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.

Suck One, Blocks ( by guest-columnist Storm Boy)

[Being a literary adaptation of an upsetting alternate reality glimpsed at the Time Institute]

I stayed at Hek's about six hours, and except for the fact that I lost one of my calf-spats between the sofa-cushions, and was nearly inhaled by Hek's pet dark-beast (which had grown alarmed by its master's cries) a pleasant time was had by all.

At three-of-the-clock on March the ninth, looking flushed and enervated, I returned to my own bachelor pod, to clean up a bit, and drop into bed.

And it was while I was at the flat, towelling the torso after a much-needed sonic shower, that my man Blocks suddenly brought the name of Tusker Lafeaugh-Snapple into the conversation.

As I recall it, the dialogue ran something as follows:

SELF: Well, Blocks, here we are, what?

BLOCKS: Yes, sir.

SELF: I mean to say, home again.

BLOCKS: Precisely, sir.

SELF: Seems ages since I left on my date.

BLOCKS: An impression, no doubt, made stronger by the marked dearth of text-messaging, sir.

SELF: Now see here, Blocks! I refuse to be one of those men who is a slave to his valet!

BLOCKS: Just as you say, sir.

SELF: Good. Well, Blocks! What news on the intergalactic intraweb? Anybody been blogging or e-mailing or anything since my abs.?

BLOCKS: Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple, sir, has been a frequent blog-poster.

I stared. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that I gaped.

This Lafeaugh-Snapple, you see, is one of those freaks you come across from time to time during life's journey who can't string three words together without exhausting his vocabulary. When I asked him once if he couldn't find the time to earn his high school equivalence diploma, he said, no, because he had a holo-vision set in his living room, and he studied the habits of reality-programme lingerie models.

I couldn't imagine what could have driven the chap to such prodigious blogging. I would have been prepared to bet that as long as the supply of reality-programme lingerie models didn't give out, nothing could have shifted him from that soylent-puff-stained couch of his.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"You got the name correctly? Lafeaugh-Snapple?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it's the most extraordinary thing."

"Indeed, sir."

"But what on Lallor can have driven him to do so?"

"I am in a position to explain that, sir. No doubt you have observed of late an added note of courage in Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple's dispostion?"

"Indeed I have, Blocks. Deuced annoying, that. Nobody with Tusker's mouth should be in the habit of smiling so broadly."

"Yes, sir. If I may be so bold, however, I would venture that his friendly muttonchops have the happy effect of mitigating that deficit."

"Yes, thank you, Blocks. I am fully aware of your influence in that matter."

"Yes, sir."

"No further reminders of your stylistic prowess will be needed, Blocks."

"Indeed not, sir."

"They are suitably impressed upon my gray matter, Blocks. If you have any further tales of muttonchops, handlebar moustaches, Donegals, soul patches, or Dundreary Weepers, trouble me with them no more!"

"Very good, sir."

"I should hope so, Blocks!"

"Yes, sir."

"At the end of the day, a gentleman's gentleman must needs preserve the illusion that all decisions a la mode spring fully-formed from the brain of his employer!"

"I hasten to remind you, sir, that I am a valet and not a miracle-worker. But if we may return to the subject of Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple--?"

"Ah, yes. His courage, or something-or-other."

"Yes, sir. I confess that I exerted my influence in that matter as well."

"Now I follow. Now I understand. But wasn't it all due to Tusker's excessive boinking with this new girl of his? 'Cajun Kid', wasn't it?"

"Regretfully, that person was a lady of the evening whom Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple had mistakenly contracted for a fortnight. I believe their interactions ended with the young woman kicking him in the 'nads and taking his wallet."

"I say! A rummy patch of luck for old Tusker! A prostitute, eh? I had wondered why she was always looking at her watch."

"Keenly noted, sir."

"Her changebelt was likewise a source of confusion to me."

"Without question, sir."

"Well, don't dawdle, Blocks. You were saying something about Tusker's courage?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple confided in me that he was paralysed by feelings of inferiority to everybody he knew. This included his fellow workers in the Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency, as well as several fast-food clerks and small children. And yet, with very little prompting on my part, he could summon whole lists of their defects. I merely advised him to type these lists into his Omnicom, so that he might consult them prior to a meeting with one of these persons. Thus armed with a feeling of superiority -- however ill-deserved -- he could conduct himself with the swagger of a Rimborian ganglord."

"Egad, Blocks! And why was the chap blogging so furiously this evening?"

"It seems that he has misplaced the Omnicom, sir. It is an event, you will doubtless apprehend, of no little concern to him. His initial blog post concerning the Omnicom revealed only the bare minimum of details. As the hours passed, however, his blogging became more candid. He even revealed the Omnicom's password. Said password being, in point of fact, 'password.'"

"Really, Blocks! This is too much!"

"Rather, sir. Furthermore, the anonymous party who recovered the Omnicom has posted its contents on numerous gossip sites. I should, at this juncture, assure you that although your penchant for sniffing my used undershirts is now common knowledge amongst the technorati, I personally have no objection to your doing so. "

A throbbing at the temples told me that our conversation was at its saturation point.

------------------------------

[Author's note: I saw this scenario unravel on Earth-Wodehouse just last night, via a Time Institute monitor. I swear, that place is addictive! Also, I have an addictive personality. Things I've been addicted to: space-wine, doughnuts, Blockade Boy, pointiness. Nobody else wanted to go to the Institute with me, so I "flew solo" as they say on Thanagar. No big whoop. I thought maybe I could pick up a cute guy there. I didn't. No big whoop.

My review of the recording? Two thumbs way up! Cool parts: the clothes (of course!), everybody having an English accent, Blockade Boy as my own personal "monkey butler". Not-so-cool parts: me almost getting eaten by a dark-beast, the idea that Blockade Boy is smarter than me. Yeah, that sucked one. Still, I was in a good mood when I left the Institute... until Blockade Boy called me on my Omnicom, and pretty much hollered, "YOU NEED TO LOOK AT TUSKER'S BLOG! NOW!" And it turned out that all the Cajun Kid/Omnicom list/stolen password/gossip site crap happened in my reality, too! Only a few days later! What the hell, people?

Tusker didn't show up for work today. Which? Is just as well. I mean, now that everybody on Lallor knows about Gadfly Lad's bedwetting problem; and how Dentata Damsel has been moonlighting as an Omnicom-sex operator for people with very sensitive hearing; and that one time Nightmare Boy knocked over a convenience store and only stole a carton of "x-tra petite" space-condoms; and how Rainbow Girl once threatened to kill a Science Police officer's dog in order to get out of paying a parking ticket; and how Frigid Queen hired Sun Woman to burn down Phantom Lad's house; and the intimate details of Eyeful Ethel's insider stock trading; and how, okay already, I still sometimes rifle through Blockade Boy's garbage for any garments he might have thrown away, so I can sniff them. Oh, and all that stuff about Blockade Boy pretending to be his own twin, so the U.P. can't arrest him on fraud charges. So the whole office is in chaos right now. It's positively swarming with Science Police. They arrested Ethel and Frigid Queen and Nightmare Boy and Rainbow Girl, and they tried to arrest Blockade Boy. But after an exciting kerfuffle, Blockade Boy escaped -- but only after making certain everybody heard his vow to "disappear into the night" (it was like, ten in the morning) and "embark on a new career as a dark, mysterious 'fashion vigilante.'" Goddamn Blockade Boy. Oh, and he's taking Cootie with him, and making her wear a mask and a little cape.

It sucks, you guys. Or as English-Flava Me might say, "It's a sticky wicket!"]

(cover image stolen almost wholesale from this)

Requestprobe

General Angst: Wait -- what do you mean, "more than tests"?

Doctor Moon: It's all very simple, my dear General Angst! The dim-witted lad you procured for this experiment rated perfectly in the initial round of examinations, so I went on ahead with the bio-augmentation.

General Angst [blustering]: You presume too much! Mine is the ultimate authority here!

Doctor Moon: Calm yourself, my dear General Angst! All is as you had planned! The tractor-tread feet, the disco strobe eyeballs, the Popamatic bubble implant, the Mr. Pibb cannon...

General Angst [furious]: Madness! I never asked for any of those things! You speak treason!

Doctor Moon: Perhaps, my dear General Angst, this will refresh your memory...

[He reaches into his lab coat and produces a small device. At the press of a button, it plays a tinny recording of General Angst, speaking in a slurred voice.]

Recording of General Angst: --annnd mayb-be some o' them cattypillar tractory treads fer the dude's feetsies, and his peepers, his peepers, we could go 'n' replace 'em with these lights, mannnn, an' they'd be all BEEP BOP BOOP BEEP BOP oh! An' on his big ol' titties, I say we mount thisss plasticky bubbley thing-a-ma-bob like I seen once, you know, it's like, it's like from a board game or some shit, and you press on it, and you go "Popamatic pops the dice!" and like "Whoo! I win!" only ours, only ours, the dicey things, they all gots like skulls an' shit on 'em, and then our dude, he says to Batman, "Popamatic says DIE, motherfucker!!!" Ha, ha, ha, oh, oh, I allmosst fergot, wait, waitaminnit, his arm, we just chop that shit off, an' then we install this gun, an' it sprays out Mello Yello allll ooover, like BOOOSH!!! NO! NO! Scratch that shit, change it to Mr. Pibb! Yeah, and then we--

[Doctor Moon presses another button, stopping the playback.]

Doctor Moon: Those were your express orders, my dear General Angst, as of 9:26 yesterday evening.

General Angst: You mean, about halfway through our "Barnaby Jones" drinking game?

Doctor Moon: Correct, my dear General Angst.

General Angst [defeated]: Quit calling me "my dear General Angst."

Doctor Moon: Whatever you say, darling.

"The Plainly-Seen Playmate", by Robert Louis Stevenson

When heroes are fighting to make Gotham clean,
Out goes the playmate who plainly was seen.
When heroes are scrapping and kicking some ass,
Out goes the playmate face-first through the glass.

Somebody heard him, and somebody saw,
His is a wound that is bloody and raw,
And his mouth gives a warning, with whispers and squeaks,
To outlaws who hole up in shops for antiques.

He lies in the alley, he rests in the grime,
He cries when you kick him the seventeenth time,
Whene'er you are angry and cannot tell why,
The hero's best Whipping Boy is sure to be by!

He loves to be cold-cocked, he hates to give in,
'T is he whose left knee-cap is set with a pin,
'T is he whose right ear is a roseate clump,
And he walks with a limp (his right leg is a stump).

'T is he, when at night you drive by in your car,
Bids you to jump him and add a new scar,
For whoever he is, be it henchman or thief,
'T is he assuages your feelings of grief!

Marge's Little Lulu's John Stanley's Bob Kane's Batman

BRACE YOURSELVES, DEAR READERS, FOR A WEIRD, SCANDALOUS, SPINE-CHILLING, AND ENTIRELY FABRICATED TALE OF COMIC BOOK HISTORY!

True* fact: In 1978, veteran cartoonist John Stanley was asked to take over the writing chores for "Detective Comics!" Stanley was a master of pacing, and had written some classic stories for the horror genre, so he should have been a perfect fit for the "weird crime" milieu of "Detective Comics." And yet, something, somehow, went horribly wrong.

Stanley pitched an idea for a story about a mute juggernaut who would mercilessly pummel Batman in a reservoir until the wily detective discovered a way to defeat him. Editor Julius Schwartz loved it, and asked Stanley to submit a full script. Stanley complied, and even included penciled layouts, just as he had done on the "Marge's Little Lulu" books. However, his confidence in his own ability to write a straightforward super-hero story had evidently faltered in the interim. The script's tone was wildly divergent from the one set by the book's previous writers. Stanley had even gone so far as to change Bruce Wayne's surname to "Van Snobbe," and to depict most of the protagonists as children -- or, at least, midgets.

In brief, the story focuses on "Tubby Banekins", who is kicked out of a "Tuff Fellers Club" for being the best pal of orphaned "rich kid" and "world champion softie" Bruce Van Snobbe. Incensed, Banekins boasts to the club that he's "the perfect fighting machine." He extracts a promise from the organization that he will be readmitted to their society in exchange for winning a fight with whomever they deem to be "the toughest feller around." The club agrees ("Just to show 'im up!") and demand that he fight Batman. Banekins is internally rattled, but makes a go of it, even donning his mother's sleeveless pajamas and swim goggles in an attempt at a costume. Batman -- who is, in reality, Van Snobbe -- sees through Banekins' disguise immediately. ("Tubby's gone bonkers! I'd better humor him 'til he comes to his senses!") Unwilling to do serious harm to his friend, Batman throws the fight. The success goes to Banekins' head, and he decides he is now the Number One Crime Fighter in Gotham City. Batman finds himself trailing behind Banekins as a sidekick, in order to secretly rescue him from a number of mishaps. Banekins' growing ego and his barrage of flippant remarks wear on Batman. In front of the "Tuff Fellers Club", the seasoned detective finally gives Banekins "a poke in the nose", flattening him with one punch. The "Tuff Fellers" readmit Banekins out of sympathy, and even offer to give a trial membership to Van Snobbe (into whom Batman had changed while off-panel). Van Snobbe declines, saying it would take valuable time away from his hobby of collecting butterflies. Everybody groans. The End.

Upon reading the script, Schwartz fired Stanley on the spot, and handed the assignment over to the more malleable Denny O'Neil and Don Newton.

Below: a penciled panel from Stanley's version.

*And by "true", I mean "grotesquely false."

A Time to Rub

And now, an excerpt from John Grisham's best-selling legal thriller, "A Time to Rub":

Attorney Thomas Troy's office was nothing more than a cramped, decrepid shotgun house, crouched on the shore of the biggest mudhole in Rickets County. Most of the windows had been busted out years ago. In the spring Troy's clients would wordlessly sidestep the thousands of tiny frogs that bustled over the rotting floorboards. But by late summer the Mississippi sun would boil all the water out of the air, and so Troy and his penniless -- yet saintly -- customers would conduct their business while covered in swarms of mosquitoes and fire ants.

On a Saturday afternoon in September, Troy sat alone in his office, resting his feet on the back of an alligator that had wandered in. The weatherbeaten old radio on his desk crackled intermittently. The announcer's sleepy drawl abruptly shifted from his reading of the latest on hog futures into an announcement of a jailbreak. Troy sensed something horrible. Huge gobs of sweat dripped from his forehead. The moisture sizzled into vapor when it plopped onto his desk. His eyes throbbed. "Am I gonna do it?" he asked himself. "Hell yeah," he answered. He remembered the old man who had given him the ring. "The Fly Man", the kids had called him. A dirty, bent vagrant who always appeared in town in time for the Sugar Beet Festival and who always disappeared again before the Halloween Parade. The other children stayed far away the Fly Man. Troy had always been more curious than most. One day he had followed the Fly Man for the better part of an afternoon, from the tire fire on the north edge of town, all the way down the railroad tracks to an abandoned piano crate in the middle of the woods. It was in the crate that the old man gave him the ring.

"Rub it," Troy said to nobody. "Rubbing it will make things better." After taking one last look through the window, Troy slumped down in his chair and thrust his hand down his pants...

Spider-Man: Never Nude

He can't change to his Spidey suit--? Is he kiddin'? He wears those obnoxiously-colored footie pajamas under everything, all day, every day! How else is he going to get into some tired "secret identity" jam that continuously destroys his pathetic attempts at a social life? For example...

Setting: Manhattan, the late 1970's, in a line outside a disco

Mary Jane: I still can't believe we're getting into the trendiest night-spot in town!

Glory: It's all a matter of who you know! The proper connections are so very important in life... like my new fella, Josh!

Josh: She means it helps if you have a boyfriend who won them in a radio contest.

Mary Jane: Either way, I just can't wait to get my Tiger out on the dance floor! It's been simply ages since we've gone anywhere, and I'm going to make him Hustle 'til it hurts! Right, Peter?

Peter: Anything for you, M.J.!

Peter [thinks]:That bouncer... he's frisking all the patrons before he lets them inside! What if he feels my web-shooters... or somehow gets a glimpse of my Spider-Man costume? It'll be "Goodbye, Web-Slinger!" I've got to think of something... and fast!

Peter: M.J., I just remembered... it's Aunt May's birthday, and I still haven't gotten her a card! I've got to run! Oh, and I'll be also be busy the entire rest of this evening. Seeya! [sprints away at spider-speed]

Mary Jane: But--!

Josh: Wow. Your boyfriend's kind of a douche.

Aaaand SCENE. So why wouldn't Peter be wearing it now? Unless... ye gads, he thinks he's gonna score tonight! With Deborah Whitman! Because nothing primes a gal for hot bedroom action like watching a green man hypnotize people into acting like chickens.

And Now, the Crustacean You've All Been Waiting For

Y'know, I was going to break this sequence down into individual panels, but as you can see, George Tuska (pencils) and Artie Simek (lettering) made it damn near impossible. So screw it. And heck, it is the book's climax, and as I used to say to my dates, "I might as well show it to you in all its uncut glory."

• The very idea of Demitrius lends itself well to the kind of surreal, almost dadaist fun that superhero comics can do so well. Unfortunately, it's all weighted down by mounds of soggy, pretentious "Marvel Method" prose. Blech.
• "Creature"? "Transformed non-man"? Sure, a guy sprouts a couple of cranial lobster arms and suddenly he's a monster. Would you have used those words if you'd written the comic where Abra Kadabra turned the Flash into a marionette, Young Gerry Conway? I should think not. Young Gerry Conway is unfair to mutated proto-Serbs!
• [Setting: the interior of a brownstone in Hackensack. The Del Pieros, a retired couple, are having coffee in their dining room when someone rings the doorbell.]
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: I'll get it, honey. [She opens the door and sees a twenty-foot-tall man in green coveralls, with lobster-clawed arms protruding from his skull.] Yes...? Oh! You must be the new delivery guy my neighbor Mrs. Totti mentioned... Demitrius, is it?"
  
  UPS guy: Yea... I am Demitrius -- and I bring DEATH! [He presents her with a small cardboard box.]
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Death? For me? But I didn't send away for any death.
  
  [Demitrius is busy punching buttons on his electronic clipboard, but acknowledges her with a shrug.]
  
  Mrs. Del Piero [calling to husband]: Honey? Did you order my death?
  
  Mr. Del Piero [raises coffee mug cheerfully]: Not today, honey! But don't tempt me!
  
  [They both chuckle at this.]
  
  Demitrius [presents her with the clipboard and his stylus]: Just sign here, and here, and here.
  
  Mrs. Del Piero [hesitates]: I don't know if I'm-- I mean, could I send this back? If it's no trouble? It's just that I not ready for death.
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Who's it from?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Hang on, I'm talking to the delivery guy!
  
  Mr. Del Piero [louder]: What...? Who's it from? Who sent it to you?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero [frustrated]: How should I know?!
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Well, it's got a shipping label, don't it?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Oh, for--! Fine! [she examines the box] Oh! It's from my sister!
  
  Mr. Del Piero: WHAT...?!!
  
  Mrs. Del Piero [hollers]: IT'S FROM MY SISTER! [to herself] I suppose I can't send this back to her...
  
  [She reluctantly signs the form, and Demitrius departs. She carries the little box into the dining room and sits back down with her husband.]
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Well? Aren't you gonna open it?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Oh, I'd rather not. I guess I'll just put it away somewhere.
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Like where?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: I thought maybe in the -- [catches herself, smiles, and wags her finger at him] Oh! You're a very naughty boy!
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Almost got you! [grins, takes a sip of coffee] So what are you gonna tell your sister when she calls and asks how you like your death?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: I'll just lie and tell her it's wonderful.
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Ah, so it'll be just like our wedding night! [then, wistfully] ...Y'know, I probably will kill you someday.
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Get in line, darling.
  
  [They both laugh.]
  
  [Fade out.]
• Reading the captions, I have to wonder if Young Gerry Conway ever intended for Demitrius to be drawn with lobster-clawed cranial appendages in the first goddamn place. He talks about fire and lightning bursting from Demitrius's brain and grabbing Iron Man, not some kooky monster arms. I'm guessing he had pictured some kinda Kirby-kracklin' energy spewing out from a bloated noggin and not the Golden Age-styled nonsense Tuska wound up drawing. The sad part is, the story's better for Tuska's "mistake."
• Demitrius to Slasher: "And that is why you are the tool--!" Preach it, brother!
• "Mister Kline!" Ugh. Once again, this limpest of villain names ruins a perfectly good melodramatic pronouncement. It would have been exponentially cooler if Demitrius had said "Doctor Doom!" or "Kang the Conqueror!" or hell, even "Zarrko the Tomorrow Man!" Anything but "Mister Kline!"
• George Tuska's groundhog-like fear of delineating shadows makes it easy to pretend that in that largest panel, Demitrius hasn't quadrupled in size after all, but has merely leapfrogged over Iron Man, into the foreground. And as we all know, Demitrius is fond of leaping.
• Are your appetites whetted for a balls-out battle between Iron Man and Demitrius? They are? Well, too damn bad, because Young Gerry Conway thought the next panels would be best put to use looking in on Mr. Kline and his "uncluttered desk." Heh.

Just Six More Panels 'Til Lobstertime

Luckily for Slasher, Iron Man is only in the first stage of drunkenness: the "light-hearted, irreverent life-of-the-party" stage. (That's the stage Dean Martin hovered around for most of his benighted existence.) Things might've gone a lot worse if Iron Man had chanced upon them in one of his other five stages of drunkenness. (Depending on the intelligence of the individual, one can experience up to ten distinct stages of drunkenness. Brainiac 5 is rumored to go through thirty-eight stages of drunkenness, Storm Boy has nine stages and Tusker has one-half.) I ran a computer simulation, and here are stages two through six of Iron Man's drunkenness:

Stage Two Drunkenness: "The Benefactor"

Iron Man: Hey! Hey, guys! What's up, buddies?

Slasher: You! Stand back! I'll use my eyes--!

Iron Man [picks up the transmitter, vigorously shakes it]: This broke or sumpin'? Don't worry, I can totally fix it for you. Didja know, did I ever tell you before, I gots my own technology company? I think. I'm like a total expert on these things. Say, what's this do? [presses sequence of buttons]

Slasher: Don't touch that, you fool--!

[They're all vaporized by a small nuclear explosion]

Stage Three Drunkenness: "The Lothario"

Iron Man: Well, hello there, flyboy! I got iron in my pants and I want to dance!

Slasher: You!

Iron Man [seizes Slasher and does wild "Lindy hop" with him around the alley, swinging his body around like a rag doll]: You like polka dots baby? 'Cause I know who I'd like to "polka"...

Slasher: Let go of me, you fool!

Iron Man: Hang on, gorgeous, this next move's a little tricky...

[He tosses Slasher in the air but is distracted by a shiny new nickel and forgets to catch him. Slasher lands on the transmitter, setting off a small nuclear explosion.]

Stage Four Drunkenness: "The Patriotic Homophobe"

Iron Man: Two guys in an alley... in matching jumpsuits?! Aw, hells no.

Slasher: You!

Iron Man: What the fuck kind of accent is that? What're you, a Russkie? Zero tolerance, motherfucker! [He incinerates both Slasher and Demitrius while chanting "U.S.A., U.S.A., U.S.A.--!"]

Stage Five Drunkenness: "The Bitter A-hole" (note: this is often indistinguishable from Stage Four)

Iron Man: Goddamn it, now what? I suppose I gotta fly down there now and "do something"... Christ, why does it always have to be me?

Slasher: You!

Iron Man: Yeah, "me." It's always goddamn "me", goddamn it! D.C.'s a big town; why can't they get their own goddman superhero? Huh? Answer me that!

Slasher: I must use... my eyes! [He fires laser beams at Iron Man, creating a couple of small, smoking pock-marks in his chestplate]

Iron Man [looks down at damaged chestplate, sighs]: Oh, that tears it.

Slasher: You'll never take us into police custody! So swears the--

Iron Man: Yeah, you got that shit right. [He incinerates Slasher and Demitrius. Then he stands there for a while, looking warily around at the depressing alleyway, at the Capital Building in the distance, and at the moist Washington sky.] Aw, what's the goddamn point? [He twists one of his hip-frisbees a few degrees, setting off a small nuclear explosion]

Stage Six Drunkenness: "The Vegetative Stagesman" (reserved and dignified, yet barely conscious, prone to propping self up in large chairs and occasionally waving or nodding to people)

Slasher: It's Iron Man! And he's headed right for us! Stand back, you fool! He's raised his arm and is going to use his repulsor beams! I must wait until he gets within range of... my eyes! ...He's not firing his repulsor beams! He-- he seems to be... giving us a "thumbs-up"?! He's not slowing down! Run, Demitrius! He's about to--[Iron Man plows into the alleyway, setting off a small nuclear explosion]

Have All My Friends Had Fun at Play?

...Aaaannnd now you know why Demitrius was never hired as host of the DC-area "Romper Room." *points to Storm Boy, who obligingly plays "flashback glissando" on re-rebuilt Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone*

Director: I gotta say, you are acing this audition, Demitrius!

Demitrius: Bolshoi spasibo, tovarisch-- er, um, I mean, thanks.

Director: Let's just skip to then end, then... that'd be the top of page five in your script. And you can just improv the children's names... feel free to "riff" here.

Demitrius [nods, excitedly flips through script]: Romper, bomper, stomper, boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me, do. Magic mirror, tell me today, have all my friends had fun at play? ...I can see Mike, and Skip, and Farrah, and Jon, and... Guss, and, and Maggie, and Phil, I, I can see so many children, oh God! Head... pounding...!

Director: Whoa! You okay there, buddy?

Demitrius [hyperventilating, trembling]: ...And Phil, and Jen, and Aaron! Jayson! Dorian! Sweet Lord, Slasher, their names--!!!

Director [looks around at otherwise empty room]: "Slasher"? Who the hell--?

Demitrius: I can't hold it in any longer!

Director: Oh, uh, if you need to take a bathroom break, that's cool, we can just--

Demitrius: The change... starting!!! [His forehead bulges and bubbles like some guy from "Scanners" and then two prehensile lobster-clawed arms pop out] GRRRRRAAAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!! MUST... DESTROY...

Director [calmly picks up telephone and punches a button]: Sally, please send in the next applicant... oh, and get the police on the line, would you? Thanks.

The Big Blockadeski

Fade in.

Setting: the H.M.S. Exquisite. Rainbow Girl drags a sober and visibly healthier (if still chunky) Storm Boy down a metal corridor.

Rainbow Girl: We've had some terrible news. Brigadier Blockade is in seclusion in the port side of the ship.

She presses a button, and two heavy wooden doors slide open to reveal Blockade Boy's latest cabin, formerly the crew's lounge. In a corner, Weight Wizard dozes nudely on a liobear-skin rug. Nearby, Cootie the cat contentedly grooms herself. And Blockade Boy himself sits dejectedly on an ottoman, facing a crackling atomic fire which emits little black Kirby-esque bubbles in lieu of smoke. A somber, dirge-like rendition of "Hair of the Dog" reverberates through the room.

Rainbow Girl (softly): Brigadier Blockade.

Blockade Boy waves Storm Boy inside without looking at him.

Blockade Boy: It's funny. I can look back on a life of blogging, costumes bettered, deadlines overcome. I've accomplished more than most pirates-slash-fashion designers, and without the use of organic legs. What... what makes a hero, Storm Boy?

Storm Boy: Myke.

Blockade Boy: Huh?

Storm Boy: My real name is Myke Chypurz, wow, I can't believe I've never told you be-

Blockade Boy: Yeah, I'm not calling you that. But the "hero" stuff. Is it... is it being prepared to do the right thing? No matter the price? Isn't that what makes a hero?

Storm Boy: That and some kick-ass spiky shoulder pads.

Blockade Boy: You're hopelessly tacky, but perhaps you're right. Maybe I'm just not "kewl" enough.

Storm Boy (laughs nervously): Uh-huh. You have a purple beard and metal legs, which practically makes you an official X-Men character, so I really don't think that's your problem.

He thumps on his uniform pocket.

Storm Boy: Mind if I eat a protein bar?

Blockade Boy: Next Top Hero.

Blockade Boy turns to face Storm Boy. In the flickering light of the atomic fire, glistening tears roll down his cheeks and disappear forever within his thick Donegal beard.

Storm Boy: 'Scuse me?

Blockade Boy: Next Top Hero. The internet "reality show" for super-heroes. I got voted off. In a freakin' landslide. What am I, Hate Face?! GODDAMN! ...Are you surprised at my tears, Storm Boy?

Storm Boy: More like alarmed and a little squicked-out, but okay...

Blockade Boy: Amadan men also cry... Amadan men also cry!

He clears his throat, which sounds like a waterlogged outboard motor.

Blockade Boy: I received the news just a little while ago.

He hands Storm Boy a print-out of an image from an ancient Earth computer screen.

Storm Boy: Well, that blows.

Blockade Boy: Rainbow Girl will fill you in on the details.

He turns away and stares into the atomic fire once more. Rainbow Girl taps Storm Boy on the shoulder and leads him out of the room. Storm Boy speaks over his shoulder to Blockade Boy as he exits.

Storm Boy: No, I'm good, you don't have to... I don't-- why do I need to know any details?!

Out of Blockade Boy's cabin, Storm Boy tears the wrapper off a protein bar and devours it.

Storm Boy (crumbs spilling from his mouth): What in space was that all about?

Rainbow Girl: Oh, he's had me drag everybody in there. First Tusker, and then I had to cart Plant Lad's zombie carcass in to see him, and now you. It all goes in order of rank.

Storm Boy: I'm outranked by Plant Lad?! He's the ship's figurehead! He does absolutely nothing at all...

Rainbow Girl smiles wryly, one eyebrow raised.

Storm Boy: ...and I do less than nothing. Got it.

Rainbow Girl: Thanks for not making me say it myself. But here's the main thing you need to know: the Brigadier will be holed up in there feeling sorry for himself for quite some time. I can't see him snapping out of it until Thursday at the earliest. That means no marching--

Storm Boy: Thank God.

Rainbow Girl --and no piracy and certainly no blogging.

Storm Boy: No blogging? Say, in the meantime, could I maybe post some of my poems?

Rainbow Girl: Absolutely not.

Storm Boy: Says Blockade Boy or you?

Rainbow Girl: Does it really matter? And think hard before you answer me.

Storm Boy (cowed): ...No.

Rainbow Girl: Good kid. Now get out of here.

Blockade Boy's hoarse, whining bellow is carried through the dense wooden doors.

Blockade Boy: Rainbow girl? ...RAINBOW GIRL?! Can you make me another Orando Sling? Weight Wizard doesn't know how to do it right...

Rainbow Girl (mutters): I swear to God, if he doesn't stop this shit by Thursday I'm going to stop it for him...

Fade out.

Make Love to the Death Ray

Somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam...

Pvt. Kenworth: Death Ray Duty is the worst. I hate bein' out here alone. It gives me the creeps!

Pvt. Becker: You ain't alone, Kenworth! I'll protect ya!

Pvt. Kenworth: You know what I mean, Beck. Just the two of us, by ourselves. The rest of our unit off God knows where. Hell, for all we know, we could be surrounded by the goddamn VC right now! All them eyes, watchin' us...

Pvt. Becker: Big deal! Hell, I wouldn't blame 'em for starin'. You look like a friggin' movie star!

Pvt. Kenworth: Shut the hell up! I do not!

Pvt. Becker: No, for real! You're one good-lookin' guy!

Pvt. Kenworth: Naw! ...Honest? No, my nose has this little bump in the middle. I'm like deformed.

Pvt. Becker: I ain't bullshittin' ya, man. You have kind of a Steve McQueen thing goin' on. Real rugged.

Pvt. Kenworth: Okay, okay...!

Pvt. Becker: I bet you got a dozen gals droolin' over ya back at home...

Pvt. Kenworth: Naw, not really. I ain't never been much of a "ladies' man" to tell the truth.

Pvt. Becker: Huh. Well, those dizzy broads don't know what they're missin'. You're like sculptural, like one o' them old statues or somethin'!

Pvt. Kenworth: Awright, now I know you're pullin' my leg...

Pvt. Becker: I'm one hunnert-percent on the level, pal. You ever think about modelin'?

Pvt. Kenworth: ...Yeah. Sometimes.

Pvt. Becker: 'Cause you can make some good money that way. A guy gets in with the right photographer, he can make hisself four hunnert, five hunnert bucks a session, easy.

Pvt. Kenworth: WOW!

Pvt. Becker: Yeah, I had me a good business goin' back in the States, linin' up guys for this kinda thing. I sorta got me an "eye" as they say. For example... go lean on the death ray. *mimes that he's holding a camera*

Pvt. Kenworth: Like this?

Pvt. Becker: *laughs* Relax, for Chrissakes! Pretend like it's a '68 Camaro and you're a bigshot who owns a whole garage full o' classic cars, and you're about to take that sweet baby for a spin, maybe pick up some honeys for a little action... yeah, there ya go! Maybe smirk a little. Attaboy! See? You're a natural!

Pvt. Kenworth: This is fun!

Pvt. Becker: Now, undo some of those buttons...

Pvt. Kenworth: How many?

Pvt. Becker: All of 'em!

Pvt. Kenworth: Yeah, awright...

Pvt. Becker: The hell?! Is the heat gettin' to me or is that a goddamn orange t-shirt you're wearin' under there?

Pvt. Kenworth: You like it? My cousin got it for me at one o' them fancy boutiques in Philadelphia. Only, don't tell Sarge, okay?

Pvt. Becker: Can do, kid. But now you owe me... more posing! Really work that death ray!

Pvt. Kenworth: *salutes* Sir, yes sir! How's about this? *leans back over barrel of death ray with legs splayed wide apart and a soporific, open-mouthed expression*

Pvt. Becker: Sweet Jesus! You sure you never done this before?

Pvt. Kenworth: Well... maybe once.

Pvt. Becker: I thought so, ya big phoney! Climb on top o' that bad boy!

Pvt. Kenworth: *balances self on death ray and strikes a surfing pose* Dig me! I'm hangin' ten!

Pvt. Becker: Good, good, now get mean!

Pvt. Kenworth: *snarls, makes tiny clawing motions with his hands*

Pvt. Becker: Yeah! Show that death ray who's boss!

Ten minutes later...

Pvt. Becker: Man, you really gave that death ray a work out!

Pvt. Kenworth: I guess I did! I hope all my yankin' and pullin' on it didn't hurt nothin'.

Pvt. Becker: Are you kiddin'? This baby's made by Stark Industries! It's like the Cadillac of death rays!

Pvt. Kenworth: I guess you're right. Hell, all that posin', my uniform is soaked clean through with sweat! Maybe I should... take it off?

Pvt. Becker: Leave that part to me, killer! What I want you to do is put your hand on the back of your neck, kinda seductive-like, see?

Pvt. Kenworth: Like this?

Pvt. Becker: Christ awmighty! Now hold still while I get those pants--

*the death ray collapses into about three thousand pieces*

Pvts. Becker and Kenworth, in unison: Aw, shit.

The Carpetbagger

Marianne, don't pester Iron Man about a romance when you're dressed like the Invisible Girl and he's drunk. You just might find out more than you bargained for. Case in point:

Marianne: The man I love? Where is he?

Iron Man: He's still with Ben and Johnny in the Negative Zone, sweetheart... don't you worry your pretty little head about it...!

Marianne: Who? What are you talking a--?

Iron Man: They won't be back for daaayyss, baaabyy! Remeb-- remebber? Re-mem-ber? Member? They're tryin' to get Annihilus to donate a stool sample or somethin'... I dunno. Hey! I got me a l'il idea. You jus' truck that egg-squisite bee-hind o' yours ober, over, o-ver to the bar and get your ol' Tony the Tiger another bourbon...! *reaches for her breasts but dizzily tumbles over*

Marianne: Tony, yes, Tony Stark! He was in the plane, and then--!

Iron Man: Listen, listen, I gotta ask you somethin'... *he struggles to his feet and attempts to whisper through his electronically-amplified mouthpiece* IS THE BRAT STAYING WITH ENDORA OR WHOEVER TONIGHT CAUSE I WANNA DO STUFF TO YOU THAT'S GONNA MAKE YOU SCREAM LIKE BLACK BOLT, BABY!

Marianne: I think you have me confused with someone else...

Iron Man: Hey, hey, hey... hey. Let's go fog up the widows... windows on your Pogo Plane, awright? Lonely I-- only I wanna fly it myself, okee-dokee bay-bee? Naw, no, I'm good to go, look at these hands! *holds up his hands, which flutter wildly* Solid as a rocket. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. You 'n' me. Up there. Anti-gravity, honeybuns! C'mon, let's buzz the Mansion, I wanna see the look on Jan's face when she sees your sweet invisible cooter pressed up against the piehole -- porthole, and, and Myron -- my iron thumb jammed up your-- *abruptly snorts, farts, and keels over unconscious*

Marianne: Maybe I'll just have Tony paged by the Information Desk.

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

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.

finis

The Unflattering Accessories Of Doctor Destiny!

In "Justice League of America" #34 (March, 1965), bad apple Doctor Destiny fancies himself a personal stylist and literally "dreams up" some accessories for the team.



The haunted haberdashery puts a serious crimp in the League's crimefighting efforts. But more importantly, most of it just doesn't look very good! Why, if I had been in charge of the dialog... *cue harp glissando*

Superman: These glasses -- have given me the appearance of a stocky 60's business executive at a costume party... and the urge to down like, nine martinis, while chainsmoking and pinching my buxom secretary's ass!

Batman: This high school class ring on my hand -- paints me as a loser whose only success was as a varsity football hero! And now it's ten years later and I'm working as a delivery boy for a Chinese take-out joint, and I've gotten so chubby the goddamn ring won't come off my fat finger, and sometimes I have to deliver eggrolls to old classmates of mine, and they're living in these big fancy houses with gorgeous babes hanging off their arms, and the chicks look at me with this little sneer on their face like "Who's the loser?" and I think back about how I used to give the guy she's sleeping with a "swirly" in the boy's bathroom pretty much every day and now he's banging this hottie and then he pays me with a twenty and says "Keep the change" and I try to say "no" but he puts the money in my shirt pocket like he's doing me a fucking favor and he looks sincerely concerned about me and at that point I really want to give him another swirly.

Hawkman: Ever since these gloves appeared on my hands, I can do the dishes without the harsh detergents ruining my lovely hands! Also, just by having a little more skin covered up I now realize how creepy it is for me to galavant about in public with my shirt off in the still-square days of 1965, I mean, if it was the late 90's and I was a college boy at Lollapalooza with this amazing body sure I'd probably be shirtless along with all the other short-haired pseudo-hippie frat boys buying a six-foot-tall bong with my daddy's American Express card and pumping my fists to a Snoop Dogg number and thinking about date-raping that high school girl I'd flirted with fifteen minutes ago but right now? Kinda creepy. Also, I really wish I knew what happened to my nipples... and my package!

Wonder Woman: How can I defeat my foe, when the mask I'm wearing betrays my penchant for buying glitzy crap on QVC? It's covered in genuine cubic zirconia! I'm paying for it in twelve E-Z installments of $89.95! My house is filled with junk like this! I can't seem to help myself! Please, somebody help me! I'm living on cat food!

The Atom: And what chance do I have of overcoming my foe when I look like a complete dork? Also, I have an antenna on my head! I look like a bottle of liquid soap! No, I said only I only look like -- HEY! Put me down! Don't squeeze -- AAAAARRRGGGHHH!!! *dies*

And to answer your question, Steven, I haven't forgetten about the "supervillain accessories" post. By which I mean I did completely forget about it until just now. D'oh!

Jewel Live To Regret This

Don't you just hate it when an accessory overpowers the rest of your ensemble? I know I sure do. In fact, this very thing happened to me when I was a Junior in High School! Allow me to set the scene for you: it's the thirtieth century and my buddies and I are in the quad, standing in line to order our class rings. I'm in my Space-Goth phase, rocking a figure-hugging black vinyl number, alternately black-and-white streaked hair that came down to about the middle of my back, and an immaculately trimmed black tailback beard, with heavily-kohled eyes and red contact lenses. I'm feeling fantastic after having just made the most kick-ass handbag in shop class. It's a good day. Little did I know what trials lay ahead...

Polecat: Black and white? Puh-lease. I originated that look, you know.

Me [looking behind me at Polecat]: And I perfected it, Polecrap. The way you do it is so tired, anyway. I don't even know why -- ugh. You know what? Just don't talk to me. And would it kill you to wear some deodorant?

Polecat [sputtering]: I'll have you know this musk is a potent symbol of male sexual power among my proud yet downtrodden people! Don't make me call the Sensitivity Police on your skanky ass!

Me: And don't make me call the Fashion Police! You've got legs like two tubes of extruded space-polenta and you're wearing short-shorts? Honey, 'round these parts that's punishable by lethal injection.

Polecat: "Lethal injection"? Is that what you called it when you gave Fire Lad the space-clap?

Me [fists clenching]: Oh, it is on now, Motherfu--

Ring Salesman: Next!

Polecat [nervously fans himself with his hands, inadvertently wafting more of his stench onto me]: Oh thank God.

Ring Salesman: Have you had a chance to look at the brochure?

Me: Yes, and I know exactly what I want.

Ring Salesman: Which is...?

Me: A dazzle gem.

Ring Salesman: We don't sell rings with dazzle gems in them.

Me: I still want one.

Ring Salesman: Sir, dazzle gems are extremely rare and terribly expensive.

Me: Well, why do you think I want one? Duh! You're not the most powerful laser in the space-drawer, are you?

Ring Salesman: Just choose something else.

Me: Inertron?

Ring Salesman: Again, we don't offer that.

Me: How 'bout Zuunium?

Ring Salesman: No! Did you read the brochure at all?

Me: Yes! But now I don't know what to go with since you don't have anything cool.

Ring Salesman: Here's an idea... what's your birthstone?

Me: Sigellian.

Ring Salesman: Fine. And what sort of metal would you like for the setting?

Me: Duralim.

Ring Salesman: Oh, for--! We don't offer that metal because wearing it pretty much guarantees you'll be struck by lighting. Look, you can have gold, silver, platinum, lurium, spectrasite or ultrasite.

Me: Fine, fine. I'll have the lurium with that setting. [points to holo-photo floating over the ring salesman's table]

Ring Salesman [tallying price on refrigerator-sized calculating machine]: Okay! Your total with tax comes to Three thousand, six hundred and ninety-three space-dollars.

Me: What--?! That's insane! Are all your stones priced like that?

Ring Salesman: Most of 'em, yeah.

Me: Let's start over. What's your cheapest stone?

Ring Salesman: That'd be Green Kryptonite. On Earth there's so much of it they use it to cover their driveways.

Me: So how much would that run me?

Ring Salesman: Roughly? About two thousand five. Sorry, there's an import tax.

Me: Shit. That's ten times the amount in my savings.

Ring Salesman [incredulous]: All you kids were told about the class rings last year. Are you telling me you didn't put away anything for today?

Me [sheepish]: I did but then I blew most of it on these hair extensions.

Polecat: I believe that's what's known as "throwing money down an A-hole." [titters annoyingly]

Me [to ring salesman]: Pardon me one second. [whips around and punches Polecat square in the face. He drops like a sack of space-potatoes. Then I address the salesman again.] C'mon, pal. Do me a solid. Don't you have anything I could use in a class ring?

Ring Salesman [digs in pocket]: Well, there is this weird stone I found on the sidewalk this morning.

Me: Lay it on me. [examines stone] Say, it has a spooky monster face inside it! Sweet! Tell you what, I'll have this stone with an ultrasite setting and GREAT PLANETS I'M BEING DRAWN INTO THE JEWEL!!!

[I float in a bizarre Ditko-esque skyscape within the gem. The monster face hovers over me and addresses me in a booming, echoing voice.]

Jewel: Yes! Your petty greed has trapped you behind the facets of my prismatic power! Submit, mortal! Your destiny is no longer your own! I am the master and you are the humble instrument of my dreaded will! BECOME ONE WITH THE STYGIAN STONE!

Me: Yeah, no thanks.

Jewel: Silence, wretched one! You desired infinite power and it shall indeed be yours but at a terrible price: YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL!

Me: I think you have me confused with somebody else. I just wanted an affordable class ring. 'Kay? Bye.

Jewel: THERE IS NO ESCAPING THE STYGIAN STONE! Many have dared to try and all have failed! Feel your willpower DRAIN AWAY as my thoughts become your own!

Me: Nope. Not happening. Tell you what. I'm in a good mood today so you just let me out of here and we'll call it square.

Jewel: Cease your senseless prattle! ALL WHO LIVE WILL BEND TO THE WILL OF THE STYGIAN STONE!

Me: Screw you, asswipe. You don't wanna cooperate? Fine! I'll figure some other way to bust out of this creepy dump.

Jewel: ODD! Mayhap your alien physiognamy has a natural immunity to my thought-warping rays!

Me: Or maybe I'm just that cool, dickweed.

Jewel: NO MATTER! Until the end of days, your fragile form shall remain trapped within my crystalline walls!

Me: Whatever. Talk to the wall. [I turn into a steel wall, which somehow causes the gem to shatter and eject me back into the physical plane. Still in wall-form, I teeter for a moment and then tip over onto the already-prone Polecat who was just then regaining consciousness. I turn back into humanoid form and scramble to my feet.]

Polecat: YEEOW! Uncle already! I don't know what crawled up your ass today, Blockade Boy, but you are acting like a major bitch.

Ring Salesman [digging a sliver of the destroyed jewel out of his eye]: You know, we do offer low-interest financing.

Me [a bit shaken]: Yeah, let's go with that.

I'm A Bad, Bad Man

Because I'm late again! I was waylaid by one of your primitive 21st century sinus infections. Honestly, I don't know how you people can even bring yourselves to get out of bed in the morning. In my day, your planet has signed a peace treaty with all viruses, bacteria, mold spores and pollen: they were given their own country (The Post-Nasalia And Drippe Republics, formerly Switzerland) in exchange for their not killing all that many people every year. Of course, that was before Infectious Lass, a.k.a. "Patient Zero" showed up. But I digress. I'll make up for my lax behavior by posting again later on today. Then I'll be all caught up! We'll start with these two knobs from "Star-Lord: The Special Edition" #1 (Marvel, February, 1982).

Three days earlier, in the "Banana Quadrant" clothing store on the fourth moon of Phobos 19...

Gareth (scrutinizing himself in the three-way mirror): ...I'm not sure.

Clerk: Oh, trust me, the asymmetrical look is totally hot this year. And see? (zips left boot up so it looks the same as the right boot) With our patented "freebooter," you can switch from "pirate" to "privateer" in one easy movement. Two looks in one! But most men prefer to go both ways, if you know what I mean.

Rruothk'ar (glancing up from his USA Today): He does.

Clerk: I just adore them. I have two pair of these at home!

Gareth: Oh, you mean like one in each color?

Clerk (mystified): No.

Gareth: Huh. Well, I still don't know if this is me.

Clerk: That's because you haven't seen it with the sash yet! (hurriedly wraps a swath of fabric around Gareth's waist)

Gareth: A sash--! I'm sorry, but that's completely impractical. Where would I put my rapier?

Clerk: It goes on the sash, silly! We sell the spaghetti-strap rapier sheath accessory for only five credits more! They're so great. I have four of them at home!

Gareth: Oh, you're into fencing?

Clerk (uncomprehending): Why would you say that?

Gareth (looks back at his companion): Rruothk'ar, honey? What do you think?

Rruothk'ar (not looking up): Leave me out of it.

Gareth (scoffs): This is partly for your benefit, you know. Don't you want me to look sexy?

Rruothk'ar: All I care about is how fast I can get all that mess off of you. And to be honest, we appear to be nearing my libido's cut-off point.

Clerk: It's really very easy to remove! Check out the blouse. Don't you just love the sleeves? You can shimmy it off in five seconds flat! I think they're great. Why, I have twelve of these at home!

Gareth: But... it only comes in three colors.

Clerk (baffled): And your point is...?

(Gareth and the clerk stare blankly at each other for a full minute.)

Clerk: Okay, never mind all that. You have to see it with the cape.

Rruothk'ar: Jesus. A cape, too? Why don't we just nail you into a crate and send you off to Planet Not Gettin' Any?

Clerk (bustling): Ignore him. (drapes the high-collared cloak over Gareth's shoulders)

Gareth: Oh my! (turns too and fro, admiring himself) Woo! Check me out! I totally have a "Dr. Strange" thing going on.

Rruothk'ar: And you don't mind that it makes the entire upper right quarter of your body look like a melted candle?

Gareth (to Clerk): He always gets cranky when it's Molting Season.

Rruothk'ar (peeling a long section of skin from his neck): That's a damn lie!

Clerk: Did I mention the cloak is on sale? Ten for the price of one!

Gareth (to himself): At last, the pieces of the puzzle are falling into place.

Clerk: Pardon me?

Gareth: Nothing. (turns to Rruothk'ar) Please, honey? For your snugglebear? (his fingers play along the ridges on Rruothk'ar's snout)

Rruothk'ar: Aw, Christ. You guys take Visa?

Or at least, that's what I figure happened. Whaddaya say, Gareth? Did I guess right?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Masquerade Smarties

Next Jimmy's headed to the Byrne boards to really start some shit!

Everyone's favorite boneheaded, er, redheaded cub reporter has donned "The Helmet of Hate!" -- which is also the title of this reprint story from "Jimmy Olsen" #113 (Aug.-Sept. 1968). Like a lot of Superman Family stories from its era, it's filled with so many SHOCKING TWISTS and STARTLING REVELATIONS that it chokes on them, and dies an exceedingly moronic death. The primary plot element here is deception. Sure, the reader thinks one thing is going on, but it's actually something entirely different! And they'll explain with excruciating detail how everything was done! I wonder sometimes if the Superman comics were edited by Julius Schwartz or the Amazing Randi. (The closest modern example I can think of is the first couple years of the JSA comic, in which every seemingly unbeatable villain had a fatal Achilles heel -- which the JSA knew about all along! Or any Warren Ellis/Garth Ennis/Mark Millar story where the "hero" is a deceitful wiseass.)

Suffice it to say that everything that seems to be happening to Jimmy and Superman is all a ruse in order to foil an alien invasion. Got it? Swell. Now I'm free to talk fashion!

About that helmet -- I'm not sure why so many sci-fi helmets from the 50's and 60's were transparent. You'd have to make sure your hair was flawless before you put it on -- and then the weight of the helmet would smoosh it down. So you'd be screwed! The Hate Helmet doesn't seem as bad, since the glass or what-have-you is kept away from the top of your coif -- as long as you keep your hair reasonably close to your scalp. A pompadour might be a bad idea. And just imagine the grease marks all over the glass!

But Jimmy didn't just accessorize with a Hate Helmet. He's also brandishing a red Kryptonite gun! Or is he? ...Okay, he's not. Hope that doesn't spoil the story for you.



Uh-oh! The red-K has turned Superman into a devil! Not! That costume looks kind of familiar, doesn't it? I'm guessing he popped into the Phantom Zone and borrowed Mon-El's tunic.

Mon-El: Superman! At last, you've come to free me from this dreadful prison!

Superman: Um... yes! That's precisely why I'm here! But you'll have to remove your top first.

Mon-El: Sure, I-- what?

Superman: I'll need a sample of your clothing in order to match your exact molecular frequency. So hurry up and get nude.

Mon-El: I've got a button here that popped loose. Can't you just take that instead of the entire tunic?

Superman: Oh, I'm sorry, Mon-El, I thought you were serious about wanting to get out of here. But obviously you'd rather stay in the Phantom Zone getting phantom dry-humped by General Zod than enjoy untold freedom in the outside world. Tell you what -- when you grow the fuck up and decide to act like a man, you give me a call. 'Kay? Bye.

Mon-El: Wait! I'm a grown-up! I'm serious! [he hurriedly removes his tunic]

Superman [snatches the tunic from Mon-El's hands]: Yoink! See you in 990 years, sucker! [he vanishes]

Hey, pixie boots! I didn't even know they made shoes like that in Superman's size. He really went all-out on this devil costume! For him, I mean. I don't hold Superman to an especially high standard when it comes to costume design. I would have spruced it up with some nice gauntlets, maybe with talons on them, and a much longer and nicer cape. Or a cloak! I just watched Michael Powell's "The Tales Of Hoffman" this weekend, and I think Leonide Massine's "Schlemil" costume in a shade of crimson would have been nice as well. It was a military number with these big silver hawks or owls or something on the shoulders. Very striking. Superman could have used bats instead, or some kind of lame-ass Kryptonian fauna that only some nerdy loser would be familiar with. Like a rondor! (Oops.) And now for the shocking conclusion!



Oh, for--! Now he'll never be able to return those things to Hot Topic.

Bride And Grooming

Karnilla took a sip of mead, then casually smashed the goblet in the little satyr's face. "Pray tell me why you be not pleased, my betrothed?" she purred.

"Many reasons have I," replied Baldur. "For one--!" Abruptly, Baldur wrenched the slobbering imp from his left leg and threw him against a nearby cavern wall. "Thou hast 'measured mine inseam' enow, wretch! Think me not ignorant of thine attempts to 'cop a feel.'" The silver-maned god of light smoothed the wrinkles from his garish raiment and strode purposefully toward his soon-to-be-wife. In a deep, clear voice, strangely reminiscent of church bells, he unburdened his heart. "For one, mine legs be so constrained by thine straps and buckles that mine very circulation be impaired, so very much so that I fear I should lose a toe afore our wedding night! Secondly, I recollect with much clarity seeing this self-same skirt on professional figure skater Michelle Kwan. Thirdly..."

"Thou dost enjoy women's figure skating?" inquired Karnilla with a tiny smirk.

"That be beside mine point!" Baldur snapped.

"No, thou has made me curious as to thine other interests!" Karnilla grinned. She leaned forward, like a panther appraising an unsuspecting fawn. "What else might thou do for fun? Shoe shopping? Body waxing? Gossipping about Jared Leto?"

Baldur's shining eyes glared balefully at his betrothed. "Queen of all that is evil," he swore, "thou shalt not get mine goat!"

A rueful titter escaped Karnilla's cruel mouth. "I be not sure I'd want thine goat! I knowest not how thou might have made sport with it!"

"To continue," sighed Baldur, "These gloves be most passing strange. The orange pigment rubs off to reveal a hue as red as roses. And what be the purpose of these so-called 'repulsor rays?'"

"The gloves I found at a garage sale," Karnilla smiled. "Vintage, see? Be they not cool?"

"But mine most pressing complaint," continued Baldur, "is in reference to the chest plate. I see not why mine nipples need screen doors."

Karnilla shook her head. "Silly godling," she clucked. Regally, she arose from her couch and advanced on the white-haired god. She placed her hands on his chest, causing him to recoil in alarm. "Tis no ordinary chest plate, my lord, but a stereo! One dost only work the skull like this...! Her slim, taloned fingers carressed Baldur's chest. As if by magic, a tinny rendition of Wagner's "Fire Music" flitted through the speakers and wafted about the cavern. Baldur winced, his square jaw tightening. And then, fresh tears brimming in his eyes, he softly sighed and submitted himself fully to the Norn Queen's ministrations.

"And besides," Karnilla added, "thou hast not seen it with the hat on yet! Not that the Queen of the Norns wishes to hide her king's gorgeous silver hair, but it dost be traditional, mine love! And hark! Turn it upside-down, and it doubles as a foot-stool!"

Not Your Friend, But An Incredible Simulation

One of the weirder things in Roy Thomas' most recent run on "Thor" was the "Godpack." And I'm not just talking about the crazy sub-Liefeld costumes and hair (although I'll get to those momentarily). I mean the whole concept is kind of batshit insane. Because the Godpack consists of apparently random shmoes who were transformed by the High Evolutionary into super-beings with no memory of their old names or, I suspect, anything else. Which is just creepy. And here's the kicker: their new super-powered bodies were designed to emulate various Norse gods. And Thor became the leader of the group. Which means Thor spent a lot of time bossing around artificial versions of his close, personal friends.

Of course, Thor is used to bizarre crap like that. Just imagine what it must have been like in the Wundagore Gift Shoppe!

High Evolutionary: Janice? I've decided to promote you to manager.

Janice: Oh--! Well, thank you, Mister Evolutionary! So did Laurie quit, or did you promote her too, or--

High Evolutionary (darkly): Laurie's services were no longer needed.

Janice: I... see. Well, I'd better put in a classified ad for a new sales clerk!

High Evolutionary: No need! Behold, Janice O'Malley, for I now present to you... FUR RED!

Janice: The hell--?! He looks just like my friend Fred, only...

High Evolutionary: Only much, much BETTER! The creature you see before you is indeed based on the Fred you know, but is a wholly separate being with a myriad of genetic improvements! I trust you don't mind.

Janice: I just want to make sure the registers are covered. Still, it'll be kind of weird working with a guy who has Fred's face --

High Evolutionary: And his habit of whistling snippets of music from "Candide."

Janice: Really? Yikes. The main thing is... it'll be weird for me to, say, see Fred in the laundry room of our apartment building and then see his face again on a seven-foot-tall creature with a bright red lion's mane.

High Evolutionary: And tail.

Janice: Ew. Well, "Fur Red," let's find a company polo shirt that will fit you.

Fur Red: FUR RED NEEDS NO SHIRT! GRRRARRGGHH!

Janice (warily eyeing the broad, triangular thatch of red fur on the creature's chest): Trust me. You do.

[The two of them head for the storeroom, with Fur Red huskily whistling the opening bars of "Glitter And Be Gay."]

OKAY! Time for individual evaluations!



Back row:

"Anak." Son Of Thunder! (Kidding. And boy, is that ever a joke for comic book nerds!) Ridiculously gigantic and strong bald Black guy. Because that's not a sad, demeaning cliche, honest and for true. His outfit is actually the most demure of the bunch, except for the daring use of Seafoam Green, a color normally found on vacationing grandmas.

And that's it for the back row. Because he's big!

Front row, left to right (we'll skip Thor):

"Bellam." You know what I love about comic book ponytails? I love that they can grow to four, five feet long and still bounce around in complicated snaking patterns without a single strand out of place. I wonder what Bellam's hairdressing secret is. Some kind of xtreme-hold gel? Or Crisco, maybe? Also note that the High Evolutionary spent most of his shoe budget on everyone else so when he got to Bellam he only had about five bucks left and had to buy a pair of flimsy sandals from some hippie out on the street. Also, the poor dope has an axe for a hand. Not that he lost his hand in an accident, mind you. Nope, the High Evolutionary designed Bellam's current body to lack one hand. It cannot be said enough: the High Evolutionary is a creepy bastard.

"Luminor, Lord of Light." Which is funny, since I would have guessed from his breastplate that he was Lord of Corrugated Cardboard. Got enough kneepads, Luminor? You do? Then could I borrow a couple? No? Yeah, I didn't think so.

"Blitziana." Nothing screams "ready for battle" like a chrome-plated sports bra, huh? Check out the gloves. I'm thinking Blitziana is dressed to go to the opera. Providing that opera is being performed by the Celestials. (I've heard that Exitar is simply smashing as Madame Butterfly.) Bonus Creepy Points: the Norse god that Blitziana is based on? Is Thor. I guess the High Evolutionary was thinking, "Yeah, I like Thor and all, but you know what he needs? A fabulous rack. And maybe Wolverine's hair." News flash, honey! Nobody needs Wolverine's hair. Not even Wolverine needs Wolverine's hair.

"Loga." What a clever way to reuse those old red curtains in the sitting room! Bravo, High Evolutionary! And those tights look like they'd pinch. Just a bit. Just a teensy bit.

"Zefra." I don't think my eyes can take this much magenta. Notice how if she poses just so it looks like she's nude below the waist! Which is totally not on purpose, I'm sure. And there's more segmentation on the accessories, which, I'm sorry, is just stupid. Once Weight Wizard got his foot stuck inside a Slinky. (Yes, they'll still be manufactured one thousand years from now. Hey, stock tip!) If those arm-deals are anything like that Slinky, Zefra should be bawling like a baby and accusing Thor of taking her for granted. Oh wait, I guess he wasn't really blaming the Slinky for that second thing. Also, check out her hair. At this size, I can't tell if she's wearing a really goofy Zatanna hat or if it's a dye job. But one thing I do know is that her Medusa Lite mane would have been sexier if somebody hadn't snipped off the last two inches of it. I'm guessing Bellam got tired of being shown up in the hair department and took a little revenge. Bellam, you little bitch!