Battle Hymn of the Exquisite

Hello, blog lovers!

There was an... incident earlier this morning. I'm not sure if I'm ready to post anything about it yet.

...Okay, now I am.

The solar collectors are complete and fully-functional, so now all we have to do is wait for them to charge up, which will take a few days. Weight Wizard wanted to turn in, but the rest of the crew thought a celebration was in order. That's when Storm Boy revealed his "surprise" for me. It turned out to be something he called "An All-Star Tribute to Blockade Boy Featuring Storm Boy With Special Guests Rainbow Girl and Tusker." Which was a fancy way of saying the three of them had worked out a marching band routine in my honor! And I know how much Storm Boy hates marching, so my mighty heart was moved in a wondrous manner.

Rainbow Girl played her fife, and Tusker struggled along as best he could on that ocarina I gave him, and Storm Boy... well, I'm not sure when he even found the time to construct the damn thing, but he was playing an instrument of his own design, a perfectly ghastly-looking object he had dubbed an Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone. It combines the features of a Sousaphone, a saxophone, a timpani drum, and a trombone. And when he operated it, Storm Boy looked like he was simultaneously pleasuring and being crushed by something from an H.R. Giger painting. As near as I can tell he had pre-programmed it with tunes so it was closer to a barrel organ than something you'd see in an orchestra. Cootie was so alarmed by its noise that she scrambled for the lower decks after the first note. I wasn't familiar with any of the songs they played. After the incident I demanded he tell me the titles for all of them and then I also made him show me the sheet music so I could read the lyrics.

It explained a lot.

They started out with "Toxic" by Britney Spears, then segued into "Ain't No Other Man" by Christina Aguilera. I didn't know any better at the time, so I just sat in the reviewing stand (i.e. a folding chair) smiling and holding on to Weight Wizard's increasingly slippery, fidgety hand. Storm Boy and the others stomped merrily around the deck and even made a pass under the big dome in a nod to our temporarily-petrified figurehead, Plant Lad, who is several decks up and strapped to the "prow" in the unforgiving vacuum of space. They had made it halfway through Kylie Minogue's "Come Into My World" when Weight Wizard wrenched himself free of my grasp. "This is bullshit," he hissed at me. "How much longer are you gonna make me sit here and listen to this no-talent fat-ass suck-up and his loser brigade?"

"Easy on the hyphenated insults, kid," I chuckled. I tried to grasp his hand again but he yanked it away. I glanced over at Storm Boy. His face was crimson. He held up his right hand in some kind of signal and his confused bandmates suddenly started in on a new tune, which I later found out was something called "Girlfriend" by one of Canada's most revered prime ministers, Brigadier-General Avrile Levigne-Thicke. Weight Wizard stood there with his back ramrod-straight and his arms folded, scowling at Storm Boy. For his part, Storm Boy marched with great intensity in a circle around him, dipping the bell of his Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone ever-closer to Weight Wizard's face.

"Light," spat Weight Wizard, contemptuously. He leaped almost to the top of the dome. Then he shouted "Heavy!" and he came down like a cannonball on top of Weight Wizard, smashing the Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone and not-so-coincidentally breaking Storm Boy's arm. Then it was on. The two of them started brawling, with Storm Boy getting a couple of rabbit punches in on Weight Wizard with his good arm, Weight Wizard unleashing some impressive karate moves on Storm Boy, and Tusker whaling on the both of them for no discernible reason and with a goofy grin on his face. Rainbow Girl, bless 'er, split into her energy forms and did her best to pull everybody apart. But Weight Wizard was so light and so slick with perspiration that she couldn't get a proper grip on him. I threw myself off my chair and propelled myself across the deck just using my arms, like Ursula in "The Little Mermaid" and the next time Weight Wizard bounced into the deck I snagged his foot, pulled him down, and threw my body on top of his so he couldn't get away. Storm Boy used this as an opportunity to kick him in the arm before Rainbow Girl zapped him with an enervating ray and he crumpled to the deck himself.

Meanwhile, Weight Wizard frothily screamed at me to get off of him, getting spit all over my rugged, handsome face. As I roared back at him to calm down I was overcome by vertigo. My voice went strangely flat and buzzy, my arms lost all feeling, and the two of us suddenly shot up into the air. He deftly rolled my body off of his own. I slammed into the deck. I could see Weight Wizard moonwalk-bouncing off to God-knows-where. Rainbow Girl and Tusker rushed over to me. I could tell by the looks on their faces that it was bad. "It happened again, didn't it?" I buzzed.

And sure enough, it had. My body is now almost totally metal, except for a few fleshy parts inside my skull. Everything else is hollow. Since my hands are useless and I'm not about to put any art supplies in my mouth I had to ask Storm Boy to do a rendering of my current state. Yes, I know. Don't start with me.

I haven't seen it yet. Let's discover it together!

Sweet fancy Moses!

I'm pretty sure I have never adopted that pose in my entire freaking life. (Although you just know Storm Boy does, whenever he needs to hitch a ride or score a free pastry or whatever.) Ugh. Of course, I can't stand up at all now but if I could? I wouldn't do it like that. The picture also makes me look a bit too curvaceous and Art Nouveau for my tastes, but otherwise it's a fair likeness.

I don't know what will happen if (or when) the last of me disappears and the only thing left is this shell of steel. I might be like Plant Lad, frozen solid with my eyes wide open. I wonder... is his mind frozen, too? I know he gets stupider as his whole body slows down in preparation for dormancy, but maybe his brain never completely shuts off... maybe he sees everything and hears everything but it just takes him a long time to process it all. It's a mystery. There are nights when Rainbow Girl is at the wheel and everybody else is asleep, and I pace the deck by myself, looking up through the dome at Plant Lad, and he looks down at me with that glum, sleepy-eyed stare. (Which I sketched a while back. See?)

Maybe he knows exactly what's going on and he's inwardly pissed, and there's nothing he can do to stop it... I hope that's not how it will be for me.

But you know what? I didn't get as far as I have by being a pessimist. I've rebounded from fates as bad... well, almost as bad as this. I refuse to worry about what's to come. And I've got a crew to take care of, so I'm going to focus on that. Okay, enough philosophical claptrap. Back to my narrative! *Portentiously intones* EPILOGUE!

Rainbow Girl helped me into sickbay. I had a heart-to-heart with Storm Boy (the poor sweet dope) where I explained in no uncertain terms that I Just Wasn't Into Him. I think he understands now. Tusker got a stern lecture about Minding His Own Freaking Business and I pointed out that if we weren't in such dire straits he'd be cooling his heels in the brig right now. Then Rainbow Girl and I sat down with some coffee (that sloshed down my throat into the bottom of my hollow feet) and we went through my big catalog of Commendation Medals and picked out an especially nice one for her. (She's also typing all of this for me, which is swell of her as I'm sure she'd rather be in bed.) [Too true! -- Rainbow Girl]

Weight Wizard isn't talking to me, or to anybody else. I know this is hard. It's usually me taking care of him. Maybe I've babied him too much, and that's why he's so stressed-out now. But I'm sure he'll come around. And anyway, with the raucous life I lead there very well might come a day where I have a permanent injury and I'll have to rely on him as my Primary Caregiver. So this is good practice for him. Once he gets over this initial bout of shock and denial, I'm sure he'll be fine. Because I'm an optimist, and I have faith in the little guy.

Everything will be fine.

You'll see.

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."

Nineteen Years Later...

Ahoy from the year 2987! This be yer ol' brother-in-bloggin', Blockade Boy... or as I'm called now, Brigadier Blockade, the most fashionable space pirate in all the Seven Galaxies! But perhaps ye know me by one o' me other aliases, such as Blockade Brigand, Purplebeard, the Closet Raider, or Three-Legged Phyl. YAARRRGH!

Ah, but me starsalt-crusted ears can hear ye askin', "By Satan's compass, boyo, how did ye come to such a pass?" Then gather 'round, lads and lassies, for I've a tale to chill the very marrow in yer bones! But first, allow me to adjust the dial on me accursed cybernetic throat from "Pirate" to "Drinking Buddy." *click* Yeah, that's better.

Sorry about all that yo-ho-ho crap, but it's all part of the job. Hoo-boy! I've got a lot to explain, don't I? For starters, I'd like to point out that even though it's been nineteen years since my last post, I'm still in my early twenties. My secret? No, it's not a miracle anti-aging cream. It's this era's kooky sliding timeline! Remember how dorky all the Legionnaire's costumes looked, way back in 2068? Lightning lad with the big orange diapers and Colossal Boy's "Some People Call Me a Space Cowboy" get-up? That now occurred in 2084. Thanks to all my time travel and dimension-hopping, I'm the only one here who notices that the years keep hurtling forward at an alarming rate while everybody and everything stays pretty much the same. Oh! Also? I spied on some other Legion-era timelines and it looks like my dimension dodged a real bullet! I guess back in 1986 the whole multiverse was threatened with destruction and in one of those timelines it actually got all blowed up, leaving just one version of Earth! Not in my dimension, though. For instance, Superboy's still around! And Supergirl! We can't seem to get rid of them, actually! They're like the sexless squares you invite to a party just to be nice and then it's 4 AM and they're the last two guests at your pad and even though you're busy cleaning up they're just sitting on their asses talking about some boring nerd shit and then they wanna play Spaceopoly for Chrissakes and you really have no choice but to hoist them up by their scrawny nerd necks and boot their asses out the door.

Oh, and just the other day the Legion teamed up with both Earth-2 and Earth-S versions of themselves against Earth-3's Crime Legion. Fun fact: my Earth-S counterpart is a two-fisted crime buster who can turn into a moderately-sized ambulatory steel wall! And for some reason he just won't stop smiling which is a little creepy. He's still damn good lookin', though. Anyhow, to bottom-line it, a whole ton of depressing nonsense won't happen in my dimension! And thank God! 'Cause really, I'd rather not have to see:

• Mordru take over the universe
• Earth's moon get blown to bits
• the Earth itself get blown to bits (Jesus! Enough already!)
• Timber Wolf's nose vanish without a trace
• Dawnstar's gorgeous wings get amputated
• Shrinking Violet -- well, actually, I never gave a flying fuck about Shrinking Violet
• the typical Legion mission consisting mainly of wearing puffy jackets and standing around in a pile of rubble, looking depressed

The only downside? I'm a space pirate.

Woo! Check me out! I ain't wearin' no pants, y'all! But shhh! That'll be just between us. For modesty's sake, I've covered my robo-dingus with a magnetic codpiece. I mean, I'm not a pervert.

It wasn't my first choice, I'll tell you that. But my clothing line went belly-up. (Apparently most men don't want shirts with cut-outs for their nipples.) I was looking at bankruptcy! Then I heard about this United Planets program that was giving out grants to aspiring space pirates, and the only requirement was to be missing a certain percentage of body parts. And everything below my waistline is cybernetic, so I was a shoo-in. What's that--? You look shocked and appalled. Feh! Whatever. Get used to it. And I wish I had some kind of heroic, self-sacrificing tale about how it happened but to be perfectly honest I caught a techno-organic virus from a toilet seat at a rest stop. The pernicious germ latched onto my robo-dingus and really went to town! The cybernetic voicebox implant was a mandatory surgery I had for the job. And here I am, sailing the solar winds in my ship, the H.M.S. Exquisite. I raid fabric warehouses and shoe stores, and I track down unfashionable people and forcibly make them over. It's kind of like that show "What Not to Wear", only with more gunfire. And if I happen to destroy the occasional Khundian trading vessel, well, the U.P. gives me a bonus check!

I've got a terrific crew! Weight Wizard is my cabin boy, of course, and might I add that it's nice having him trapped on a spaceship where I can keep my eyes on him. Rainbow Girl is my gun-toting sexpot second-in-command. Tusker is the big stupid muscle who doesn't talk -- mainly because I told him "shut up" so many times he's afraid to even open his mouth -- for anything... for reals, he takes all his meals intravenously. And of course, my dear friend Storm Boy is here. Ol' Stormy's been kind of a downward spiral since his nervous breakdown back in '85... or was it '77? Or '71? Damn sliding timeline! But my point is, he's in an even worse financial state than I am. And it doesn't help that he's been hitting the space-wine pretty hard lately. That's why I mainly keep him down in the ship's cargo hold, guarding all the crates of buttons, notions and assorted frippery. Still, a job's a job, right?

And for those of you who are just completely losing your shit at these developments, might I respectfully suggest you calm the fuck down. This too shall pass. Trust me. Since the last time we talked, I've been turned into a Balinese shadow puppet, the abominable snowman, a voodoo doll, a merman (fish part on top), a living butter sculpture, a locomotive, and a caterpillar with my head on it. Oh, and once I was split into two different beings, Blockade Boy Orange and Blockade Boy Purple. And if you'll recall, even before I returned to the 30th Century I was turned into a packet of artificially flavored drink mix, a baboon and a wolfman. It never lasts. So cool it. Now if you'll excuse me... *click*

Batten yer hatches, me hearties, for I've a timber-shiverin' tale to tell ye! 'Tis all about me sartorial victory o'er the pernicious Starfinger!

(He be not near that size, by the by.) *clears robotic throat, which produces the sound of static* Me intrepid band infiltrated Starfinger's lair under cover of a cosmic storm and surprised the tacky mongrel whilst he was takin' a bubble bath. Afore he could call upon his she-devils, Starlight and Starbright, we yanked the rings from his soapy fingers and shanghaied his arse back to our ship. Into the irons he went! "Do with me what ye will," he spat. "I'll never cede ye control o' me empire o' crime!"

Me recently glossed lips parted in a smile. "'Tis not yer empire I'm lookin' to control, young feller me lad. 'Tis yer wardrobe!" I whistled, and Tusker's mighty form appeared in the doorway, brandishing a measuring tape. I placed me manicured hands 'pon Starfinger's throat. For the first time in me imposing presence, Starfinger's imperious face registered true fear. "Tusker!" I growled. "Start with his inseam."

I'll spare ye the grisly details of what occurred in the brig that grim night. I'd sooner talk o' why ol' Brigadier Blockade and his stylish band chose Starfinger for a makeover. 'Tis but a simple matter! His powers and the basic idea o' his costume intrigue me fevered brain with their potential. But to this weary seadog, in execution Starfinger is a "hot mess" (as we space pirates say). The pointy cape, the pointy loincloth, the yellow-and-red star theme that uncannily mimics the flag o' the People's Republic o' Mexico (er, has that happened yet, back in yer backwards era? No, ye say? Er, oops.) -- the whole lot o' it we pitched off the starboard bow. A new costume was in the cards for Starfinger!

Seein' as how Starfinger is a crimelord and all, I decided to attire him along the lines o' an ancient Oriental Earth Potentate. This called fer voluminous trousers, pointed slippers, and a heavy robe -- open at the front, as that's me signature style! But 'twas to be no turban, mind ye. That would've made the whole thing "camp." And this spacefarin', purple-bearded, half-mechanical pirate fashion designer will darn socks in hell afore he goes camp! A turban--! Bah! The very idea of it--! Starfinger's energy bubble helmet dealie be his turban, do ye not see, ye blasted idjit?! To give Starfinger's head a more interestin' silhouette, I forced 'im to grow out his hair and beard, and to gel it up into pointed, star-like shapes. Fer jewelry, I gave 'im a king-sized waterfall necklace just drippin' with bling, and a forehead piercin' with a mammoth star. After untold months (durin' which the crew o' the Exquisite and meself had countless adventures and isolated incidents o' daring-do) the project was at last complete! I led Starfinger in front o' me finest full-length mirror, slapped 'im on the back, and said, "Now then, boyo, ain't that better than the way ye used to look?"

Still confounded by the fact I'd not killed 'im yet, Starfinger shrugged and replied, "'Tis okay, one supposes."

"Alrighty then!" I cried. And while I roared with a pirate's savage laughter, Tusker and Weight Wizard whisked Starfinger away, into an escape pod programmed to rocket him right back to where we'd found 'im.

Ah, 'tis a fine thing to be a pirate! YAARRRGH!

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!

"Big Monkey" Business

My pal Scipio has a cool new venture with Big Monkey Comics, a one-stop shop for all your comics needs! You can get comics, cool tie-in merchandise, peruse the latest comics news and make your voice heard on the forums. It's pretty damned nifty already, and it promises to get even niftier. Check it out!

And in honor of Big Monkey, I want to relate my own "big monkey" experience. First off, I want to say that I should probably just stay the hell away from Central City, after the whole Abra Kadabra/Safeway incident and now this. So anyway, I was touring the Flash Museum. (I had to evade multiple security measures to get inside at 11 PM on a Sunday, but what can I say? I hate crowds.) I headed straight for the display of Flash's Rogues and got a deep, booming laugh from all the "fashion don'ts." Next thing I know, Gorilla Grodd smashed through a wall, in search of some weapon in the museum's collection. (And yes, wiseasses,I know gorillas aren't monkeys. Shut your pieholes for ten seconds and let me finish talking.) I flung off my $400 Kenneth Cole peacoat, revealing my kick-ass superhero togs, and shouted, "Stop, in the name of--" and then Grodd nailed me with a weird-looking raygun, and then this happened.

Say hello to Blockade Baboon. (Baboons are monkeys, see?) I think you have to admit that even with a prehensile tail, I was still pretty stylin'. I started hurling things at Grodd, like the replica weaponry on the Rogue mannequins. And the replicas were all fully functional. (When it comes to safety, those Central City folk... well, let's just say they're not the sharpest knives in the drawer.) So, I started battering Grodd left and right with electro-shock boomerangs and exploding yoyos, and every time he came after me, I just leaped nimbly out of the way or turned myself into a monkey-sized steel wall. As for Grodd's "mind powers," well what do you think the yellow things on my costume are for? Snacks? Okay, they're for snacks too, but mainly they're mental deflectors that bathe my whole nervous system in a warm, comforting blanket of anti-psychic energy. Plus the ones on my shoulders can each hold, like, three Milky Way bars. But I digress. I finally managed to take Grodd down with Heat Wave's flame pistol, but my monkey fingers couldn't work it exactly right. I was trying for "lightly toasted" but I ended up with "charbroiled." The smell of burnt gorilla dingleberries... not pleasant! I'd stopped Grodd, but his monkey raygun didn't have a reverse setting. (And frankly, why would it have?) And I couldn't talk, or even write legibly! When the Elongated Man showed up, I had to work my baboon ass off to seem adorable as freaking possible, just so he'd take me home with him instead of sending me to a zoo or an animal shelter. Three long, grueling months later, he and his wife took me with them on one of their interminable road trips, I got my monkey hands on a wish-granting Navajo totem, and ker-POW! So long, suckers! There's just one thing, though...

You know how when somebody loses a hand or a foot, they can still feel phantom pains? Sometimes... I can still feel that tail. [shudders]

"I've Got The Strangest Feeling I'm Being Turned Into A Packet Of Artificially Flavored Drink Mix!"

Have I ever mentioned the time back in '74 when I was in the Central City Safeway and my shopping cart accidentally bumped into Abra Kadabra's?

Why he couldn't have made my flavor "Blockade Boysenberry" is just beyond me.

(And be sure to visit the Imaginary World for more groovy drink packets!)