Friday, January 26, 2007

In Space, the Neighbors Can't Hear You Scream

bbwhitestacheheadIn "Iron Man" #142 (January 1981) the Armored Alcoholic slips on an experimental new suit "designed for outer space action!"


Of course, we're talking about professional skankhound Tony Stark here, so "outer space action" has an entirely different meaning. In fact, Stark has many other euphamisms for "outer space action"! These include...
  • "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"


Uh-oh! Looks like somebody prematurely shot their space-wad, huh? That's okay. I'm sure she won't mind if you just cuddle for a whle.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Double D for "Danger!"

bbwhitestacheheadSince Marvel's "Agents of Atlas' miniseries just wrapped up, I thought it was a good time to interview a personality who knew many of the protagonists intimately: the breasts of Suyan, granddaughter of the man known by certain white racists as "The Yellow Claw." Suyan's breasts were limited mainly to non-speaking parts, but Roy Thomas gave them their own thought balloon in "What If?" #9 (June 1978). Suyan's breasts retired from the world of shadowy intrigue in 1985, whereupon they immediately moved south. They now reside in The Shadow's Nose Memorial Home for Detective Story Body Parts in Boca Raton, Florida. I spoke with Suyan's breasts over tea on her graciously appointed lanai.


Blockade Boy: Thank you again for agreeing to this interview, Suyan's breasts. And might I say, you both look gorgeous. You've obviously been taking good care of yourselves.

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

Easy Go, Easy Come

lancelothead ...Hey. So... what's goin' on? Yeah, yeah... that's cool, that's cool... yeah, nice. Good for you, man... ANNNNYWAY... it turns out I'm actually a Gay. Yeah, I know. I couldn't believe it either. But I did a lot of soul-searching these last few weeks. And yesterday, as I was cutting the backside out of a pair of leather pants, it finally occurred to me that I was a Gay. And not only am I a Gay but I've apparently been having the Gay sex for quite some time now. So... I'm gonna take some time off here and get my head together. I guess I have a bunch of things to do now, like move to the Village and get an earring and watch a lot of Joan Crawford movies and practice things like saying "fabulous" in a sing-song tone and snapping my fingers a lot. And I have to write a sequel to "Be Steele, My Heart," only for us Queers. (I think I'll call it "The Man-Love of Steele.") To bottom-line it ("bottom"... heh) I don't know when I'll get the time to do another post, if ever. But it's been fun... um, "girlfriend." (Did I get that right?) Don't worry, though: I lined up a replacement: the Empathoid! He can solve all of your emotional dilemas, romantic and otherwise. Okay, I've really got to go now. *melodramatically wipes tears away* See you at the Steisand concert, turkeys!


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!


Dear Empathoid,

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 costume uniform. Sometimes I meet teenage boys who kind of look like my friend and I bring them home with me and I have them put on the sexy costume uniform. And then we wrestle. After I've paid them and sent them on their way I feel kind of guilty. My friend Iron Man Tony Stark Joe says I'm trapped in the past. What do you think?

Steve R.

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.

The Empathoid.

Okay, so that one threw me. A mere fluke, I assure you. Let's read another one.


Dear Empathoid,

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 a friggin' telepath quite perceptive, she is unaware of my true feelings. She's in love with another of my students, a real stick-in-the-mud type guy with zero personality. He has an eye condition and has to wear sunglasses all the time so maybe that's given him the illusion of "coolness." I really don't think the two of them are right for each other. Should I speak up or would that be overstepping my bounds as an authority figure?

Charles X.

Dear Charles X.,

Go for it, dude! What's the worst that could happen?

The Empathoid

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*


Dear Empathoid,

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!

The Empathoid

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

"The Spectacular Seamstress I'm Not!"

bbwhitestachehead In "Spectacular Spider-Man" #66 (May 1982) Spider-Man takes Cyclops' "body condom" idea to an entirely new level. Watch out! Here comes Spider-Gimp!


Spider-Man wishes he knew how to quit that old rubber air-mattress. But whenever he gets anxious or blue, he pulls it out of storage and gnaws and gnaws...! The rubber tastes so good in his mouth! He knows he should just throw the old thing away. But he couldn't bear the thought of someone else taking it and doing God only knows what to it. They might even sleep on it, which is just disgusting. Spider-Man tries hiding the rubber air-mattress around his apartment, and then to forget where he put it he hits his durable skull with a hammer or he drinks tequila or paint thinner. But the memories always return. They have a special bond, Spider-Man and the rubber air-mattress. If ony there was some way the two of them could be together always. And if by some chance it could help him fight Electro, well, that'd be a bonus. And that's when he gets the idea.

One masturbatory fugue state later, the suit is almost complete! But reality presses its sandpapery elbow into his windpipe with a phone call...


...from Aunt May. Spider-Man softly swears to himself. He can hear her skeevy retirement home "boyfriend" Nathan barking at her from a distance. As the old woman blathers on, Spider-Man's hands toy with one of the rubber suit's sleeves. He presses it against his cheek for a moment. Then pulls it slowly downward, shuddering as it rolls over the hard, knotted muscles in his neck, over his collar bones and his painfully stiff nipples. The rubber sleeve skitters down the corrugated surface of his rigidly-defined abs, and then...! He offers his aunt a hasty agreement to whatever the hell she was asking of him and hangs up the phone.


(At the retirement home, May glances over at Nathan, slumped defeatedly in his chair. A smile plays at the corner of her wizened mouth. The old "hard-of-hearing" routine worked again! She remembers the night she'd first needed to use it. "Sock your weiner?! If that's what you wish, dearest!" And then she'd pummelled his crotch, mercilessly. If only it wasn't such a bother to keep up the pretense! And Nathan is beginning to bore her, what with his depressing stories about serving in "Easy Company" and his constant exclamations of "Jehosephat!" and his farting. She makes a mental note to serve him a cup of the "special tea" that would have felled her husband Ben -- had a criminal's bullet not taken care of the old man first.)

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.


In the Daily Bugle offices, the typically gloomy atmosphere is darkened not a whit by the blackout.

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

I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)

bbwhitestachehead Presenting a new one-act play by Blockade Boy, inspired by a story in "What If?" #37 (February 1983).

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 curtain rises on a darkened stage. After ten minutes or so, a spotlight tracks the Blocker entering stage left. He is a tall, powerfully-built man with a large bald head denoting an ancient wisdom. He also has a kick-ass bleached-white biker 'stache which is pretty damned cool if you ask me. He is attired in a modest, yet nipple-revealing toga. In purple, of course.

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.


Radd: This looks like a life-preserver with some macaroni-art glued to it.

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]

Radd: Ow!

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!"


[Richards hastily assembles the junk around Radd's body, while Radd stands there looking uneasy. When Richards finishes, he stands there silently observing Radd until Radd's nervousness overwhelms him and he speaks.]

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.