Doctor Tectonic

Here's fellow blogger Doctor Tectonic, in a little ensemble designed by yours truly. See? I can do formal wear! This is the picture I did in exchange for using the Doctor's tattoo ideas. It depicts the Doctor in a classy outfit of trousers, vest, top hat, and exoskeleton control harness. I wore something similar to court when I had to contest a hoverbike speeding ticket. I was forcibly ejected from the proceedings when I threatened to "destroy [them] all." Er, oops.

Doctor Tectonic is a steampunk-styled genius inventor, who owns both an earthquake cannon and a battlesuit, the latter of which I'm told resembles an egg with a handlebar mustache. Not that there's anything wrong with that. His otherdimensional alter-ego, Seth McGinnis, has the Doctor's glorious facial hair and goggles, but not the cannon or battlesuit. Which is kind of lame. Gee, I'm glad I don't have an otherdimensional alter-ego! (Jeremy who--?)

So, Who Brought the Pig's Blood...?

That's what all the closet-cases say, Brown.

Bad Apple Boy

This muscle-headed goober is Si Las, codenamed "Bad Apple Boy." He's one of the new detectives at the Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency Featuring Blockade Boy, and I can't stand his phony ass. I hate his smooth, hairless body, which he likes to smear with baby lotion and potting soil. I hate his goofy Chia Pet soul patch. I hate his stupid sideways moopsball cap. I hate his two-tone footie-overalls, and his synth-rubber wristband that reads "LIVE WRONG", and how he wears the damn thing on the same arm as his dumb frowny-face apple tattoo, instead of wearing it on the opposite arm to provide visual balance, like any sensible person would. I hate how that whiskey-rough baritone voice he likes to use is a total put-on, as evidenced by the time I caught him talking to his brother on his Omnicom and he sounded like Mike Tyson. I hate how he goes on and one about how he's from Rimbor (the Toughest Planet in the Universe) but if you read his personnel file, it states quite clearly that his family moved away from there when he was like, two months old, and he spent most of his life on an agricultural satellite, and the only time he got into trouble with the law was when he threw a stink-bomb into a restaurant full of hyper-chicken farmers, on a dare. From his frat. GAH.

Okay, okay, so that's a lot of bile. I have to work with this tool, so I might as well remind myself of his good qualities! He, um, well...

...I got nothin'.

Belly Shirt State Penitentiary

Let's go-go to prison!

Here's the Dazzler, from issue number 13 of her own comic (March, 1982), bralessly fighting for her very life against the Grapplers! Not to be confused with the Gropers, whom I'm pretty sure are Chuck Austen characters. And this titanic tussle takes place in Ryker's Island! ("I've read about that place", Dazzler exclaims to her permed-and-mustachioed lawyer. "It's a JUNGLE!" No, dear. It's a prison.)

Now, you might assume from the tomato-red hue of Dazzler's top (with matching clam-diggers, and I apologize for how dirty that sounds) that she's wearing an actual prison uniform, and maybe she found the time to alter it into something trashier, and also she removed the numeric I.D. patch, and really that's an awful bunch of assuming, and I have to wonder at this elaborate dream-world you've created for yourself.

But NO.

In fact, HELL NO, because these are the Dazzler's own clothes. See, the Dazzler apparently decided that this flimsy get-up -- sans bra! -- would be just the thing to wear to a rough 'n' tumble prison! Criminy. And yet, it's far from the most salacious ensemble worn by a female prisoner there! Let's flash back to a few pages earlier, when the Dazzler is unceremoniously dragged onto what appears to be the set of a Jim McMahon courtroom drama:

Yes, in 20th-century American prisons, the inmates just saunter around in their undergarments. ...DAMN IT! How come I never was told this? I could have volunteered to teach some brawny, nearly-nude he-hoodlums how to read, or some shit. And then somebody would have made an inspirational movie about me. For Colt Studios. ...Wow, my whole life could have been different. Holy BALLS!

Like "Frogger", But HOT!

Wait, so you can't navigate a log in high heels? It's not a problem for any of the lumberjacks I know. (And if their socks get all squishy, it ain't from water.)

My jaded brain is boggling from the idea that her "best dress" is this limp, feces-brown, matronly "wrap" number. Seriously, what are the runners-up? A macramé ballgown? A cheesecloth trapeze dress? Two milk caps and a whisk broom? A sock in the jaw? For realsies, I just can't picture it!

Robotic Gesture Theater Presents!

Forget that goateed heel, honey; he just got a job working in a Tom of Finland comic. (Seriously, why else would he leave a sexy manikin like her? She has twenty-two points of articulation!)

Bonus: Remember when those kinds of lapels were found in places other than clown costumes? ...Yeah, me neither.

I'm Evidently a Dreamboat

Say, who's this handsome devil?

Why, it's none other than me, as envisioned by fellow blogger (and arch-villain) Captain Koma, over in the Heroes United forums! It's stunning, no? I'm not currently in the market for a new costume, Captain, but if I ever turn to the dark side -- and contract conjuctivitis -- I'll definitely consider this look! Hot damn but I'd look fetching! Observe, if you will, the lush red beard, the dashing eye-patch, the marvelously masculine segmented shoulder-pads! I'm a hunk! I mean, I'd jump this guy's bones in a nano-second! And he's me! ...Okay, so that image is a trifle too "out there" even for yours truly.

My apologies.

Well, this is as good a time as any to give you all a little flavor of my life as it stands right now. My massive, rampant, uncut celebrity is starting to sag a little. I no longer get mobbed by hoards of nearly-naked hover-bikers. Dang it. Still, I have enough clout that I worked out a deal with my good friend Eyeful Ethel: to help restore confidence in her stockholders, her company is now officially called "The Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency, Featuring Blockade Boy." I don't think she resents it too much.

Ethel tried to lure Dentata Damsel away from that voiceover gig she'd taken with Paramount-Universo. It turned out that the folks at Paramount-Universo had never even heard of Dentata Damsel. We later discovered, she'd been living with Tusker in some twisted "Beauty and the Beast" (TV show) scenario, and, in her words, "platonically banging" him. They're both in counseling right now.

Still no sign of Nightmare Boy.

Ethel hired two new detectives: Compass Kid and Bad Apple Boy. The first is a mildly-powered Braalian with an uncanny sense of direction; the second is a Rimborean poseur with souped-up Chlorophyl Kid powers. (You'd be surprised how many toddlers have fallen into vats of mutagenic hydroponic solutions. It's a national tragedy!) I'll write some more about these two next week.

Storm Boy has regained some of the weight he'd lost, but it actually looks good on him. I guess it's because he's still working out. So he's kind of "husky" now. The important thing is, his upper arms are finally thicker than his forearms. Which is great, because the whole "Popeye" thing had been freaking me out.

Oh, and I still have enough name recognition (and raw, blistering sexiness) that I've been invited to enter a holo-vid reality show contest! It's sort of a biathlon, where the contestants have to master both complicated sexual positions and complicated ballroom routines. The show is called "Schtupp It Up and Dance." (And for me, the first part should be a breeze.)

Chapeau by Jiffy Pop

The last time I saw a hat like that, it adorned a "hillbilly" teddy bear at the Cracker Barrel.

Judge, Jewelry, and Executioner

Normally, I'd excoriate Judge Carter Blaire for being so snippy about his daughter's accessories. I mean, the Dazzler is a grown-ass woman; if she wants to tramp it up with glow-in-the-dark plastic crap, that's her prerogative!

But I was once sent into a sulky, weekend-long drinking spree over one of Storm Boy's belts, so I'm not about to throw stones.

Here's to Your Cramming It

Judging from the "his 'n' hers" go-go dancer costumes, I'm guessing they're on the run after cheating on Lifetime's "Your Mama Don't Dance".

You know me; I'm not a huge fan of cut-outs to begin with. I mean, I know I've used them before, but they have to be placed sparingly and strategically. And for a bent, cone-headed oldster, they should be placed nowhere. Nobody wants to see your liver-spotted love handles, Gramps. And if you wear that nutty tunic over a filmy white bodysuit (as you are in this case) it just makes it worse. Because then I'm forced to employ my imagination.

And I can imagine some pretty freaky shit.

Operation: Fascinate!

I can't tell if those things on their heads are flowers, crocheted doilies, luncheon meat, or just their brain matter bulging out of the holes in their noggins.

I also think it's telling that one of these "hats" totally effed up Mister Spock when it got stuck to his back, and yet these ladies don't even notice them. (Granted, the li'l neural parasites would have to burrow through a good eight inches of hair-do before it touched flesh.)

Beauty School Freak-Out

Man, she is really upset about her new hairstyle!

Relax, sweetheart. Okay, so it's a little on the puffy side.

...Scratch that; it's huge. And misshapen. It's the Rondo Hatton of hair! It looks like a big white hairy butt, and I cannot lie. It's so big, Night Girl's hair has just issued a public challenge. There's to be a hair fight, like with those two gals in "Uzumaki." And Night Girl's hair can kick any other hairstyle to the curb. If I were you, I'd disguise that bloated abomination with a Pucci scarf and some "Jackie O." sunglasses, and I'd hop the next freighter to Helsinki. Taking refuge beneath the midnight sun is your only hope now.

So THAT'S What Happened to My Throw Pillows

Dig those crazy shoulder pads! From her outfit, I gather she's a stripper by day, and a linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers by night. Also, she may moonlight as a hair model.

Isn't she being a bit much? (Yes. Yes, she is.) I think if you presented Joan Crawford or Krystal Carrington or even Typhoid Mary with this shoulder pad design, they'd ask you to "tone it down a tad." But just think of the storage capacity! She could pack a whole 'nother outfit in one of those puppies. (Might I suggest a tasteful pant suit?) And maybe she could use the other one for her toiletries -- including the scads of hair-care products she obviously requires. Also, a couple of spare tampons. And maybe some "Armor All."

Blockade Boy: the Michael Moore of Comic Book Bloggers

And now, two unfairly out-of-context panels from "Daredevil" #154 (September, 1978):

FIRE MAN-BOOB MISSILES!

Best. Sound effect. EVER.

Stop reading now, if you don't want the context explained.

Seriously, stop.

Okay, you've been warned!

In the first panel, the Paladin's chest-armor is absorbing the impact of missiles fired at him by the Cobra.

In the second, the Purple Man's last word of dialog gets lettered as a BIG SCREAM! So big, it's popped the word balloon!

...I like my versions better.

Mackinaw the Knife

DUDE. Go easy on the starch next time! I'm pretty sure you could use your lapel to slice a potato.

J'onn J'onzz, Playa From Mars

The Martian Manhunter's "bachelor capsule" is in a geosynchronous orbit, and is equipped with all the latest alien-babe-snagging devices. There's the Living Loveseat, which contracts into a tulip shape when triggered by certain pheremones; the chlorine-fog machine (an aphrodisiac for many species; pure poison for others, so choose wisely); and, of course, the vibrating pillow with blinking hypno-light button.

The belly-baring gal hopes to get J'onn to play "policeman" with her, since she wants him to yell "Hands up!" and she's not wearing a bra. (Also note how the arrow on her belt buckle subtly points to the location of her unearthly genitalia.)

In a Single Binding

Spawn called; he wants his cape back.

...And yes, all you "Superman scholars" (bless your Cheeto-clogged hearts!), I know that it was "canon" for Kal-El's cape to possess elastic properties. For example, he used to muffle explosions with it. But this nonsense belongs in the "trap villains under a rapidly-expanding S-shield" category of inane powers that briefly materialize because the writer is bored and/or high.

Also, you'll note that although the Legion Rejects are all being crushed to death, they're drawn by a young Mike Grell, so their legs are still in that wide-open stance favored by baseball pitchers and the cast of "The Hills."

Whatever It Is I Think I See

Lately, I have suffered from a mysterious eye condition, much like that suffered by the waif in a certain 20th century ballad. I can't recall the name of the tune, but I do know that the youngster was stricken with madness, such that any cylindrical object in his field of vision was seemingly transmogrified into toffee candy. Only with me? It ain't candy.

Whatever I've got, I hope it wears off soon.

(Just not too soon. Heh-heh.)

Museum of Modern Smut

Well, HELL NO, that ain't a painting of a finger.

...Aw, don't be such a prude. My own magnificent member has been painted on countless occasions! Also, somebody once did a portrait of it. *rimshot*

Daimon Hellstrom: Cabana Boy!

The second circle of Hell is really quite pleasant, once the wind dies down.