Shrink Me Deadly (by Blockade Boy's Pal, Gadfly Lad)

Phht. Amateurs.

Gadfly Lad here! I'm blogging on a secure line (that goes directly to your era and dimension), so I think it's safe to tell you that my one-man, unauthorized, danger-fraught and 98.239% kick-ass secret gonzo rogue mission is going really quite well! (And thanks for asking!)

Here's the deal: since he became a space-pirate, Blockade Boy has enjoyed "cult hero" status with the criminal classes. This only increased once he adopted that bogus "twin brother" identity, because it allowed people to make up shit about what the "real" Blockade Boy was doing. So he was "sighted" everywhere, doing everything people wanted a populist sociopath to do. When those intraweb sites spread the truth of what happened, it could have caused some serious damage to Blockade Boy's "street cred" (as they say on the streets). But of course, the big ape had to spectacularly resist arrest and catapult himself to the top of the U.P. Most Wanted list. And now, he's out there, somewhere, kicking all kinds of tail, and forcibly making over everybody he defeats. He's become a legend.

My idea: infiltrate Lallor's underworld, and get some juicy intel on where Blockade Boy is hiding. Once I locate him, I'm sure I can convince him to turn himself in. He's such a smooth talker (when he's not breaking things) that I bet he can cop to some kind of plea deal and not even do any prison time! Then we can go back to work for Eyeful Ethel and everything will be cool again.

For my scheme to work, I had to adopt a new identity, courtesy of my super-disguise kit. So I shaved off my mustache (which killed me, since I'd been growing it for three years, eight months, two weeks and one day, and it was just starting to come in real nicely, in my opinion) and I buzzed my hair down to a spiky thatch on top, with just some fuzz on the sides that extended down to my sideburns. Then, I dyed it all a cornflower blond. (With as fast as my hair grows, the roots won't show for a good seven weeks, at least.) While I was at it, I went ahead and dyed my body hair -- which is to say, the seven strands on my chest. I changed from my action-costume into a new get-up that included a battered straw cowboy hat, mirrored goggles, a sleeveless flannel shirt, and baggy polymer hip-waders with cacti embroidered on the sides. And there ya go: I'm no longer "Gadfly Lad: private detective", but am instead one Eli "Tater" Bugzz: Winathian "singleton", runt-of-the-litter, con-artist, ladies' man (but of course) and all-around bad dude.

As "Tater", I've been hustling chumps out of their space-cheddah in trivia games at some of the sleaziest dives in town. See, I let 'em start out thinking I'm some dumb hick, and then I drop some knowledge on 'em! BOO-YAH! I've gotten into a couple of scraps over it. No problem. And I gotta tell you, it's a real rush, staying full-size and fighting hand-to-hand, instead of shrinking down and using ranged weaponry or maces. With my naturally-superior size advantage, I'm pretty slippery, and I've got some barely-legal moves I picked up from watching Beat the Living Crap Out of You League exhibition tourneys. Two of the three people I tussled with had switch-lasers. No problem. "Tater's" gimmick is his joy-buzzer work gloves (favored by 28.6% of all Winathian criminals, ages 18-35, according to a recent poll) so I can just apply a judicious shock to the 'nads if I get cornered. I feel amazing after toppling a guy three times my height. It's better than sex! (From what I understand.)

The last pub I was in, I overheard some rough-looking dudes whispering about "the new kid" and how I'd be perfect for "the operation."

Gee, I hope they're talking about a criminal enterprise.

The Tinytanic (by disgruntled guest-blogger, Gadfly Lad)

Sure, make the Bgztlian do all the work. And the Protean doesn't even get to sit in the boat! It has to swim alongside. Unless, maybe it's in training for the Space-Olympics...?

It's me, again. Gadfly Lad. I'm not blogging because Storm Boy asked me to. In fact, he's stopped asking me to!

Let me back up.

I guess I should have realized that if Storm Boy was going to ask me to guest-blog, that he might actually read what I wrote. He called me into his office -- by which, I mean Eyeful Ethel's -- to chew me out over my "insubordination." He demanded to know why I didn't respect him. (And that's the hallmark of an effective manager, double-eyeroll.) So I told him! I said that while I respected his scientific genius, I thought he was a disaster as a leader. I started to give him what I'm sure would have been only between 6.8852 and 7.0023 minutes of explanation for this, but he only let me get to the 1.7304 minute mark before he interrupted me. He shouted, "I ONCE RAN A MULTI-BILLION-CHEDDAH COMPANY!"

And I said, "Yeah, INTO THE GROUND!"

And then he fired my ass. That's right!

I told him I was planning on quitting, anyway. (Confession time: I totally wasn't, you guys. But that's just between us.) Dentata Damsel poked her head through the door and murmured that she was quitting, too, since she'd gotten an offer to (subliminally) narrate a new line of "better sex" holo-vids from Paramount-Universo. Out of sheer spite, I snatched up a big stack of Storm Boy's comics off his desk (YOINK!) and I buzzed out the door. Storm Boy's sole remaining employee is now Frigid Queen, and she spends most of her time macking on and/or pummeling Phantom Lad. It gets hard to tell the difference, sometimes. Not that I'm any expert, mind you. But I'm pretty sure a lady wouldn't like it if I punched her in the boob.

...Hang on. I just heard the buzzer go off on the sonic clothes-tumbler.

Okay. Let's see, here... spare costume (all warm from the clothes-tumbler!), three cans of concentrated space-java, one pack of soylent jerkey, polymer underpants, road flare, my super-disguise kit... and I'm good.

Screw this nonsense!

I'm gonna find Blockade Boy.

Tomorrow in this spot: who the hell knows anymore?

Gadfly Lad... BABE STALKER! (by especially-heterosexual guest-columnist, Gadfly Lad)

Hey, Bill S.! Yeah, you, you comedian! I'm STRAIGHT! Got it?!(!!!!)

I was the third-maddest I've ever been when I read that comment you made in yesterday's post (and after Storm Boy explained to me what it meant). I'm a LADIES' MAN, 110%!

...No, that's impossible.

100%, then.

I just haven't had a metric-ton of luck with them. That's all. And the last thing I need is for some primitive Earth-jerk killing my game. Someday... someday I'll go all the way with a hot sexy woman. You'll see. Well, not literally. Unless you're into that. (I'm sophisticated! Just don't touch me.) Are we cool? GREAT.

I suppose you all are wondering what's going on with Blockade Boy. Yeah, us too. He's been spotted around the city, beating up Science Police cops and U.P. military officers, and then forcibly re-tailoring their costumes. Mostly, he just turns their jackets into vests, confiscates their shirts, and lowers the waistlines on their trousers. It turns out, some of 'em like it.

Here at the office, business is dead. Storm Boy has us cold-calling people, to see if they need any crimes solved. You can imagine how well that's working. Storm Boy gave us this big, emotional speech about how he was going to quadruple our business. So I said, "And four times zero equals...?" That got a pretty good laugh out of everybody. Everybody except Storm Boy.

Alright, people. It's time for another comic cover review by Gadfly Lad, the spectacular character find of 3008! ...Wait, what? Wasn't it 2988, just last week? If I didn't know better, I'd swear I existed on some kind of sliding time continuum.

Oh! Oh! I know who this guy is! For once!

I should warn you, my knowledge of 2oth-century popular culture is operating at only 21.077% of capacity but I do watch the heavily-degraded holo-transfers of ancient Earth I.Q. tests on Lallor's "Gameshow Station." The old commercials are the best part!

*ahem*

As should be obvious from the logo on his chest, this bow-legged buccaneer is "Targitt", the official corporate mascot for the Targitt chain of discount superstores. He's a wholly-fictional character, who exists only to sell merchandise -- just like his contemporaries, Cap'n Crunch, Spuds MacKenzie, and Queen Latifah.

I'm not sure whom the old guy with the death-cloud spewing from his hair is supposed to represent. (Is it the fearsome Discount Warlord, Sam Walton?) And man, if that's "the dry look", I'll just stick with my pomade, a-thank-you very much.

What I don't understand is, Targitt's talking about "mopping up" and yet, that's clearly not a mop in his hands. A mop traditionally consists of a staff, which is composed of [EDITED FOR SPACE] but then we started finding blood in his stools. Well, enough of this for now. I'll see you fools tomorrow, assuming the space-bank doesn't foreclose on our office. ("Padlocked doors?" Naive throwbacks--! Here on Lallor, they just haul the entire building away!) Stay cool, people!

It Was Either This Or Proofread Storm Boy's Novel (by guest-columnist, Gadfly Lad)

Hello, ancient otherdimensional people!

It's me, again. Gadfly Lad.

Y'know, I could be a whole 13.875... hang on, er... 6922103 percent efficient at my job, if Storm Boy would stop making me review these dopey comic book covers for you. What's that? Oh. The estimating. Sorry. I just can't stand to round numbers off. It makes me feel all dirty.

I'm not blaming you folks in all of this. You're great! Hey, why not give yourselves a big round of applause, for even bothering to read this thing while Blockade Boy is away! 21st century alternate-earth audiences are the best audiences!

...Anybody? Nobody?

Aaagh. I suck at this.

Let's look at today's cover, already.

Whoa.

Lookit! In the back!

Somebody set that poor guy on fire! And then they threw a net on him, and fired him out of a cannon or something. I take it he racked up some hefty gambling debts with the space-mafia. Still, this seems like overkill to me. Usually they just atomize one of your fingers.

Huh.

Up in the left-hand corner, we have the Universe's comeliest brain-globe. She even has part of a hand, growing out of her stumpy neck. Unless that's some sort of mandible. She seems anxious. Which reminds me: did you know that anti-depressants for brain-globes can cost upwards of [EDITED FOR SPACE] until it looked just like a grub making out with an inchworm. Oops! I got off-track again. Back to the cover!

Then there's a big guy, throwing himself at another guy, or maybe it's a sensibly-shrunken Imskian man who is already way past another guy. I like the second idea. I just hope he doesn't land on that big, floating arrow. It looks pointy. But if he buys the space-farm, I wouldn't mind borrowing his outfit. I bet I could score a whole new class of lady if I sauntered into the hobby store or an astrophysics lecture while wearing that.

And finally, we have the big orange puppet-headed man, who appears to have fallen into an automatic peanut brittle machine. Just like I did once, at that amusement park! I was frozen solid, and some dumb kid mistook me for a dog's chew toy. Luckily, all the space-poodle saliva dissolved my candy coating. After 41.474 hours. That's why I always go to the amusement park with a buddy nowadays. Or with a girl! Yeah. A girl.

You know what I just noticed? Some jerkwad scribbled his name on this cover. And I'm not talking about Storm Boy. It was some other jerkwad. Named... Rich Bucket?!

What kind of screwy name is that?

The Middlemath (by special guest-columnist, Gadfly Lad)

I DO NOT WET THE BED. All that much.

Stupid Tusker. I just don't understand why I even told him that. Or when! Hmm. Unless... yeah. It must have been the night of that karaoke party he had over at his pod. He didn't spend a lot of time singing. Or even working the karaoke machine! He made me do that! He said I probably knew everything there is to know about them! And I do. The original karaoke machines were manufactured in [EDITED FOR SPACE] and then yank it out at the very last possible second. But I digress.

What Tusker did do at that party was to serve up alcohol, and puh-lenty of it! Not that I ever saw him do any drinking himself. No, ma'am! He just got us all to blabbing about ourselves, while he listened. I don't know what he would have done if Storm Boy the Rootin' Tootin' Teetotler had shown up. Maybe give him about twenty bunt cakes and see what happens.

And then, Tusker the World's Stupidest Evil Genius lost his "slam book." And then somebody else immediately found it and posted it on the Intergalactic Intraweb, and then everybody everywhere knew everything about everybody in the office.

The upshot? My girlfriend broke up with me, and now I'll probably never have sex, and all the guys from my tabletop gaming club are calling me "Waterbug" and "Supersoaker" and "Urinalysissy" and... OH. You mean, how's everybody else doing?

I'll make this brief. You know how [EDITED FOR SPACE] seats six people, quite comfortably! Sorry; I seem to have gone off on another tangent. So, to sum up: Eyeful Ethel, Rainbow Girl, and Nightmare Boy are all in jail. Phantom Lad refused to press charges against Frigid Queen, so she's okay. Blockade Boy and his cat are on the lam, although I understand their exploits have popped up on the Heroes United forums, while he judges costume designs if you can believe it. And nobody has laid eyes on Tusker since last week. That means that the Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency now consists of Dentata Damsel, Frigid Queen, and I, with Storm Boy somehow in charge! (I didn't vote for him. Heck, I demand a recount!) Oh, and Phantom Lad is answering the phones. During the few moments he can spare between hour-long personal calls.

Storm Boy keeps talking about wanting to keep up Blockade Boy's "legacy" like he's already dead or something, so he's making me post in this dumb blog about comic book covers. From his own collection, and not Blockade Boy's. (The Science Police hoisted away the entire building Blockade Boy's bachelor pod is in, "for evidence.") Here's the first cover Storm Boy showed me:

It took me a good 28.24 seconds to pry this thing out of Storm Boy's hands! He kept mooning over the big hairy dude on the cover. He just would not shut up about the guy's whiskers! *snort* I bet you, I could grow a beard like that. If you gave me 17 years, seven months, and three days (approximately). The arm hair? Yeah, that'll probably never happen.

Huh. So... what can I say about this cover? Hmm.

First of all, I think he should ask that lady back there what the deal is with the voodoo drums. She looks like she just came from outside; maybe she'll know. Also, I'm pretty sure that's a surfboard leaning up against the wall, so maybe he should just hit the beach and "hang some waves" or however it is the saying goes. Or, heck... he should just up and move away from there. Post his resume on SpaceMonster or some other website, and find himself a good job in a big city. Then, maybe he...! Hold on, please. I just got handed another comic.

Oh.

I guess he did!

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)

Oh, As IF (an editorial by guest columnist, Storm Boy)

Okay.

So?

Blockade Boy and Tusker and I took our lunch breaks over at the Time Institute the other day. We have a friend who works there, and he sneaks us into the restricted areas, so we can spy on folks in alternate timelines. It's such a hoot, you guys. This one time? We saw a timeline where Princess Projectra was a giant snake? Which makes total sense if you think about it. Oh, and in this one, the Legion clubhouse was actually a guy? Only I had a hard time believing that one, because the building he turned into was only about the size of a potting shed. What. EVER! But seriously? You should check out the Time Institute if you ever get the chance.

Oh. That's right. You totally won't! Tough luck, bitches!

Anyway.

Our friend whispered to us that a new timeline had popped up, one where people who were just jerks or losers in our timeline were straight-up psychotic, and also, like, every third person in existence had been horribly maimed. Blockade Boy was all, "We gotta check this shit out," and before you could say "doodly-doodly-doop", we were kicking it in one of the Institute's private screening rooms! Our friend started the popcorn machine, while we got our minds blown.

In that timeline, Tusker was a big, gray monster with unbreakable bones and a cool haircut, although even that version still had a broken tusk, which? Made us all laugh our asses off! Even Tusker! Blockade Boy punched him in the arm and called him a "dumb jerk", only in a brotherly way? And Tusker shot back, "Bring it, Grape Ape! I'll smash you with my unbreakable bones!" and it was just so great, you guys, especially thinking about what a self-conscious loser he used to be. (He's still kinda dumb, though. I'm not being a bitchy queen here; it's just an honest observation.)

Alternate Rainbow Girl was just as pushy and annoying as ever, but her powers didn't work the same at all. They were tied into something our friend called "the Skittles Force" version of the Green Lantern Corps. Whatever that means. He seemed awfully contemptuous of the whole idea, though. I guess it's an "insider" thing.

Alternate Eyeful Ethel? Was a schoolmarmish weirdo with her hair in a bun and these cartoonishly-oversized glasses like Jackie O. by way of Charles Nelson Reilly.

Alternate Blockade Boy? We never saw him. And our Blockade Boy got worked up into a real hissy-snit over it. Our friend pointed out that this jacked-up alternate timeline didn't seem to have an Alternate Gadfly Lad, Alternate Dentata Damsel, or an Alternate Nightmare Boy. But Blockade Boy just stomped out of there, nominally to go smoke his pipe, but? Everybody knew he just wanted to stew in his own stinky juices.

Which leaves us with Alternate Universe Me.

Hmmm.... what can I say about Alternate Universe Me?

For starters? Kinda handsome. If you're into guys with skinny forearms. The blue contact lenses? Interesting choice. And the scars are surprisingly rugged. But the hair? Has got to go. For you 21st century dudes? I'd call it "very Kenny G." Or maybe "very 'the lead singer from Quiet Riot.'" But either way? It's not good.

But here's what really chaps my ass (and not in a good way) about Alternate Universe Me:

He's a melodramatic crybaby douche-nozzle.

I mean, listen to that drivel. He had a whole shitload of anesthetic-free radical surgeries because why? He didn't pass his Legion try-out? That's it?

Lend me an ear, Alternate Universe Me. That is, if you haven't already paid some quack sawbones to lop the damn thing off. Just listen, and listen good.

MAN THE FUCK UP.

Grow some balls! Or, failing that? Borrow some other dude's. (They'll let you hold 'em, if you ask real nice.) I've been where you are. Feeling inadequate, and all that nonsense. I actually tried to kill myself one time! And I became an alcoholic! The difference is, I actually had some decent fucking motivation. I was bankrupt and homeless, and my marriage had imploded.

What you're dealing with? Ain't shit.

If I were you -- and thank the Luck Lords I'm not -- I'd cancel my next surgery, I'd pay for a more flattering outfit and a decent haircut, and then I'd get my bony ass to the nearest time bubble and fade the fuck out of your screwy dimension.

That place ain't healthy.

Flub Connection (by special guest-columnist, Storm Boy)

I love the "golden age" of Bismollywood.

And I love bears!

So? When Blockade Boy told me he could set me up with an ursine acquaintance of his -- a former child actor in Bismollywood holo-films -- I "didn't think twice", as they say on Colu. I mean, we should have been a perfect match! Right?

The man's name is "Darzil Hek", and to be perfectly honest? I'd never heard of him before. But! He's been in a ton of classic holo-films! So I figured the gossip would be choice. Heh-heh. Shows what I knew!

Blockade Boy fancies himself my "dating adviser", since he has intimate knowledge of the space-bear mindset, and also he's a complete control freak. He said I should meet my dates at a "neutral location" and to never go home with them until I knew them better. Yeah, okay. I can "do it" in the trunk of a rocket-car, if need be. And I have. But? When I asked him if he knew any of Darzil Hek's favorite sexual positions, I was taken aback to hear him tell me, "Aw, HELLS, NAW. No sex for you, pally! Not on the first date!" (Madness! Am I right, people?) And then Blockade Boy told me that my problem is that I'm too fucking-eager, and that I need to "build a relationship" (or some crap) with my dates before I give myself over to them physically. He stressed the fact that if I had sex with Darzil right away, it would destroy our chances for romance. At least, I think he said that. I kind-of had stopped listening at that point. Besides, he's the biggest man-whore I know! Own it, ya phony holyman!

Oh, and Blockade Boy also made me promise to text him on my Omnicom at several pre-arranged times during the date itself. Yeah, that was never going to happen.

So anyway? I met Darzil Hek at this Bismollian restaurant -- not one of those cheesey chains, like "Bismol MacMattercuddy's", but an honest-to-the-Luck-Lords family-run rustic pub. And? Darzil was hot: a tall and brawny fifty-something guy with a big silver beard and a pelt to match -- not to mention a firm, beach-ball-sized gut (bonus!) that made me salivate, and also produce some other secretions. Oh, I just wanted to fondle him for days! We spent about fifteen minutes just complimenting each other, and saying different things that we wanted to do to each other, and sure, all the other patrons in that tiny lobby were giving us the stink-eye, and clamping their hands over their kids' ears, but so what. I'd found myself a "love connection"!

Well, let me tell you: Darzil Hek can really put away the inedible food. He must have downed at least four boron fajitas and maybe twice as many pleather-and-aluminum roulades. As for myself, well, I'm from Earth, so the only thing on the menu I could digest? Was the filet-o-cardboard. (In a charming irony, the take-out boxes are also made of cardboard.) No problem. I was getting a kick just out of watching Darzil eat!

Darzil explained that he met Blockade Boy through Dylbyrt Staad, Blockade Boy's uncle. He said that Blockade Boy was a "sweet kid" and "very accommodating." (Heh-heh.) Around 9 PM, I got a text from Blockade Boy, demanding to know why I wasn't texting him. I texted him back to cram it. Darzil offered to show me his home-theater set-up, back at his swingin' bachelor pod. Naturally, I agreed!

Darzil had a whole bunch of old holo-films in his library. And he had appeared in every one of them! He let me pick a couple for us to watch, so I went with two of my favorites: "Meet Me In Smallville" (starring the incomparable Judzil Gar and adorable little Margzil O'Brizil) and "Leave Her to Shanghalla" (starring the frostily-beautiful Genezil Tern and the boringly bland Cornzil Wyl). I was psyched. Darzil promised to give me a live "commentary track"!

And? That's how things went all screwy. (And not in a good way.) See, it turns out that Darzil is deeply bitter about his time in Bismollywood! Maybe it's because he was more of a journeyman character actor than an actual star? Or maybe he's just a resentful jerk-off? The universe may never know. But anyway, we were sitting on that big comfy love-seat of his, watching "Meet Me in Smallville", and we were kind-of snuggling, but Darzil kept fidgeting and working himself into a bitter froth as he told his "insider stories"... all of which had to do with some petty injustice he'd endured at the hands of a director or a makeup artist... or a caterer! Oh, Luck Lordy, the freaking caterers! Every time Margzil O'Brizil would flounce into a scene, Darzil would go off on a tear about what she got to eat, compared to what he was given to eat. Like, one day Margzil was given an entire hover-bike engine for lunch, while Darzil (like all the other supporting actors) only got a bowl of assorted lock-washers. Oh, he was railing at the heavens over that one. Have I mentioned that this happened over forty years ago? And he's still rabidly angry about it? I was like, "Bitch, you better step that shit back a couple of light-years!" (Only I didn't say it out loud.)

But it was Darzil's commentary on "Leave Her to Shanghalla" where he really "went squirrelly", as they say on H'lven.

The nanosecond Genezil Tern showed her face, Darzil just laid into her. He jabbed a furry digit at the flickering image of Genezil, and he said, "See? See what she's doing there? That's called indicating."

I asked him if that was a good thing, because what the hell did I know? I mean, when it comes to the world of actors, "I know just enough to be dangerous", as they say on Rimbor.

And Darzil said that "indicating" was not good; it's when an actor does like a pantomime facial thing of showing what their character feels, instead of really "feeling it" and somehow radiating it outward from their very souls, like the "process" school of acting teaches.

Well, I couldn't hold my tongue anymore (and not in a good way), because I finally started talking back to him. I pointed out that the "process" school of acting wasn't conceived until maybe ten years after the holo-filming of "Leave Her to Shanghalla." Which meant? Darzil was excoriating that poor woman for not adopting an acting style that hadn't been invented yet.

From there, it just got worse. Darzil ripped Genezil Tern a new one, left, right, and sideways. It was so annoying, you guys! Such negativity! And me, I'm all about the positive energy. Am I right guys? ...Guys? Aw, suck one.

Anyway -- to be honest -- I'd always thought Genezil Tern was the epitome of Old Bismollywood glamour, so I felt kind-of obligated to defend her. Finally? I asked Darzil, point-blank, just why he had a problem with her. You know what his reason was? She wasn't friendly to him. That was it. He said she was "very cold" to him. And I said, "Well, she wasn't a very happy person, if I remember right. I mean, she was institutionalized around that time, plus? She had that miscarriage. She had a pretty rough life, is all. I mean, I'm sorry the two of you weren't 'best pals' or what-the-hell-ever, but shouldn't you be over this by now? For realsies! It's fucking lame."

Well, Darzil got all sulky, like the overgrown kid he is, and he reeled off some spiel about how many wheels of space-cheddah he'd paid out to Titanian psycho-mechanics, to help him get over his Post-Traumatic Child Actor Disorder. Oh, and also about how I was a "jerk" and how he never wanted to see me again, like ever.

And we both slumped back in the love-seat, and watched the holo-film, without saying anything. On the holo-platform, dramatic music swelled from hidden speakers, and Genezil Tern's character threw herself down an escalator.

And I looked over at Darzil's ruddy, handsome face, with those hurt-filled eyes of his. And I tenderly took his hand, and I said, warmly, "So, do you wanna screw, or what?"

As Darzil manhandled me onto my stomach and yanked my trousers off, I texted Blockade Boy one last time:

wtf darzil big whiny baby going 2 pull trigger on this 1 stfu

Marked Man-Candy: A Memoir (by special guest-columnist, Storm Boy)

It started with the "tattoos."

So. It's New Year's, just a few days after I designed Blockade Boy's new gauntlets, and then? I look at that bulky ol' suit I'd been schlepping around? And I get to thinking about how all the weather-controlling mechanisms in the lining weigh, like, a metric ton? And I decide, SCREW THAT NOISE. Because hey! They're doing wonders with miniaturized circuits these days! So why shouldn't I get in on the action?

And then I have one of my clinically-diagnosed "brainstorms".

So? I redesign all the machinery in a lightweight transdermal form that I can graft directly to my nerves. And the fierce part? Is they look like tattoos. Big, green lightning-bolt tattoos. They run from my fingernails all the way up to my shoulders! Plus? There's a way-cool lightning-bolt tattoo on my forehead!

From there? It kind of "snowballs", as they say on Tharr. I look at myself in the mirror... naked, which I haven't done in maybe five years? And I say to myself, "That's a lot of look."

So I take off my glasses.

Which? Is a big step for me, since I'd given them a totemic status in my own personal mythology. And I can see right away (if I squint) that I look way better without them. I mean, forehead tattoo? Plus glasses? Equals "trying too hard." I know, I know: unlike slathering both your arms in tattoos, heh-heh. Oh, cram it. But yes, if you must know? I go right out that very night and get my eyeballs fixed. I even have them dyed gold because why the hell not. And to those of you who are still freaking out over this news? Get over it. "Signature looks" have an expiration date, don't you know, and then? They turn you into a walking caricature of yourself. Like Charro, or Elvis, or Ghandi.

So anyway? I show up at work the next day, wearing a big hoodie with nothing underneath, and walking all slouched over, and my head all bent down, and the second I step through the door? I clear my throat, all dramatic-like? And I rear my head up proudly and I rip the hoodie off, and I say, "Behold, BITCHES!"

And then I see the only other person in the room is Blockade Boy.

(I felt so gross, you guys.)

But? I decide to "soldier on", as they say on the Khund homeworld. And with only a teensy crack in my voice, I say, "Guess what I did!"

And without missing a beat, he says, "You got your arms pickled."

And I say, "Suck one, Stanley's Monster," and then? I conjure up a dainty cloud and shoot a lightning bolt out of it, right at his big, clumsy feet! That shuts him up. But then he stalks over to me, and I can't read his expression, and he starts giving me the once-over. He even does that Vincent D'Onofrio thing, where he bends at the waist and looks at me all sideways, and I'm kind of freaking out, to be perfectly honest about it.

He straightens up and smiles at me, and with a basso profundo note of respect in his voice, he growls, "Weather-controlling tats. Nice."

And I gulp, and I smile a little, and then he puts his hands on my shoulders. And he says, "You know what you need, don't you?"

And I tell him, "Yeah, but I thought we'd both agreed it was best if we saw other people."

He punches me in the arm (which hurt like a bastard) and laughs that "deep booming laugh" that I grew tired of, like, five years ago. And he says, "Good one, pal! Naw, what you really need is a new costume! Somethin' with shorter sleeves. Show off those new tats!" And then his eyes go all crazy like they do sometimes? And his gaze goes wandering off into the stratosphere, like he's a Brobdingnagian Norville Barnes, and then he grabs me, and he shouts, "YOU HAVE TO LET ME DESIGN A NEW COSTUME FOR YOU! ALSO, YOU'LL HAVE TO SHAVE YOUR MUSTACHE AND DYE YOUR HAIR!"

I start to say, "But I don't want to shave my mustache," but he actually shakes me a little bit, and he yells, "DO IT!"

And then? He apologizes. Like he always does after one of his outbursts? But he walks me out of the office to the gourmet space-java place down the street. And we have a really nice talk where he lays out a makeover plan that he claims is guaranteed to net me some mad dingus. And you know what? I believe him!

So I dye my hair a honey-blond, to coordinate with my beautiful golden eyeballs, and also? I grow out the top and the sides a little. Finally, I adorn my glorious visage with some pointy (of course) muttonchops. And? I'll be darned if Blockade Boy's costume doesn't make me look like a whole wheel of space-cheddah. (Er, that's a good thing, by the way.)

Check me out, bitches!

I was worried that shaving off my glorious 'stache would ruin my space-bear cred, but Blockade Boy assured me that I never had that to begin with. So no harm done, I guess. This look really does suit me better, I have to admit. And my huskiness and my "tats" and my furry 'chops somehow combine with the twinktastic preppie finery of the costume to create some sort of aesthetic love-bait for space-bears. I'm not kidding! I can't pass a construction site anymore without getting cat-calls from all the burly, bearded laborers. (This is no idle boast. In fact, just to make sure they're actually referring to me, I make certain to walk past those places several times a day.) And space-ports? Forget about it!

As for that "blind date" Blockade Boy set me up on... er, yeah. It didn't work out exactly like I'd hoped. But more on that? Tomorrow.

Lastikman's Checkered Past

According to the International Heroes website, one of the most popular heroes in the Phillipines is that stretchable sleuth, "Lastikman"! (Not to be confused with the Longatedman or Isterfantastik.) All kidding aside, I think he's kinda cool! Oh, not to worry, though. This isn't going to be one of those "mildly amusing" posts where I compliment something. Well, not just that, anyhow. Indulge me until about halfway through, when I get to the movie costumes! YEAHHH, BROTHER! *rubs hands together in anticipation*

Awright! This costume breaks several of my own rules for costume design, but it somehow still works. Normally, I'd hate that it...

1. Has "overpants", i.e. trunks worn over tights.
2. Exposes the hands.
3. Uses a strong color like red in seemingly just one location. (I can't find a color picture of the boots in the costume.)

What ties it all together, for me, is the black. There's just so danged much of it! Seriously. I'm all agog! But by using a strong neutral (like black or white) for the majority of your costume, you can get away with using primaries (unadulterated red, yellow, or blue) as your accent colors. Plus, the go-go chex of the top give this costume such a fun, Silver Age feel, I just can't stay mad at it! In fact, I wanna give Lastikman a big ol' bear hug! C'mere, you! ...Hang on. Whaddaya want, Gadfly Lad?

...Oh.

Gadfly Lad just informed me (with excruciating detail) that Lastikman's costume is "a part of him" and "he can't remove it." Which means there's zero chance of my ham-like hands snaking their way underneath it, to toy with his nipples. Hell, it means he has no nipples! ACK! Excuse me, I feel a tad queasy.

...That's better.

A bonus of the checkered pattern is that it looks great in black-and-white! Yes, even when escaping Playskool's My First Jail, Lastikman is the very picture of super-hero casual chic!

Recently, Lastikman appeared in a one-shot that gave him a fresh new look:

Holy cats! Did I design this? *racks brain, comes up with nothin'* Yeah, probably not. I LOVE THIS COSTUME. Kicky boots? Yup! Pants instead of tights? Damn skippy! Nifty belt? Hells yeah! Short-sleeved top with a strong geometric pattern! Sweet? Mussable, two-tone hair? Yes, please! A mask that-- okay, so I'm not really fond of the mask. I wanna put it in a terrarium and make it fight Kyle Rayner's mask. To the death. But I like the idea of it, and I get the sense that maybe it's mobile, and changes shape to match his expression. So I'll give it a pass.

Okay, enough fawning. Let's get to the part where I spray my contempt all over something.

Make way for... MOVIE COSTUMES! Oh, and I know this won't do a damn bit of good, but I'd like all the folks who are complaining about the "Watchmen" costumes to remember these crap-ass Lastikman outfits, so they can get a sense of GODDAMN PERSPECTIVE. I know, I know. Like I should give a shit about what other people think. And normally, that kind of purse-lipped fanboy aesthetic priggery makes me laugh, but the fact that folks are so up-in-arms over what seem to me like some very well-designed outfits... well, it just gets in my goat's craw. I have news for you, fanboys: no super-hero movie is ever going to meet your expectations. It's impossible. So don't watch them! Don't read articles about them. Don't write blog posts about them! Just accept that no studio or director is ever going to film your exact vision of what your favorite hero should be. Don't wallow in negative energy. Move on, get out of the house once in a while, and live! LIVE, DAMN YOU! I'm saying this to you because I care. You're like sons to me! *slaps your bottoms, playfully* Now get outta here, you lugs! Kidding. Come back! I have more things to say! I'll stop lecturing you. Honest. I feel better now. Just had to vent.

ONWARD!

Be honest. If you saw this picture with no context, you'd think it was from a menswear catalog. From 1964. Admit it. He looks like he's wearing a cardigan! And it was knitted by an aunt on his wife's side, and he actually hates the damn thing, but the wife is making him wear it because they're visiting the aunt today, in another town, and it's a five-hour drive, and it's like 72 degrees outside, and he's burning up, and the wool itches like crazy, but the wife insists he wear the sweater for the duration of the car ride, just in case one of her friends sees them, and he can't turn the a.c. on, because she's wearing shorts, and he tries to remember a time when she wasn't a controlling harpy, but he can't, and he starts to wonder if he was just so goddamn horny during their brief courtship that he didn't even notice, and suddenly he's seized by an impulse to drive the car off the side of a cliff.

...I've been told I may have "intimacy issues." BALDERDASH! *flop-sweats*

Saved by the Bell: the Filipino Years!

See what I mean about movie costumes? And this top doesn't even have as much patterning as the original! On a teeny comic panel, you can get away with go-go chex a-plenty, but on an actual human being, it makes the eyeballs burn. But my main problem is with his haircut. It's really pretty amazing, as it's both unflattering and makes him look like a douche. The Schrute-tastic styling of the bangs giganto-sizes his smooth forehead and says, "Let's hop in my Trans-Am!" while the mini-mullet in the back says, "Only we can't actually go anywhere 'cause it's up on blocks. In my front yard."

And finally, we have the best of a tragically bad lot:

Well, he's in better shape than the other two guys. I'll give him that.

I don't care that they made the checks blue, to tone down the contrast. There's still too damn many of 'em! But mainly, I hate the mask. It's too big! And the way it's designed, it makes his face look like it's all squished down on his head. *takes a good, long look at it* Oh, wait. His face is all squished down on his head! My bad. But still, that's why he should have gone with a smaller mask.

Golly, but that costume looks familiar.

Huh.

Home Planet Movies

My cousin, Phyllis, sent me a holo-vid of a big Staad "family reunion" they held back on my home planet of Amadus! Naturally, I couldn't attend. I mean, I'm currently evading a U.P. law by posing as my own (fictional) twin brother, and I didn't want to have to explain that to about two hundred grumpy, hairy people. There's also the little matter of my hating the entire lot of them. So that's problematic.

I don't want to bore you by showing you the entire vid. And besides, your pathetic 21st-century eyeballs (and brains) wouldn't be able to perceive the holo-dimensions, anyway. But still, I thought I'd post some 2-D screengrabs. It'll give you a nice glimpse of what my people are wearing nowadays (1,000 years from now, in another dimension) and consequently, both why I became a fashion designer and moved the hell away from there.

This is my favorite sequence on the holo-vid, by the way. Because there's violence!

Storm Boy! Play something appropriately jolly on your electric sousasaxotimpanibone, will you? How's 'bout the "Amok Time" theme from "Star Trek"? ...No, screw you! And why are you pointing at me with your pinky finger?! You've been doing that a lot, lately. ...OH, FOR--!

...He says "Pointing at people with your pinky finger is the new pointing at people with your index finger." GAH. I think I liked him better as a miserable wreck. Okay, so not really. But this "sassy queen" routine of his is working my last nerve.

Where were we? Aw, yeah! The holo-vid!

I wish I could tell you those were "party hats." But no. The Staads just really like their "bling." (Actually, I think somebody did order one party hat. From Orando. They used it as the refreshment tent.) From left-to-right, those are my cousins Byll, Gyll, and Wyll. Their branch of the family doesn't get outside much, which explains the pasty complexions. Byll has a home business, selling homemade "steampunk" riding mowers (they're about as big as one of your SUV's) on the intergalactic intraweb. Gyll is a professional ghost writer for insult comics. And Wyll lost his eyebrows in a smelting accident, so he's on disability. He draws them on with a magic marker nowadays.

At this point in the holo-vid, there's been a dispute over who was supposed to bring the Jell-o salad, and Gyll is hurling professional-strength barbs at...

...my Uncle Dylbyrt, formerly a stuntman for the Bismollywood film industry and currently a raging alcoholic. (On the edge of the frame, my Aunt "Big" Ethyl struggles through her space-Valium haze to perceive what all the kerfuffle is about.)

And then Gyll says something about Dylbyrt's back hair (as in, he doesn't have enough of it) and then it's on.

MAN, THIS WAS SWEET--! A good ten-dozen Staads wound up getting drawn into that scrap. It was so cool! For realsies... think of the coolest "bar fight" sequence from your favorite Western or Lifetime Original Movie, marinate it overnight in pure testosterone, and multiply it by a trillion. That's what it was like. By the end of the donnybrook, everybody's noses and limbs are busted, and they're all laid out on the ground in an orderly pile, like in that scene from "Gone with the Wind."

And then my weird, body-waxing cousin Olyvyr shows up (late again!) and starts dancing.

Featuring Angelina Jolie as the Abomination

Oh, and the other guy is the Chilean super-hero, "Capitan Jupiter." But who cares? I just can't stop looking at that monster's mouth! For some reason.

Capitan Jupiter is actually some dude named "Rex Vane." Which doesn't sound terribly Chilean to me. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've dated a Rex Vane. If it's the guy I'm thinking of, he told me he was a fashion model, but it turned out he was really an exotic dancer. I had to have a long talk with him, which ended with me asking him to move in with me. The whole thing ended in tragedy (after, like, four days) and I still can't look at a pair of leather chaps without getting all teary-eyed. Not that I've ever actually cried. I haven't! SHUT UP! *pounds on table for emphasis* But if "Rex Vane" doesn't sound like the name of a Chilean native, that's okay; he actually lives on Easter Island! ...Well, that's where his "secret headquarters" is located, anyhow.

Capitan Jupiter's origin is along the same lines as Green Lantern and Insect Queen, where space aliens dish out a powerful device to some dumb shmoe. In el Capitan's case, he was abducted by natives of Jupiter. After a thorough probing (I assume), they gave him a super-power belt, with six buttons on it:

1. Invisibility
2. Super-hearing
3. Professional-strength force-field. Saunter through a nuclear reactor with no noticeable side-effects!
4. Laser-beam eyeballs
5. Flight, up to light-speed, and he doesn't even get crushed down into a singularity or whatever the hell normally happens to something going that fast. Cool, huh?
6. Invulnerability to hostile environments, like outer space, the bottom of the sea, or a used-car lot

Okay, I'm going to be brutally frank, here: I REALLY WANT A BELT LIKE THAT. Storm Boy! Make me a belt like that! I need it by -- oh, let's say "Friday."

...Balls. He's not even looking up from his desk! Maybe he didn't hear me. HEY! STORM BOY! I said, make me -- aw, hells naw.

The husky li'l queen just flipped me the double space-bird! I'm going to have to cut this post short, now, to allow myself more time to slap the snot out of him.

See y'all tomorrow! *balls up fists and stomps away*

The Incredible Journal

*dashes into bedroom, giggling excitedly; then hops on fur-strewn granite slab (my bed) and lolls about with a big grin; then plucks from the floor a massive tome, bound in leather and edged in razor wire; flops on belly with legs kicking lazily; begins scribbling in blank pages of the book*

Dear Space-Diary,

You'll never believe this, but I've found a NEW (imaginary) boyfriend! Tee-hee! Deep booming laugh! His name is "Mihura" and he's from SPAIN. Look how sexy he is!

See? Ours is a true love that will last until the universe collapses in on itself, only he doesn't know I'm alive, but there's a PROBLEM, space-diary! Mihura lives in another dimension and ALSO a thousand years ago, which BITES. Pout! Brood! Oh, if ONLY I could steal borrow another time-bubble, like I did that ONE time, but my dumb JOB doesn't give me any time to get away! It's so STUPID! Maybe I can do it when I get my two weeks paid vacation this summer, but that's FOREVER from now! I want Mihura and his sexy sexy body RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND!

Mihura is JUST SO COOL! For ONE thing, he works at the CIRCUS! As a "strongman"! They call him "El Hombre Mas Fuerte Del Mundo", which means "the hardest man in the world"! Or so I'm told! I didn't think anybody could beat ME out for that title, but if Mihura did, I want a piece of THAT action! Giggle! Raspy chortle! I love Mihura's hair! Even the dumb Liefeld-esque braids! Maybe because the rest of his hair is so long, they don't stand out as much! I dunno! But mostly I love his beautiful beautiful bearded face and his big muscle-y body! He needs to stop waxing it, but I could take care of THAT. Mihura LOVES to drink V-8 vegetable juice from industrial-sized drums, and he even invented a special can-opener that he wears on his arm for just such occasions! He's like Sugyn minus the gut! (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Also, Mihura farts the souls of the damned, which is like the ULTIMATE in bad-assery.

SOMEDAY, space-diary, Mihura and I will bask in the light of a beautiful sun. Preferably a red one, since that highlights my complexion to best effect. MARK MY WORDS. The only obstacle I can see are THESE losers he hangs out with:

Especially the nun. At that Amadan monastery my folks sent me to that one summer ("Our Brother of the Immaculately-Trimmed Mustache") the monks would thump you on the head with their canes if they caught you jerking off in the mens' room to Omnicom porn. But they sure as hell didn't wield FLAMING SWORDS. What the HELL? Also, what happened to her EYEBALLS? She's CREEPY.

I want Mihura HERE in my BED RIGHT NOW. I WANT HIM! And he's so far away! It makes me want to cry punch something!

That's all for NOW, space-diary! I'm going to Tusker's now to play video games. He has Ocarina Hero 2, which sounds KICK-ASS! THEN we'll eat some cheesecake and do each other's hair!

BLOCKADE BOY OUT!

Wheatcake Headache

Hurts like a punch in the nads, don't it? Next time, go easy on the syrup.

I'm thinking of a number... one box-office hit that got ripped off by some jerkwad in the Phillipines, in 2004. And that rip-off was called "Gagamboy", which translates into "Spider-Boy." You connect the dots. According to my sources, Gagamboy "can exude an orange goo which he can transform into any form he chooses." Just like a spider can! If I were him, I'd mainly create Cheetos. But not circus peanuts. Because that would be evil.

He's kind of a dink, isn't he? Still, I have to admit that the costume doesn't look half-bad! In fact, I like Gagamboy's cowl a lot better than Spider-Man's. It has a nice Flash Gordon/Prince of Space feel to it. And the overall color scheme is nice. Check out that detail on the spandex! I wonder if they screen-printed it, like with the Spider-Man movie costume? Hmm. Let's get a better look at it!

BWAH! Fishnet? What's his mission? Going undercover on the set of the Duran Duran "Wild Boys" video? Feh. I take it all back. Screw you, "Gagamboy"! You're dead to me now.

Y'know, I think Storm Boy had a shirt like that. I say "had" because I made him throw it out.

...Okay, so I was the one who threw it out. And I would have gotten away with it, too, if he hadn't returned home earlier than I'd expected. I don't know what he was so angry about. After all, his new outfit* is quite the hit at the office and at a certain gay moopsball league he joined, and now he's getting dates out the ass! Er, so to speak. And that outfit was all me, baby! I even changed up his hairstyle! Why can't he see that it's just best if I design all his clothes for him...? If I design everybody's clothes for everybody? WHY IS THAT SO HARD FOR PEOPLE TO UNDERSTAND? *rubs beard in consternation*

*Which I swear you'll get to see very soon. Also, his date with Darzil Hek is this next weekend. So let's all wish him luck! I'm also working on a costume redesign for Zagor, and I promise to show you that "Tom of Finland"-type picture of me(only it'll be "safe for work") that Gustavo suggested, sometime this month.

Art Transplant

Guess who got his computer illustration program back up and running again?

(Hint: it's me!)

That means more slick-looking computer illustrations, and less -- if any -- watercolor-and-ink jobs. My first order of business was to draw myself, natch. I'm working on something for Dr. Tectonic, next, as well as that picture of Storm Boy in his twink-tastic new costume that I designed for him. My scanning software is still jacked-up for the time being: I can still crop to any shape I desire, but it will only let me scale to pre-set photo sizes. That's because it's a pared-down version of my original software, which is not available for the latest version of my computer's operating system ("Omnicom Vidi", as opposed to the older model, "Omnicom Expo"). WHAT'S THE POINT OF UPGRADING MY O.S. IF IT FORCES ME TO USE CRAPPIER SOFTWARE?! GAH!

*sexfully broods for about ten minutes, while occasionally emitting bestial grunts and growls*

...Where was I? Oh yeah. So my point is, I'm not sure how that's going to affect my coverage of that Batman vs. Tub story, but maybe I'll figure out something. Or not. To be honest, I was kind of getting sick of it. Maybe you guys were too. I dunno. I'll probably finish it later. But don't hold your breath. Fair enough? Sweet.

Amp Collector

Here's the Indonesian super-hero, "Gundala", and as you can see, he's pretty goddamned kick-ass.

Sure, his origin is a bit goofy. But what super-hero's origin isn't, somehow? In brief, he was a scientist named "Sancaka", and he was working on an "anti-lightning strike serum." Whatever the hell that means. Did it heal folks who had been struck by lightning? Or did it make people immune to lightning strikes? And if that's the case, did it somehow neutralize electrical impulses within the body? 'Cause that would kill your brain! So probably not that. Anyway, he was in the lab when his girlfriend broke up with him. He lost his shit, and ran outside, smack into the middle of an electrical storm. (Ironic!) And then he was -- you guessed it -- struck by lightning. This had the surprising effect of transporting him to Lightning Land, which I'm pretty sure is a level in a Nintendo game. The king of Lightning Land, Kronz (or "the Kronz", as I like to call him) adopted Sancaka as his son and military commander, and renamed him "Gundala." Which seems awfully forward to me. Even I wouldn't do anything like that, and I'm so pushy, it borders on sociopathic! Admittedly, I've contemplated "adopting and renaming" Gadfly Lad. But his girlfriend probably wouldn't appreciate that.

"The Kronz" ordered Sancaka to attack "Cloud Land", a.k.a. Seattle, Washington. After that, Gundala had all kinds of adventures, both on an alien planet and back on Earth. Not a bad life, if you ask me.

The above image shows off Gundala to best effect, with some sweet giant wings on his cowl. He looked slightly less kick-ass in his own comic, circa 1969:

Dinky, timid wings. Is there anything more pathetic? Still, he's workin' the "bastard face", so that helps keep his kick-ass factor out of the toilet. And you know what? He was so popular, they made a movie about him! Let's take a look!

Ye gods. Kick-ass factor: negative 50 points! Remember those days, aging nerds? When you could get cast as a super-hero, even if you had the body shape of a super-hero fan? Those were dark times, my friends. Thank goodness for the advent of male body image disorders, huh?

Tie Me Angry Dude Down

The Australian hero, "Blackwing"...

• ...suffers from symbolic hallucinations that represent his illiteracy.
• ...didn't listen to his mum when she told him, "If you keep making that face, it'll freeze like that. (Now, finish your Tim Tams, dear.)"
• ...has an intravenous drip of illegal steroids next to his bed, for use during both sleep and sex.
• ...forgot to treat those papercuts earlier, and now they sting like a motherfucker.
• ...bought those fake-ass wings at Hop Topic, and he wears them everywhere. Even to funerals! It's upsetting to me.
• ...styles his hair with Crisco (butter-flavored, natch).
• ...has pyrotechnic farts.
• ...has thighs so big, they can wear belts made for fat guys.
• ...lives in an outback town with only one library. And it only has humongous prop books imported from Gotham City.
• ...likes to scream obscenities into that walkie-talkie he carries around on his waist... but here's the deal: there's never anybody on the other end of the line. The poor screwed-up bastard.
• ...once made out with an emu. He told his friends he was drunk at the time. But he wasn't. He totally wasn't.

Liar, Liar, Hat on Fire

Look, it's Captain Atom!

No, the first one. From Australia!

Wow, this is turning into a theme, isn't it? Another Australian hero, another flamboyant hat, another sad effort at hiding a boner with some prop -- in this case, a hyperbolic "blurb box". I know that Australian men are uber-butch and all, but what the hell?! Do they all have boners, 24-7? On second thought, don't answer that. On third thought, please do. And be sure to support your argument with photographs.

I don't know what Captain Atom's deal is. I presume he's atomic-powered. One thing I know for sure is that his hat is dopey-looking and on fire. That explains why all those teenage girls are taunting him, and why he's running around like a rabid dingo. Seriously, how do you piss off somebody so badly that they set fire to your hat? And the fact that the flames are blue indicates that the afflicted haberdashery is hotter than hell. What did they use as fuel? Phosphorus? That is some serious anger, folks. Is Captain Atom the victim of a really bad breakup? Or is he just a total rat-bastard summumabitch? If it's the latter, maybe this thing happens to him all the time. At any rate, he's certainly taking it well. Of course, if you're enough of a bad-ass to rivet your clothing to your body, a little flaming hat isn't going to make you lose your cool.

Final verdict: stupid costume, but it's worn by a hard-core Aussie manly-man. You tell him to take it off. ...On second thought, allow me. *winks lasciviously*

And By "Flame World", They Mean "Styling Salon"

The dude's name is "Silver Starr", and I don't know anything about him, other than the fact he's Australian, and he looks like a gay version of Travis Morgan. Okay, okay... make that "an even gayer version of Travis Morgan." Happy? Sheesh!

To be frank, I'm kind of digging on his outfit. Especially the winged sweatband or whatever that thing is. And his hair is prematurely silver...! Heavenly... just heavenly. The only thing I'd add is a beard. But as you can see, he already has one... and he's holding her right in front of his crotch. Subtle! I'm sure Tom Cruise would do that with Katie, if he had the upper body strength. It doesn't matter, though, does it? Silver Starr could charge into battle while dry-humping his comely sidekick, and it still wouldn't keep him from "descending into the Flame World."

...But His First Love is the Ballet.

The Australian super-hero, "Blueflyer"...

• ...can run at super-speed!
• ...is being haunted by the ghost of a giant manta ray. But SHH! Nobody say anything. He's kind of sensitive about it.
• ...has a sports bra to keep his man-boobs in check.
• ...wears that helmet because he's skunk-ass drunk on Fosters' twenty-four hours a day, and he crashes into shit a lot. A lot.
• ...has the ability to manifest a glowing blue energy-vagina through the intensity of his own horniness.
• ...wears both regular "tighty whiteys" and Doctor Manhattan's old Speedos over his super-suit! The layering does nothing to disguise the fact that he's hung like a mole rat.
• ...does a killer Mick Jagger impression.
• ...never got around to fixing that overbite.
• ...really has to use the bathroom, like right now.

NOT Nightwing. For Realsies. (UPDATED 2:06 PM, CST)

From the "International Hero" website and the paella-scented beaches of Spain comes "Gavilan", whose name means "sparrowhawk", and who looks nothing at all like Nightwing.

See, Gavilan's costume is red. Yeah. And his cape is longer and more festively-pointed. And, and, there's those little bird claw/animal tusk/crescent roll thingies on his wrists. So that's different. Plus! He carries around that big bo staff or stripper pole or what-have-you. Nightwing doesn't do that. Not all the time, anyway. Not to mention, he has that ponytail. Nightwing doesn't have one of those... er, anymore. And Gavilan's mask is birdlike in a completely different way from Nightwing's.

So I think you can see how Gavilan's costume is not at all a rip-off of Nightwing's. AND I'LL FIGHT ANYBODY WHO SAYS IT IS! *glances around menacingly, while stuffing invoice for designing Gavilan's costume into back pocket* (Shut up. I wasn't feeling well that day.)

UPDATE: So, I'm guessing you were having trouble swallowing the notion that Gavilan's hideous togs were designed by me. Yeah, I can relate. I didn't even remember doing it! All I had to go by was the fact that Gavilan contracted my services, some time back, and, of course, this invoice. I was baffled! Still, I have my pride. I wasn't about to admit a mistake.

And then, Storm Boy showed up on my doorstep.

I asked him what the occasion was for his visit. And he smirked at me, and said, "The occasion is, I'm here to get paid, BEYOTCH!" And so I punched him in the face.

"Sorry," I demured. "Reflex."

Choking back tears (and blood), Storm Boy whined, "What the hell?"

"No," I retorted, "That's what I should be asking you. I'm glad you've got your confidence back to the point where you can josh around with me, but I draw the line at 'beyotch.' Reel it back in a couple of meters; you're getting annoying."

He grinned, impishly. "Oh, fiddle-faddle! If the crowning of Christian Siriano last night (your readers' time) as 'Project Runway Fan Favorite' has taught me anything, it's that everybody loves a finger-snapping, trash-talking, in-your-face bitchy queen. I've got 'attitude' now! Deal with it."

Naturally, I punched him in the face again. "Oops. Looks like my fist has an 'in-your-face' attitude!"

"God! Uncle already, you freaked-out maniac! Just give me my cut from the 'Gavilan' costume design so I can get the hell out of here." He wiped the blood from his nose with his palm, and then he held out the crimson-stained paw, in expectation of payment.

"So that explains it," I said, with a massive sigh of relief. "I didn't think that looked like my work."

"That's because I did the whole thing," Storm Boy sniffled. "You were all feverish and shit from that depilatory the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad had slipped you, so I worked on it while you tried to shout directions at me from your sickbed. We had kind of a Mozart/Salieri thing goin' on. If Salieri had completely ignored Mozart's idiotic ravings, that is."

"Wait, so you want to be Salieri...?"

"I want to get paid," he shrugged. "Fork over the space-cheddah, shaggy man."

And so I did... gladly. I just didn't want to be held responsible for that costume!

Curse Yore Beautiful Hide

Thank God for his boner, or else the belt would just fall right off.

As memorialized by the nice folks at the International Hero website, this is "Zagor", a woodsy Phantom/Tarzan type who is popular in Italy and Brazil. Born Patrick Wilding, or maybe that's his porn star name, Zagor lost his folks to vengeful Native Americans at a pretty young age. He managed to raise himself and did a pretty darned fine job of it to, by the looks of him. He acquired the name, "Za-Gor-Te-Ney", which means "the Spirit with the Tomahawk."

Zagor headquartered himself in a forest near the Great Lakes, some time between 1820 and 1840. Which doesn't explain why one of his enemies was a Druid, but what the heck.

So, how do I like Zagor's looks? I... don't. He's too pretty. When I think "backwoodsman", I think of Howard Keel in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers": tall, mighty, and scruffy as hell, not to mention, simply brimming with all kinds of intriguing musks. This glamorpuss is too smooth by half. Howard Keel or any of his brothers -- even Russ Tamblyn! -- would take this joker apart.

And they'd sing you a rousing tune while they did it!

The costume is unremarkable, especially in how it cleaves so predictably to four-color super-hero conformity: primary colors, insanely tight fit, the chest armor/symbol with the "which way is it pointing?" bird/thing on it... it all adds up to a big "yawn" from me. Yeah, so he's baring his muscled, sinewy arms. Big deal. There's nothin' on em! No hair. No tats. No cool bracelets or other adornments. Just a lot of smooth pink skin. Go away, Zagor. You're bothering me.

Go back to working as a bouncer at a gay squaredance, or whatever the hell it is you do.

Nipples, Italian Style

Well, of course, he'd dress like that. He's a hypnotist. (I remember when a traffic court ordered me to see an anger-management therapist. The doctor was dressed only in combat boots and a jockstrap... by the time I'd gotten done with him, anyway.)

From the extensive files of the International Hero website comes "Argoman"! This strapping (if disappointingly hairless) specimen of manhood is the star of an Italian film from the 1960's. But hey! Check out them nipples! Rrrowr! I'm guessing the actual costume worn by the actor was some sort of spandex deal, so you couldn't really see his nipples. A guy can dream, though. Can't he?

Alias "Sir Reginald Hoover", Argoman has super-strength, super-hearing, telekinetic powers, and a "These are not the cannoli you're looking for" type of hypnotic suggestion, which is to say it only works on really stupid people. Bonus: he loses all his powers for about six hours after having sex. Sound familiar, guys? Not to me, of course. I'm so dad-blamed virile, I wear dudes out in their efforts to satiate me. I often find myself in a "Prince of Space" scenario, where my weary partners will try to tire me out with some newfangled sex toy (or three), and I'll bellow, "Your weapons are useless against me!" Then I'll let fly with a deep, thundering chortle which terrifies/thrills them.

"So, other than the nipples -- and might I add, 'enough already!' -- how did you like the costume, Mister Blockade Boy?" Thank you for asking. And don't sass me! Once I tore my eyes off his nipples -- which took a while -- I saw that it was a pretty lame costume. Sort of a mash-up among the Black Condor, Hourman, and Cyclops. I hate it when capes are attached to the wrists. The belt is the most interesting thing about him. And it sucks. So no, I don't like the costume. But since it's Italian, I'm sure the tailoring is impeccable.

I'm Blockade Boy, and I Approved These Whiskers

Storm Boy let me try out an invention he's working on. It's called the "chronophone", and it lets you contact people in other eras/universes, via their cell phones. Storm Boy says he wants to prank-call Oscar Wilde. (I didn't have the heart to break it to him. Just like I didn't have the heart to tell him that the Legion already has a Time-Telephone, which doesn't require the person you're calling to have their own phone.) I could only remember one 21st century phone number, and it was my old roommate's, Jeremy Rizza's. You know... the guy who deluded himself into thinking he writes this blog instead of me! But what the heck. I reached him on the evening of February 17, 2008. That was just over a year since I'd left him in your crummy time period (and dimension). It turns out that he'd been struggling with technical problems and an illness, just like I have! What are the odds? Anyway, he thanked me for helping him figure out that he was gay (I get that a lot) and then he started to gush about how sexy I was, but then he caught himself and said something about not wanting to be the Dorothy L. Sayers to my Lord Peter Wimsey, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. Supposedly, in the year since I'd last seen him, his life had improved a great deal (I get this a lot, too). He'd moved out of that sorry rental of his into a condo, plus he'd lost some weight and gotten contact lenses. He also had joined the Kansas Equality Coalition, which lobbies for GLBT rights in Kansas. In fact, he'd traveled with a whole passel of other folks from the KEC to the state capital, just that past Wednesday. He had seen some portraits of old whiskery legislators, one of whom looked kind of like me! But he neglected to find out who it was. (Er, okay...!) After I signed off, I did some research on Kansan legislators of Ye Olde Weste. I never did find my lookalike (the beard would have been too short for Stockade Boy) but I did find these guys:

This is Samuel Johnson Crawford, the third governor of Kansas. He's got some sweet imperial/Van Dyke action goin' on with the beard... but just look at that hair! Merciful Jeebus! From what I can gather, the late nineteenth century was a haven for the "skullet", i.e. "party out back, going-out-of-business up front." It distracts from the whiskers. For shame, my good sir! Have you no sense of decency? Also, I'm pretty sure you're actually Robert Duvall.

Here's Charles Lawrence Robinson, Kansas' first governor, sporting an alarming combover/flip-do, as though some mad hair-burner tried to arrange Donald Trump's paltry locks into a semblance of Mary Tyler Moore's. And yet the beard is to die for. Observe the magnificent sweep of that mustache! My heart is pounding like crazy! Of course, I did just eat an entire cured ham. So it might be the sodium. Historical trivia: Robinson was also the first zombie to be elected governor. But he wasn't the last! (I apologize if my political humor is too pungent for you.)

Preston B. Plumb: not only the civilian identity of a Gerry Conway villain (I presume), but also a United States senator from Kansas! Plumb is the first guy on my list to combine a cool beard with a sensible -- albeit nerdy -- hairstyle. Bravo, Plumb! Plumb's hobbies included snowboarding; attending Linkin Park concerts; and wearing droopy, baggy pants with marijuana leaves embroidered on the sides.

The eighth governor of Kansas was John Pierce St. John. He's famous for inventing the faux-hawk, but I think his mustache is pretty darned nifty as well. One quibble: the way it diminishes into a few lengthy gossamer fibers. That tells me he's so desperate for length, that he's willing to forgo density. And that smacks of desperation. It's the same way with some handlebar 'stache wearers. They let the tips grow on forever, so that it looks like they have two curled-up pieces of wire stuck to their faces. (My handlebar mustache icon? Dum-Dum Dugan. Of course.) Trim that nonsense back, brothers! Give the rest of your mustache time to catch up! Otherwise, it looks like your 'stache just got rescued from Mount Hood after being separated from the rest of its hiking party for two weeks. In other words, it looks emaciated. So cut it out. Also, lose the panama hat. You look like a tool.

John White Geary was a governor of Kansas Territory, although he's probably better known as the first mayor of San Francisco. (As if this blog wasn't gay enough already.) What a glorious tailback beard! A mustache would have been a nice addition, but it's just dandy without one. As you can see from the curling forelock, Geary was born one-quarter Kewpie Doll. But he never let prejudice against his ancestry stand in his way. He lived long enough to see the birth of his legendary grandson, the Shoney's Big Boy.

Nehemiah Green (no extra "e") was the fourth governor of Kansas, and all I can say is, "Who is that handsome devil? WOOF!" Perfect hair all around, facial and otherwise. Good show! Green had some serious crosses to bear, since he was a mutant with the power to spray sarsparilla from his eyes, and was blackmailed into joining the Hellfire Club. He was disembowelled by Wolverine.

This modern-looking gent is Thomas Andrew Osborne (yes, with an "e") and he was the sixth governor of Kansas. The beard is simple, but it's full, which I appreciate. I love it when mustaches are allowed to grow past the upper lip. They look so much more rugged that way. And he seems like a very friendly fellow. I can picture him in baseball cap; and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off; behind the wheel of a semi; his massive biceps tanned by the unforgiving Kansas sun; a pipe in his mouth; his firm, round gut spilling over his chunky belt buckle as I laze in the passenger seat, and his warm, coarse hand reaches over and undoes my... er, anyway, I think it's a nice-enough beard. Let's move on, huh?

*sighs contentedly* Aw, hells yeah. Here's William Alfred Peffer, United States senator from Kansas. The beard is glorious. I give Peffer extra points for wearing it in the waning years of the nineteenth century, when Dame Fashion's gay brother had turned up his nose at such ravishingly extravagant feats of whiskerdom. (Although to be honest, he didn't have anything else going for him, looks-wise, did he? Can you imagine how the rest of that mug must look? *shudder*)

Some Live Like Tantalus

Hey there, pals! And also, GAH!!! (The Blockade Boy, he is frustrated!) My pelt is growing in quite nicely, but a new problem has developed: Tusker showed up with a heaping helping of space-roc broth, which was a nice-enough gesture, until he spilled it into my high-tech Comic Book Scanning Apparatamatron, ruining it forever. Luckily, I still had some old panels from a dopey Superboy-as-Tarzan story, lying around.

Still, it seems like everything's up in the air. Storm Boy's blind date with my Bear buddy, Darzil Hek, has been on hiatus while the grizzled actor shoots a reality show. It's called "Celebrity Wraith-Mate", and the isolated contestants have to complete "kooky" chores while being sabotaged by an unidentified cast member who is really possessed by an alien phantom. Also, I've designed a killer Twink-a-rific costume for Storm Boy, which makes him look lightyears younger, plus it really shows off his new tats. (You heard me.) Meanwhile, Tusker has only just now had his big night clubbing with his new mentor and self-styled "ladies' man", Nightmare Boy. Aw, man... that's a whole big story, kind of.

When Tusker showed up at my door with the broth, I asked him how it went, learning to be a "playa." He spread his arms out wide, and with a big, goofy grin on his big, goofy mug, he said (in an off-key sing-song tone) "Guess who got MARRIED...!" I groaned, probably like you all are doing now. I told him I was severely disappointed, and yet hardly surprised. I may have used the phrase "dumb sap." And then he got mad at me, because he had been actually joking. So then, I had to sit him down and explain to him that joking about your own shortcomings is totally not cool, because folks are likely to take you seriously, and especially because it betrays a lack of self-confidence. Running yourself down in a comedic manner is still running yourself down, people. Besides, that's what your friends are for. Still, our Tusker did, apparently, manage to "get it on" with some mutant gal. Her name is Cajun Kid, and from the holo-photo he showed me, she's quite the looker. Supposedly Tusker "felt a real connection" with her, and they've been boinking on a near-hourly basis seeing each other whenever they could spare the time. The only drawback that I can see, is that Cajun Kid's power is to slough off roiling clouds of her own highly-irritating (yet flavorful) skin cells, and -- you guessed it -- she can't control it. So now Tusker's skin is as red as a space beet, and his eyes and nose are watering all the time. Plus he sneezes a lot. Which may account for his spilling the space-roc broth into my scanner.

The dumb sap.