts, daddy's "friend" Justine. Me have super-power! Me can turn into three-foot by three-foot steel wall! Mommy use me as PET GATE sometimes so old limping half-blind space-terrier Spaat not get into trouble! Me have to stand at top of stairs for HOURS! Sometimes mommy and mommy's friends am in next room playing Cosmic Mah-Jong and drinking Orando Slings until they DRUNK and mommy FORGET about Blockade Tot! Then it morning again and she want feet rubbed and she holler "WHERE AM that damn kid?" And me say "Here mommy! Here!" Then she say "Oops!" and she apologize but me not sure she really mean it! Me think she am kind of SCREWED UP! Me still love her though!

Other name is "Phyl Staad" but that am lame! So me INSIST mommy and daddy and day-care lady and other kids call me Blockade Tot! If mommy and daddy and day-care lady forget well there not much me can do 'bout it! (Mommy say Daddy forget WHOLE BUNCH OF THINGS sometimes! Like where him live and who him married to!) But if KIDS forget then me punch them on arm REAL REAL HARD or me push them down or me grab kids' feet and drag them 'cross gravelly part of playground! Them all learn by now! All except best friend Weight Novice!

Weight Novice am shrimpy kid! Other kids all pick on Weight Novice except him am always hanging around me! That am because me am MUCH BIGGER than other kids! Because me am only kid on whole moon-colony from planet Amadus! That am also why me only kid in day-care with hairy legs!

Weight Novice like to TEASE ME and TEASE ME! Him call me "Phyl" and "Phylbert" and "Phyl-ly Cheese Steak" and "Cum On Phyl the Noize" (which am Amadus planetary anthem) and him NEVER call me "Blockade Tot" and me get SUPER-ANGRY! So me shove him on ground and me just lay on top of him for real long time yelling "Say name! Say name!" until him CRYING! And then me roll off him. And me and him get giggle fit! Ha, ha!

One time Weight Novice make himself super-weightless and him start to float away but me grab Weight Novice's foot with big hairy hand and then me just carry him 'round all day like him am HELIUM BALLOON! That pretty funny too! Weight Novice no longer wear red or yellow or blue no more because me sat him down and TOLD him he not look good in primary colors! So now him only wear purple and orange! Just like me! Me also responsible for Weight Novice getting more flattering haircut! Mommy and Daddy think me spend WAY TOO MUCH TIME over at Weight Novice's house! ME think Mommy and Daddy spend way too much time over by liquor cabinet! Ha, ha!

Funny man in purple robe say this am enough already! Him say me am kind of DOWNER so him am sending me back in time again and also to moon-colony! Me want to STAY and read some of future-self's blog! Like ALREADY me see that someday me have a ROBOTIC DINGUS which me am pretty sure am kind of wild doggie from Australia! So THAT am cool! When me all growed up, me ride robotic dingus every day! Oops! Funny man in purple robe am just shaking head! Him say "Time's up!" This am it! BYE-BYE EVERYBODY! BYE-BYE!

Gender Reassignment Challenge: Mantis

Before we get down to business, I'd just like to say how much I appreciate the generous outpouring of support I've received after my last post. The mountains of letters and sympathy cards, the bushel baskets of orchids, the scented soaps in the shapes of prancing unicorns, the steamer trunk filled with Italian shoes, the gift certificate for twenty-five credits off the all-u-can-eat steak and potato bar at Space Sizzler, the kryptonite-encrusted rocket sled, the Shetland pony that's trained as a personal shopper...! Why, you're the best friends a 30th Century other-dimensional fashion designer who can turn into a moderately-sized steel wall and who is cursed with an ungainly yet strangely handsome mechanical dingus could ever have. *weeps openly*

*wipes eyes and deeply inhales, producing a wet snuffling noise like a gut-shot kodiak*

Okay! So... Mantis! What's her deal?

She's Vietnamese, kind of, only her dad is some guy with a German name who was the original Libra in the supervillain group, the Zodiac. And she married an alien tree, basically, only it was in the body of her ex-boyfriend, and they had a son named "Sequoia" (I shit you not) and she managed to travel to other universes under various aliases like "Willow" and "Lorelei" where she'd mainly just say enigmatic crap, and she hooked up with Kang, only not really, as in that Mantis was a hyp-mo-tized Space Phantom which you have to admit is pretty funny. Also, she has the power of "total body control", like one of those conditioners you can only buy at a salon. Not to mention, she has some kind of super-empathy and she can astrally project herself across the whole freaking universe and build a host body out of vegetation. So she's kind of like the Swamp Thing, only sluttier. She loves to refer to herself as "this one", which is the spoken version of never capitalizing the word "I". Oh, and somehow the Kree are involved. Of course. Also? Ugh. Suffice it to say, I'm not a fan. But if you like her, hooray for you! No, for reals! Go get 'em, tiger! *gives thumbs-up sign*

Girly clothes? She's bustin' out of 'em! For starters, there's the aerodynamic and way off-the-shoulder bustier, the Bettie Page bangs, and the cutesie-poo antennae made of God-knows-what but is probably just hair. And she's wearing a hula skirt!

So how do I butch that up?

Thanks for asking!

Starting from the top down, I had a heck of a time figuring out what to do with Man-Mantis' hair. I figured the hair-antennae would look manlier if they were more substantial. So I altered them into Quicksilver-style forelocks -- only longer, natch. I also gave him Ra's al Ghul's facial hair, to symbolize mandibles. I toned down the shoulders on the goofy fly-away bustier and made it into a vest. The belt and the wrist-bands were neutral enough, so I could leave those alone. The skirt is now ventilated, extremely breathable genie pants -- and not pantaloons, wiseapples! Unlike those ballooning antiquities, my Man-Mantis man-pants are tailored to gently hug the crotch and buttocks areas. It's only below those parts that they flair out, open up, and do their funky thing. Due to the shape of the pants, I had to change the ankle bands a little. So I inverted them. That's all. Simple, see?

I think it works okay. I'd never give one of my paying clients "hair antennae" or a vertically bisected yellow-and-green vest. Or that belt! But they were key elements of the original design and I felt I had to honor that. Man-Mantis would fit right in with 1970's sock-choppy heroes like Shang-Chi and Iron Fist. Right away I can envision a book-length novel where the three of them team up and go to town on a bunch of bad guys, and that part would be over with in about three pages, and the rest of it would just be them relaxing in one of those Japanese communal baths, talking about foot lotions.

I mean, I'd buy it.

Previous Gender Reassignment Challenges:

• Saturn Girl
• Scarlet Witch
• Looker (and a slight revision)
• Storm
• Marvel Girl
• Black Canary
• Phantom Lady
• Snowbird
• Dazzler

Next week: Rescue Me: Titania! But before that is April Fool's Day. I certainly hope nothing untoward happens to my blog.

Bonus Post: My New Swim Trunks are No Merry Marvel

Next week's post will be on Tuesday instead of Monday, so I'm giving you all an extra, early post this week. After all, it's the polite thing to do.

Don't you just hate it when this sort of thing happens?

Still confused? It's a long story, but here goes. Remember when I said Weight Wizard had faked his death again? Well, I tracked him down to the space spa on the light side of the moon, where he'd finagled a job operating the cellular trim ray. His name tag said "Lorenzo LaFontaine" but I could tell it was him, even behind the eyepatch and the cheesy fake mustache. Well, the first thing I did was to rip that mustache right off his face, and that's when I saw that it wasn't fake, and after he stopped screaming and we got most of the blood sopped up, I hustled his sorry ass out of there and we had a man-on-top-of-man talk. Weight Wizard confessed that he'd faked his death this time not because he had fallen out of love with me, but because he'd developed a hopeless shopping addiction and he was up to his eyeballs in debt. (I'd wondered how he'd been able to afford all the crap he was always hauling back to our swing-a-delic pad, like the fossilized brain-globe and the radio-controlled saucer made of real spectrium and the kangobronc-skin pants and the android replica of Noel Coward. Turns out he couldn't!)

Since the sweet l'il degenerate couldn't help himself, I forcibly enrolled him into a five-step program. I suppose I should explain here that the decisive disproval of the existance of God back in 2737 (Haw! Eat it, Immanuel Kant! Also, I suppose I should have prefaced this with a "spoiler alert.") knocked seven steps out of most addiction-recovery programs. It's a real time-saver! The only downside is that when you die, you're swallowed by a black nothingness. I hope you're all okay with that. Aaannyway, on one of my conjugal visits to the treatment center, Weight Wizard gave me these really cool-looking swimtrunks he'd made for me in metal shop. They're based on a costume I had designed for Lightning Lad (but which he was too chickenshit to wear) and they had this nifty gold-plated codpiece deal. They were pretty snazzy, and they fit like a glove.

So I decided to show off my new togs down at ritzy California Island (located some ways off the coast of Nevada) and I don't mind telling you I was getting a lot of envious looks! Sure, I had to wear a shirt because I'm prohibited by Presidential decree from entering the water with a bare torso -- all the back hair I shed when I swim forms this Sargasso-Sea-like mass and it traps dolphins and sea turtles, not to mention the occasional Olympic swimmer -- but I still cut a fine figure if I do say so myself. I was having a space whale of a time flirting with this brutally handsome lifeguard when suddenly, out of a clear blue sky, a ginormous lightning bolt zapped me right in the crotch! YEEOW!!! Not only did it sting like a mo-fo, but it seared my junk clean off!

You heard me.

Luckily, like all the men of my home planet of Amadus, testosterone is generated by pretty much every cell of my body. So I'm as manly and hairy as ever. More so, actually, since my body's overcompensating for the loss of my "stuff." Anyhow, at the hospital they fitted me with a hydraulic prosthesis. It's cutting-edge technology, studded with vacuum tubes, and you can program its action with a punch card, and to get it started you just pull a little lever on the side, like on a slot machine. Oh, and I can't forget to replenish the oil reservoir every three hours or so, or else it starts smoking like a son of a bitch. Still, I'm a little bummed about having a robotic dingus. I mean, first my pinky toe and now this! Sizzling comets, at this rate I'll wind up looking like Tharok before I'm thirty!

Now, where was I--? Ah, yes. My hospital visit. While the brawny physician's assistant was spending a suspiciously long amount of time adjusting my prosthesis, the doctor held up a still-smoldering scrap of metal from the trunks' codpiece and said, "Why in space would a smart young man like you go to the beach with duralim swim trunks?"

I believe my exact reply was something along the lines of "You have got to f***ing kidding me."

I don't know why Weight Wizard acts out like this. It's like he wants me to be filled with rage. Or maybe he's still harboring some resentment about my putting him in that program, or maybe he's bitter because he'll never be able to grow another mustache, ever, ever again. Yeah, probably that last thing. Well, the two of us are going to have another "talk" when I see him again -- a good, long, painful, debilitating "talk." (I'll let you all know if there's anything left of him.)

Next Tuesday: Gender Reassignment Challenge: Mantis!