Bonus Post: My New Swim Trunks are No Merry Marvel

Next week's post will be on Tuesday instead of Monday, so I'm giving you all an extra, early post this week. After all, it's the polite thing to do.

Don't you just hate it when this sort of thing happens?

Still confused? It's a long story, but here goes. Remember when I said Weight Wizard had faked his death again? Well, I tracked him down to the space spa on the light side of the moon, where he'd finagled a job operating the cellular trim ray. His name tag said "Lorenzo LaFontaine" but I could tell it was him, even behind the eyepatch and the cheesy fake mustache. Well, the first thing I did was to rip that mustache right off his face, and that's when I saw that it wasn't fake, and after he stopped screaming and we got most of the blood sopped up, I hustled his sorry ass out of there and we had a man-on-top-of-man talk. Weight Wizard confessed that he'd faked his death this time not because he had fallen out of love with me, but because he'd developed a hopeless shopping addiction and he was up to his eyeballs in debt. (I'd wondered how he'd been able to afford all the crap he was always hauling back to our swing-a-delic pad, like the fossilized brain-globe and the radio-controlled saucer made of real spectrium and the kangobronc-skin pants and the android replica of Noel Coward. Turns out he couldn't!)

Since the sweet l'il degenerate couldn't help himself, I forcibly enrolled him into a five-step program. I suppose I should explain here that the decisive disproval of the existance of God back in 2737 (Haw! Eat it, Immanuel Kant! Also, I suppose I should have prefaced this with a "spoiler alert.") knocked seven steps out of most addiction-recovery programs. It's a real time-saver! The only downside is that when you die, you're swallowed by a black nothingness. I hope you're all okay with that. Aaannyway, on one of my conjugal visits to the treatment center, Weight Wizard gave me these really cool-looking swimtrunks he'd made for me in metal shop. They're based on a costume I had designed for Lightning Lad (but which he was too chickenshit to wear) and they had this nifty gold-plated codpiece deal. They were pretty snazzy, and they fit like a glove.

So I decided to show off my new togs down at ritzy California Island (located some ways off the coast of Nevada) and I don't mind telling you I was getting a lot of envious looks! Sure, I had to wear a shirt because I'm prohibited by Presidential decree from entering the water with a bare torso -- all the back hair I shed when I swim forms this Sargasso-Sea-like mass and it traps dolphins and sea turtles, not to mention the occasional Olympic swimmer -- but I still cut a fine figure if I do say so myself. I was having a space whale of a time flirting with this brutally handsome lifeguard when suddenly, out of a clear blue sky, a ginormous lightning bolt zapped me right in the crotch! YEEOW!!! Not only did it sting like a mo-fo, but it seared my junk clean off!

You heard me.

Luckily, like all the men of my home planet of Amadus, testosterone is generated by pretty much every cell of my body. So I'm as manly and hairy as ever. More so, actually, since my body's overcompensating for the loss of my "stuff." Anyhow, at the hospital they fitted me with a hydraulic prosthesis. It's cutting-edge technology, studded with vacuum tubes, and you can program its action with a punch card, and to get it started you just pull a little lever on the side, like on a slot machine. Oh, and I can't forget to replenish the oil reservoir every three hours or so, or else it starts smoking like a son of a bitch. Still, I'm a little bummed about having a robotic dingus. I mean, first my pinky toe and now this! Sizzling comets, at this rate I'll wind up looking like Tharok before I'm thirty!

Now, where was I--? Ah, yes. My hospital visit. While the brawny physician's assistant was spending a suspiciously long amount of time adjusting my prosthesis, the doctor held up a still-smoldering scrap of metal from the trunks' codpiece and said, "Why in space would a smart young man like you go to the beach with duralim swim trunks?"

I believe my exact reply was something along the lines of "You have got to f***ing kidding me."

I don't know why Weight Wizard acts out like this. It's like he wants me to be filled with rage. Or maybe he's still harboring some resentment about my putting him in that program, or maybe he's bitter because he'll never be able to grow another mustache, ever, ever again. Yeah, probably that last thing. Well, the two of us are going to have another "talk" when I see him again -- a good, long, painful, debilitating "talk." (I'll let you all know if there's anything left of him.)

Next Tuesday: Gender Reassignment Challenge: Mantis!

Next of Ken

In "Secret Origins" #8 (November, 1986) Doll Man grapples with a serious shrinkage problem. For starters, what's he going to wear?

Wow, male back-al nudity in a DC comic! And he's not even Doctor Manhattan! I'm just not sure how the sight of a miniature adult male in a diaper is less upsetting than the sight of a miniature adult male in the nude. Let's just hope his fiance doesn't get wind of this! Oops. Too late.

As we all know, a chaste kiss sounds like "SMAK" while a deep, throat-vacuuming French-style kiss sounds like "SMAKK." It's the vibration of the tonsils as they're probed by an alien tongue that produces the additional "K" sound. Say, maybe at the wedding Doll Man can just be tucked into the best man's pocket. Or pants, just to give the kiss at the end of the ceremony some spice. "You may now kiss the bride..." *jazzy electric guitar and drum machine music begins to play as the church is lit up by red strobe lights*

In panel two, the prospective father-in-law hastily excuses himself. Because he's more comfortable watching this sort of thing through the slats of a Venetian blind.

Okay, so the idea of marrying a curio-sized man might seem exciting... to some people... at first. But that kind of relationship can't last. I mean, sure, it's kind of thrilling when you learn that the hot robo-gladiator pilot you had your eyes on is from Imsk, and the two of you invent all kinds of fun new activities in the bedroom, but soon enough you walk out of the shower and find him on top of your dresser, humping your cybernetic toe prosthesis, and you get so angry that you grab him with one hand and you squeeze him and you squeeze him and then you're holding a dead Imskian in your hand and you don't know what to do with the body because trash pickup isn't until Monday. We've all been there, right?

...No? Oh. Er, anyway, let's see how Martha copes, shall we?

Check out panel three. This is the origin of Doll Man's costume. Nobody had any idea of him being a superhero. Nope, Martha sewed that for him to wear as his everyday outfit. I think that's her way of telling him she wants to break things off. "And just imagine, dearest, once we're married you can wear hotpants, a muscle shirt, pixie boots, and a cape, every single day! Won't that be marvelous? Unless... you would want to 'take a break' from the engagement and reconsider your options... I'd totally understand, I mean, this whole doll-sized thing, that's got to be pretty stressful and you'd want to spend some time away from it all, thinking about where you're going with your life... and maybe you could even date some other women just to make sure that I'm really 'the one'... and, and, y'know what? Maybe I should date some other men, too! I mean, as long as you get to have some fun, why shouldn't I? Why is it that you get to do whatever the hell you want while I have to stay here at home like a nun with nobody but my fat four-eyes of a father to keep me company, huh? I mean, what the fuck?! You think I'm going to just stand around and do nothing while you stick your toothpick-sized pecker in every clap-ridden whore in the tri-county area? Is that what you think?! God, you can be so selfish sometimes! I HATE YOU!" *flees the room, weeping*

Or maybe she's just not very good at sewing pants or sleeves.

!emutsoc ykcus a em eviG

I have to admit I'm not really thrilled with how my Night Girl costume design turned out. I might have to try again. With something skimpier. And maybe a poncho or something for when she's surprised by sudden sunrises or whatever. Oh, and while we're on the subject of superheroines with butt-ugly costumes, how 'bout that Zatanna? "Secret Origins" #27 (June 1988) showcased all of 'em! And more! Let's start with what she likes to wear for investigating spooky French castles in the rain.

It's an interesting look for her: the top half is suitable for the local Christmas pageant, while the bottom half is perfect for servicing a muff-diving crack addict. Although the fumes would indicate some serious douching is in order.

And here's Zatanna in action, sort of, wearing her "classic" costume with the top hat and the fishnets. Because nothing screams "superheroics" like dressing as a cocktail waitress. It's not bad, I suppose, but I think it looks better without the top hat. Top hat + long hair = Gary Oldman in "Bram Stoker's Dracula." In other words, it looks ridiculous. Next!

Zatanna is all smiles after getting the Justice League's mandatory breast augmentation and lobotomy. My problem with this one is the ponytail. It's too youthful. I hate it when grown women put their hair up like that with the intent of looking sexy. I'm aware I'm not exactly their target audience, but still. I suppose she had to do something with her hair to keep it out of that monstrous collar she's wearing but really, anything would have been better that that. Hey, why not a beehive? (Kidding.) I wonder if this costume change came about because Black Canary was on the team back then, and they were afraid of having two women on a superteam dressed like hookers. These days that kind of thing isn't so much of a concern, is it, Chuck Austen?

Ah, the Cootie Hat Era. You know a costume is hideous when your body would rather self-destruct than be seen wearing it. (It happens. I once bought a pair of zip-up ostrich skin boots dyed cornflower blue, and they caused me to lose a toe. True story. Although it may have been due to poor circulation.) But enough of the past! This story introduced what was intended to be Zatanna's new, permanent costume, for ever and ever and ever. Ready? *plays opening chords of "The Final Countdown" on a synthesizer*

Ya duhn da duhn-da-dah! Slacks! Didn't last too long, did it? The fanboy fetish for superheroine skin torpedoed this modest little number. Of course, the fact that it made her look like a vampiric theater usher may also have had something to do with it. Personally, I love the cape, but that's about it. And that yellow vest is ridiculous. Bah! Bah, I say to you now.

Hey, bonus panel!

Rrrowr! You wouldn't think anybody could look like a badass in a jinglebell hat (with a feather!) but I'll be darned if Cagliostro didn't pull it off. Hell, he's rocking that jinglebell hat! I mean, I always figured Cagliostro was a pimp, but goddamn. He can read my palm, anytime!