- "Repairing the Hubble"
- "One giant leap for my manhood"
- "Doin' it Dalek-style"
- "Jettisoning the booster rocket"
- "Going supernova" (wait a minute--! That's actually one of the Human Torch's euphamisms. My apologies.)
- Crashing the moon rover"
- "Opening the pod bay doors"
- "Checking for Tribbles"
- "Penetrating the wormhole"
- "Clearing the launchpad"
- "Tang" (just "Tang")
- "Shootin' Greedo"
- "Testing the effects of radiation on bean plants on behalf of a sixth grade science class" (yeah, I don't get that one either) Aaaand, of course...
- "The Big Bang"
Friday, January 26, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Suyan's breasts: Oh! Well, thank you, young man! And we're sure that you're only saying that to be polite. As a gay man, you probably never looked at a pair of breasts in your life.
BB: It helps if they're not attached to anything. Now, I'm sure my readers are eager to know... how did you get along with your "co-star" Suyan?
SB: Suyan was a great gal. We've know so many breasts in my life whose companions smothered them under layers of polyester or cashmere. Suyan almost always wore silk, which was very comfortable for us, and she often wore dresses with a "keyhole" cut-out that allowed us to see what was going on.
BB: What led the three of you to part ways?
SB: It was just time, y'know? We'd kept her company since she was twelve years old. And once she hit her fifties, it just became impractical for her to be lugging us around all the time. We think she felt that we were getting in her way. She was always fiddling with us, moving us around like we were bothering her. If you ask us, the problem was that she was starting to put on some weight. Those silk dresses began to get awfully constricting. we could tell it was time for us to part when she put on her first muumuu. Don't get us wrong -- it was nice to be able to breathe again, but we'd always sworn we wouldn't be caught dead in one of those things. Plus? We couldn't see a damn thing! We sat her down for a heart-to-heart talk and we agreed that it would be best if we went our own ways.
BB: What's your life like now?
SB: It's not as exciting as when we were dodging ray gun fire or bobbing atop exotic seas, but we try to stay active. We volunteer at the local suicide hotline, we sign autographs at comic book conventions, and... what else? Oh! Every Thursday we play Mahjong with Nancy Drew's hair, Sue Dibny's brain, and Pussy Galore's clitoris. Oh, hey! Here's a fun fact: according to Pussy Galore's clitoris, James Bond was actually a total gentleman. He never once laid a hand on it.
BB: Speaking of romance, would you care to comment on any of your old boyfriends?
SB: Goodness, you don't hold back, do you? I suppose enough time has passed it couldn't do any harm. The great loves of our lives were Jimmy Woo's hands. They were so sensitive and warm. If we were sad, those hands could make us sit up and say "Wow! It's a great day!"
BB: It's been rumored you had a fling with Marvel Boy's left hand. Is that true?
SB: Not exactly. I was just his thumb and his index finger.
BB: Any others you'd like to mention?
SB: Gosh... I suppose Gorilla-Man's muttonchops... and his tongue. President Eisenhower's forehead. Oh, and we had a platonic thing going on with the Great Video's eyeballs. Boy, I haven't thought about those times in forever! Golly. I-- I don't think I can continue right now. I'm feeling very emotional.
BB: So I see! In that case, I'll let you off the hook, Suyan's breasts. I've had a great time talking with you. On behalf of my readers, thank you very much.
SB: Thank you.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Greetings, denizens of the internet! I am the Empathoid, a being from a far-flung dimension, with a mind one thousand times more receptive to emotional activity than yours could ever be, and a bodyily consistency certain superheroes have compared to "Silly Putty." All shall bare their souls to the Empathoid! No, for reals. I'm not shitting around, here. You... yes you! The one in the XXL "Red Sonja" t-shirt! I sense within you doubt and suspicion. And gas. But mostly doubt and suspicion. Then behold! In the mere seconds it took you to read this paragraph, I have already garnered a sack full of letters from across the Marvelverse! Let us peruse one right now!
I lost a good friend while serving in World War 2. I still think about him every day. A while back I made a copy of his
Dear Steve R.,
Whoo boy! That's kinda creepy. I really don't know what to say here. I wish I could help you but I can't.
Okay, so that one threw me. A mere fluke, I assure you. Let's read another one.
I am the headmaster at a prestigious private school in New England. For many years now I have had a crush on one of my students. Although we work together every day and she's
Dear Charles X.,
Go for it, dude! What's the worst that could happen?
Okay, now I'm just stirring shit for the hell of it. Have I mentioned that I thrive on human emotion? I actually eat the stuff -- the more screwed-up the mind, the better! It's-- how can I explain this so you'll understand? Ah! It's like when you-- yes, you in North Carolina with the scrubbly sideburns and the lip ring and the "Deadpool" tattoo -- it's like when you order a large Meatlover's Pizza even though your parents are out of town and you're the only one in the house and you wolf the whole thing down in one sitting. Okay, so your stomach cramps up pretty much immediately and the sodium give you heart palpitations and your stools are all screwed up for like a week but it's so damned good. It's kinda like that.
Here, let me try one more. I'll get the hang of this, I swear. No mere letter shall defeat the Empathoid! *laughs maniacally*
Since time immemorial, mine father hast had it in for me. Many are the grievous punishments he hast inflicted upon mine godly form, and countless be the moments in which I had no greater wish than to tell him "Lay the fuck OFF me, old man!" Yet always have I held mine tongue. For know ye this: his punishments are MOST UNJUST and are doled out, to my eyes, AT RANDOM. My heart is heavy indeed. I feel within my soul a fearful rage that, should it explode, might break fabled Bifrost in twain! The only thing staying my anger is the faint hope that I might replace him in his seat of power. Otherwise, I would be SO out of there. Verily, this is a vexing problem. What say you, Empathoid?
The Mighty T.
Dear The Mighty T.,
You clearly live in a dysfunctional home. You need to get out of there, A.S.A.P., and start living your own life! What's the worst your father could do to you? Call the cops? (Er, you are over eighteen, right?) And if you ever get your hands on the Living Eraser's dimension-spanning palm-bands, be sure to pay me a visit! Your anxiety sounds delicious!
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
One masturbatory fugue state later, the suit is almost complete! But reality presses its sandpapery elbow into his windpipe with a phone call...
Spider-Man looks at the various rubber pieces piled in front of him and realizes he needs a way to assemble them. Electro would burn right through any thread he has on hand. A wave of panic passes through him. He ruined his beloved rubber air-mattress for nothing! His hand falls upon a tube of airplane glue. Of course! That always helps him to calm down. He takes a good strong whiff and, dizzy from the fumes, collapses to the floor. The tube falls from his hand and bounces onto one of the rubber gloves. "Aw, hellllll..." Spider-Man slurs. He stares at it for nearly five minutes before rousing himself. He picks up the tube. The glove comes with it. Spider-Man wonders what it could mean.
After another hour (spent mostly in watching TV) he puzzles it out. He could glue the suit together! In no time at all, he has the costume assembled. It's not quite the same as his old one, and he's sorely tempted to doodle some webs on it with a magic marker, but he's already sick of making it so he just slips it on. The epoxy fumes roil off the rubber suit. Spider-Man blinks. The rippling air currents make his tiny apartment look insubstantial. He wonders if he should have worn a filter mask. He wonders if he owns a filter mask. And yet, the epoxy tube said it was "quick-drying." Or did it? He didn't speak German. He scavenges through the mess in his closet and locates the filter mask he'd worn when he'd refinished Aunt May's hope chest. He slips it on. The flowers on his couch wither, then bloat, monstrously, as though infected. A knot hole in the floor purses shut in disapproval. Spider-Man tries to ignore the trembling in his hands as he holds the mask overhead. "I just have to slip in my one-way eye lenses and I'm ready for action!" he tells himself. He lowers the glue-soaked cowl over his head, and the world dissolves.
The crossword puzzle editor squeezes the shoulder of the paste-up artist. "How ya holdin' up, O'Donnell?" he offers.
The paste-up artist moans. "Jameson had me make up another 'Spider-Man Dies' front page. From scratch. I try an' tell him, we only need to make it up once. Nobody knows jack about Spider-Man now and when he dies I don't see how it's gonna be no different. But he never listens."
The crossword puzzle editor shakes his head. He watches Jameson on the other side of the room, ranting about something-or-other to a copy boy who looks about ready to pee his pants. "Crazy old bastard," he chuckles. He pats the paste-up man's shoulder. "You get used to it," he says.
At a nearby desk, the obituaries editor mutters into his telephone, "I'll tell 'em." He hangs up the phone, clumsily and loudly. He repeats to nobody in particular, "I'll tell 'em."
Jameson's raspy baritone rattles through the assembled staff. "Parker! Where the FUCK is Parker?!"
The obituaries editor swallows, hard. "He's dead, Jonah."
Jameson's everpresent cigar falls from his lips. "DEAD?!" he shouts, as though challenging the editor's assertation. The hairs of his mustache bristle threateningly.
The obituaries editor nods. "Turns out he was a huffer! Can you beat that shit? And the hell of it is, when his landlady found the body, he was dressed in a rubber Spider-Man costume."
Jameson grins. His eyes fix on the paste-up artist. "O'Donnell!"
The crossword puzzle editor gently shoves the paste-up man forward. "Go get 'im, tiger!"
Monday, January 22, 2007
Cast of Characters
The Blocker................Observer of All Things Fabulous................Blockade Boy
Reed Richards..........................Ductile Know-It-All.........................Hugh Laurie
Ben Grimm.................Lumpy Self-Pitying Whiner.................James Gandolfini
Norrinn Radd..............................Pathetic Bald Emo-Boy.............................Moby
Setting: Reed Richard's futuristic laboratory atop the luxurious Baxter Building.
The Blocker: Greetings, friends. Know ye now, the fabric of time is as delicate as silk. With the subtlest alteration, a tear may appear that in time may destroy whole civilizations, or at least cause an awful lot of humiliation at your Junior Space Winter Dance, because your date Calamity King stepped on your trouser cuffs while you dancing and your pants got pulled totally off and now everybody's laughing at you, especially that bitch Polecat and even Calamity King is laughing his ass off and you feel horrible even though you only agreed to ask Calamity King out as a favor to his pal Green Boy who is the one you wanted to go with originally and so of course you have no choice but to start a brawl in the middle of the dance floor and you nail Calamity King square in the nose and Polecat goes down like a sack of space-taters and before you know it, half the school is wailing on one another in a seething mass, and you notice Green Boy's head is right in your crotch and it's not like he was trying to ram your stomach with his head and he missed and he's not trying to bite your nuts off, Jack Bauer-style, and it's not as though somebody else has bumped into him and pressed his head into your crotch, it's more like his head is just resting there -- and sure, finally the robo-chaperones drag you off and you get put on suspension for a whole semester but later Green Boy holo-phones you for a date so it wasn't a complete loss. Er, where was I? Oh yeah. Time. Annnnyhow, when the Fantastic Four drove Galactus away from Earth the first time, it was with the help of his herald, the Silver Surfer. So as punishment, Galactus made it so the Surfer was trapped on Earth. But he could have taken away his powers, too! So let's see what would have happened if the Surfer had lost his powers, and if he was desperate to return to his space-girlfriend, and if he went to Reed Richards for help, and if Richards was still secretly pissed off at the Surfer for bringing Galactus to Earth in the first place.
The Blocker exits, stage right.
The lights go up to reveal Reed Richard's futuristic laboratory, which looks remarkably like the set of "Sanford and Son." Richards is fiddling with a piece of high-tech alien machinery. To the untrained eye, the device resembles a rusted-out muffler.
Richards: Aw, sweet. I bet I could make a killer saxophone from this. Yo, Benny-boy! How you coming on the banjo?
Grimm stands up from a waist-high pile of junk in the background. He stays there throughout the entire scene.
Grimm: Well, I got a toilet seat here that could maybe work for the front part of the "pot" or whatever and there's a cardboard tube from some wrapping paper we could make into the neck but I dunno what we're gonna do for the struts or whatever the hell they're called.
Richards: How's about actual struts? Y'know, like from a car?
Grimm: Does that even make sense? And now that I come to think of it, does a banjo even have struts? Or is that just guitars?
Richards: How the fuck should I know? I ain't no musician. I just got me a jones to construct the world's most awesomest Dixieland band. And I prob'ly won't even care about that once the acid wears off. Which reminds me: you should probably get your ass out of there on account the junk is melting and reforming into a swarm of tiny alligators.
Grimm: Naw, I'm good.
Norrinn Radd enters, stage left, in an agitated state.
Radd: Reed Richards! Praise the space-gods, I have found you at last!
Richards: Christ almighty, not you again! Haven't you caused enough trouble?
Grimm: And what's with the "I have found you at last" crap? We fucking live here.
Radd: If I have offended you, I apologize most sincerely. I come to you on a mission of utmost importance.
Richards: No shit? What, did you lead another planet-destroying giant here?
Grimm: 'Cause you're really good at that.
Radd [annoyed]: As you will recall, I lent you my aid in repelling the World-Devourer, and I was punished for my betrayal when he stripped me of my space-spanning cosmic powers.
Grimm: Yeah, that was pretty funny, alright.
Richards: Yeah, when you were all silver and shit you looked kinda awesome but now you're just this dopey bald jerk-off.
Radd: I shall get right to the point, then. I seek a way to return to my homeworld of Zenn-La and the waiting arms of my lost love, Shalla-Bal.
Grimm: Huh. I don't remember you being so hung up on this "Sha-na-na" person when you were macking on my girlfriend, chico.
Richards: Aw, man! I forgot all about that! [he waggles a finger at Radd] That was totally uncool, dude. I mean, look at Benjy over there. He had a hard-enough time snagging a blind girlfriend, much less a sighted one.
Grimm: Yup, because even if they can't see me, they can still feel that I'm butt-ugly.
Richards: He had to track down a blind girl with a mothering complex so she wouldn't mind just sitting there and listening all the time while he went on and on and on about how fugly he is. The two a' ya don't even screw, do ya, Ben-Ben? 'Cause it'd pulverize her into little bloody gobs! Haw!
Grimm [looks down, sheepishly]: Alicia wants to take it slow.
Richards: So I can only imagine what kind of dog this "Sally Pal" person is.
Radd [imperious]: If you must know, I'd say she's a dead ringer for the Terran pop singer, Christina Aguilera. When her hair was black.
Richards: Day-um! No kiddin'?
Grimm: I'd hit that.
Richards: Well, hell, dude... let's get your sorry ass off this dirtball planet! I already got me an idea on how to do it. Ben-Gay, where'd I put that orange "flying harness" we recovered from the Negative Zone?
Grimm: Huh? What are you talking abou--
Richards: There it is. Right in front of you. See? The special magic "flying harness? [he raises his eyebrows a couple of times] You know the one I mean?
Grimm: Oh! The flying harness! Yeah! Sorry, I can be a real dumb-ass sometimes.
Richards: HA HA HA HA HA! Oh you stupid alien sunuvabitch!
Grimm: Yeah! You stupid sunuvabitch!
Richards: What the fuck would you know about it? I'm the scientist here!
Radd: Well, I was an astronomer on my homeworld, which is lightyears ahead of yours when it comes to technology, so I think I'd know a little something about this.
Richards [throws up his hands]: Fine! Screw it! You can invent something yourself, then. Get lost.
Radd: No! Forgive me, friend. It's only that I miss my beloved Shalla-Bal so...
Richards: Dude's got blue balls, huh? Check it, Bendy-straw! Ol' Baldy here's gonna make a booty call! [he smacks Radd on the back of the head]
Richards: Lessee, lessee, what else do I got that's orange -- er, I mean, "spaceworthy?"
Grimm: Yo, how's about that quiver -- um, I mean, "propulsion unit" -- on top of the busted-out TV over there?
Richards: Attaboy, Benihana! Now you're gettin' it!
Grimm: And that old bike helmet! Er, I mean, "atmospheric bubble generator!"
Richards: Now we're cookin'! Get ready for the ride of your life, Norville!
Radd [wary]: "Norrinn."
Richards: What-ever. Jesus, you're a buzzkill. Has anyone ever told you that? Hey, Bensonhurst! Toss me that extension cord! And the gaffer's tape! No, the orange gaffer's tape! And the broken "Speak and Spell!"
Radd: Is-- is that it?
Richards: Is what it? ...Oh, you mean the flying harness inter-...spacial... rocket. Device. Sure, why not? OKAY! What you need to do next, is you get your ass in that elevator over there [points stage right] and press the "up" button and it'll take you straight to the roof. And then all you do is walk to the edge and jump and at the same time press this button on the control pad right here.
Radd: Why do I have to jump?
Grimm: You just do, okay?
Richards: You need that extra little burst of propulsion or whatever, or else you'll never make it to your planet and you'll just be floating out in space forever and then you'll die. That clear enough for you, Sparky?
Radd: Thank you, friends. I shall treasure this day always. [He exits stage right]
Grimm: I thought he'd never leave. Now we can get back to making your banjo!
Richards: Banjo?! What the hell are you even talking about?
[The lights go down and the curtain closes. The Blocker strides majestically in front of the curtain and addresses the audience.]
The Blocker: Norrinn Radd plummetted to his messy doom soon after. But as he fell, he had a vivid day-dream about soaring through space, into the arms of his lady-love. And he also had enough time to imagine Galactus taking a gargantuan dump on Reed Richards and Ben Grimm.