You Are Feeling Very Creepy!

...The white-haired man cried out, his velvety baritone roughening into a hoarse bellow. At last, his tautly-muscled body fell forward onto a mound of pillows. He rolled over onto his back, and sighed. His pale eyes roamed hungrily over the lanky, hairy form of his lover. "Truly, you are magnificent," he purred. "It seems an epoch since last I was loved with such tenderness -- or such savagery!" He chuckled, softly.

The other man was quite tall, with unshorn hair that surrounded his head in a shaggy corona. He swept a few stray curls away from his eyes, and grinned. "Think nothing of it, my good fellow," he said, warmly. "Jellybaby?" He plucked a handful of the candies from a nearby dish.

The white-haired man's smile shrank a bit, became unsure. "Mightn't we--? That is, we do have all the time in the world...!"

The tall man leaned over the white-haired man, and playfully rubbed his stomach. "I'm afraid it just can't be done, old boy! Duty calls, and all that." He poked the white-haired man's chest. "Now, you must promise me to be a 'good lad' until we meet again!" Suddenly, he was on his feet, and donning his trousers. He tossed the white-haired man his clothes, without looking at him. "Ah! Don't fret, you silly sausage! I have a gift for you." He strolled over to where the white-haired man was glumly pulling up his socks.

The tall man took the golden medallion from around his neck, and slipped it onto the white-haired man's broad shoulders. "It's a family heirloom," said the tall man, solemnly. "It's special. Just like you, my love. Swear to me -- you must swear it -- that whenever you look at it, you'll think of us."

The white-haired man's ashen face took on a soft pink glow. "Oh! Always!" He pressed the medallion to his lips, and then -- impulsively -- leaned forward and kissed his curly-haired lover.

"Let me help you dress," said the tall man, with a hint of impatience in his voice.

A minute later, the white-haired man was fully-attired, save for his hat. "I shall never forget this night," he said, sadly. "Would that I could be your constant companion! But alas, the currents of Fate draw this traveler to another place, and another time. We shall meet again; of that I am sure. But until then, I must remain... a stranger." He placed his fedora on his head, and vanished.

Wordlessly, the tall man sauntered over to the nearest wall, and removed a large panel. He retrieved another gold medallion from its storage place, and slipped it about his neck.

The Omega Knees

Ah, a typical New Yorker, dressed for the subway.

I have so many questions.

How did he get past the front desk, dressed like that? Does he have a key card? What is the guy watching the security monitors doing right now? Eating a hoagie? And masturbating to this very scene? Why couldn't "To Catch a Predator" be like this? Is that a gun, or a video camera from 1982? And was it really necessary to put his super-logo on his knees? Is that where he expects his clients and victims to focus their eyes? His knees? Does he have big knees, and is he kind of sensitive about it? Like in the middle of a conversation, he'll get all offended, and huff, "I'm up here"?

...And Cinemax is Born!

In the days before "naughty web-cams", people had to work with whatever technology they had on hand.

(Even creepier: Cookie and his girlfriend appear to be ambulatory ventriloquists' dummies.)

The Sneerness of You

See, this is why "Moose" from Archie Comics should never be allowed to dress himself.

...Okay, so the mesh t-shirt was my idea. But then that big dumb dope had to accessorize it with a three-sizes-too-small fedora, a woolen suit coat (Who does he think he is? Sonny Crockett?) and his mom's scarf. GAH.

Meanwhile, the three points of the Universe's Most Boring Love Triangle don't realize that they're sitting in the mouth of a giant parasitic plant, which will soon snap shut and dissolve their stupid, quarreling bodies.

Put Your Cat Clothes On

Back in February, Ryan Eldridge (of Westchester is for Lovers fame) asked me to redesign the costume of one of the X-verse's blandest, most generic mutants (and that's really saying something): Rusty Collins.

I remember reading about Rusty in some of Jeremy's old "X-Factor" comics. My impression of him: a nondescript, red-haired "nice guy" with pyrokinetic powers and a pleasant disposition, and that's about it. He and his equally bland girlfriend, "Skids", were like an even less-exciting version of Justice and Firestar, if you can imagine such a thing.

According to the Font Of All Wisdom (Wikipedia), Rusty later adopted the mucho Image-y moniker of "Firefist." *snicker* He got brainwashed by Stryfe -- y'know, the guy with the helmet that looks like a Cuisinart attachment. And then he aligned himself with Magneto. And then he got killed. Because he's boring.

Well, I don't think Rusty would have ended up as just another dead Marvel mutant (there's roughly a bajillion of them at this point), if his creators (Bob Layton and Jackson Guice) had just bothered to toughen his sorry ass up in the first goddamn place. In other words, they could've made him less like Howie Cunningham and more like Fonzie. [Edited to add: As Captain Nice Guy points out in the comments section, I meant to refer to Richie Cunningham, and not his dad. Still, I'm leaving my goof intact, since Rusty was a mite -- to borrow a phrase from Captain Nice Guy -- "Tom Bosley-esque".]

Which brings me to my styling choices. I knew I wanted to make him more like a runaway "street kid" (minus the prostitution) than the square he actually was. That way, he'd be somebody who could handle himself a little better, score a more interesting girlfriend, and not get stuck hanging out with melon-headed twelve-year-olds (Artie and Leech, I'm talking to you). After considering a "grunge" theme for him, I decided to hew to a musical subculture that was actually around when he debuted in the mid-1980's: rockabilly! After all, Layton and Guice had once "humorously" dressed the Beast in a retro-themed suit and glasses, a la Elvis Costello. Why couldn't they have styled Rusty like Brian Setzer?

Now, this guy has a yen for twanging guitars, curvaceous dames, and "car culture." Maybe Marvel could have gotten Coop to draw a miniseries about him! And I can guarantee he wouldn't be stuck looking after a couple of macrocephalic twerps. Naw, he'd be too busy scoring.

As you can see, the new-and-improved Rusty has a wicked 80's pompadour (it's fluffy!) and muttonchops, plus some kick-ass arm tattoos. The tattoos are designed like the stylized flames found on the sides of hotrods back then. The silhouette of the boots mirrors the pear shape of the flames. And the entire outfit is leather, natch. The studded belt has a nifty "devil's head" buckle, and it hangs low, just like some actual rockabilly musicians used to wear them in the 1980's. Note also the chain, going to his wallet. I've designed a devilish "R" logo for him. And -- since it makes more sense with his powers, and it just sounds tougher -- I bet he'd change his nickname to "Red." A Spirit-style mask completes the look.

There ya go, Ryan! And it only took me about four months! *chuckles nervously, then looks down at floor*

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.)