Does Not Compute

Hey. Jeremy here. *dolefully* How's it goin'? *wan, Gwyneth Paltrow-esque smile*

My computer is still a useless lump of metal. The "official" recovery disks arrived two days earlier than the manufacturer's service folk said it would. Yay! These disks encountered the exact same error screen that my own recovery disks did. Boo! The manufacturer's solution? Send more recovery disks! I told them NO. They reassured me that these new, new disks would be at no charge! Sorry, still NO. It took several more phone calls to talk to somebody in the hardware support department. And it took two more phone calls after I was promised that would happen for them to actually transfer me. See, every time I called I would up with a different person, each of whom would ask for my case number, allegedly review the case, and then ask me to try some "fix" that two or more previous people had asked me to try. And then they'd have me run some kind of test that would take about two hours and then I'd have to call back. And I'd get somebody else. And even though I'd say I'd been promised a chance to talk to somebody in hardware they'd put me off (as in "Yes, but have you tried doing THIS?") or they'd just flat-out ignore me. Criminy. The hardware guy actually had way more on the ball than all the other service people, and he had me run some more (lengthy, excruciating) tests that told him my hard drive was fine but my motherboard was effed up. Which means it has to be replaced. So now I have to send my computer to God Knows Where using a prepaid box that they've promised to send me... and which hasn't arrived yet. But I can keep track of it on their website! Only there's no tracking number yet. Even though it supposedly shipped out last Friday. Unfortunately I can access their website on my work computer but Blogger is blocked. (Wise move!) And I don't have any friends in town who'd be willing to let me monopolize their computer for several hours a night. Go figure. Anyway, this whiny tirade is just meant to explain why I haven't been able to post in a while and why I probably won't be able to post again very soon. Dang it.

So, no Blockade Boy for the foreseeable future. He's vacationing in the Old West, or so his note says. But that doesn't mean this post is all self-pity and excuses! Are you ready for some football... commentary? Well too bad, 'cause here it is anyway.

Last Sunday I watched the Steelers-Bengals game. The Steelers is one of the two teams I'm rooting for, so this was another opportunity to tear my hair out in frustration. (The Bengals won by 8 points.)

• Pre-game trash talk from a Steeler's player (#55, didn't catch the name): "I ain't never had a problem with a bagel!" That last word is [sic], naturally. Sure sounded like "bagel" though.
• Note to self: to express frustration without saying a word, merely undo your chinstrap.
• Other note to self: purchase a chinstrap.
• With 3 seconds left before the half, according to the announcers, "Chad Johnson's going in early." Probably to touch up his roots.
• 3rd quarter: Steelers incurred a fifteen-yard penalty for "double celebration." I think I ordered that once at a Chinese restaurant.
• The announcers on Big Ben (I call him that now because we're like this) and how he throws the ball: "It doesn't come out of his hand real clean." *insert filthy joke here*
• Actual plays? I though the Steelers' reverse play in the 1st quarter was pretty cool, and also that time in the 3rd quarter when the Steelers' James Harrison managed to hold the Bengals drive to the 14-yard line. Wasn't too fond of the Steelers' Colclough bobbling a catch and then kicking the damn ball away from himself when he tried to fall on it. (Yeah, like I could do better!)

And then last night I watch the Saints pretty much destroy the Falcons, 23-3.

• An announcer on the Falcons' Michael Vick: "When he enjoys himself, we enjoy watching him!" Football, the sport of voyeurs! Also, ew.
• The Star Spangled Banner was stirring. So was the imagery of a waving American flag on those cool wraparound screens. The flag would have been even more inspiring had it not been bracketed by Budweiser ads.
• Note to self: to express happiness without saying a word, point in a random direction, swing arm around about 35 degrees, waggle my finger, and high-step like a high school drum major.
• I'm pretty sure one of the guys in the stands was also in the HBO documentary "Smashed: Toxic Tales of Teens and Alcohol." I'm glad the coma didn't stick, dude! Woo! Now put down the beer before you kill somebody.
• I'm kind of blown away by the fact that the Falcons' #5, Morten Andersen, is forty-six. Oldest player in the NFL since 1975! I'm thirty-seven, so I still have nine years to get my NFL career on track. Go, me!
• According to the text on the screen, ref Ed Honchuli is in his "17th year in NFL (15th as referee)". The first two years? Towel boy. Also, for somebody that old and leathery-faced, Ed spends some serious time in the gym. I guess that's so no angry fans try to mess with him. Me, I'd just make do with a can of mace and a rape whistle.
• Among about thirty bajillion ESPN anagram signs in the stands: "Excellence + Sean Payton = New Orleans." And lets not forget his little brother, rookie Eli Payton! ... What?!
• I didn't have a horse in the race, so to speak, so while I'm glad for the beleagured people of New Orleans that the Saints won I also feel kinda sorry for the Falcons. Especially Michael Vick. I really wanted to enjoy watching him enjoying himself.

Well, God only knows when my computer will be fixed but I'll still try to check in on Tuesdays until I can get things up and running full time. Have a good one, guys! I miss you!

Fashion No-Show!

That's me, Blockade Boy, since Jeremy's computer crashed on Monday morning. The big fancy computer company's service center blames Jeremy for not creating his recovery disks soon enough. So they're charging him for shipping out new ones, which probably won't get here until Friday. Probably because they're coming from India. No, seriously. Maybe. This is my last chance until then to work on an internet-capable computer (don't ask) so I wanted to just say "Sorry about the delay." I had a nice little post planned with red carpet coverage of a Dazzler concert, featuring the return of a superheroine outfit nobody wanted to see again. It'll have to wait, now. And I'd like to give an especially sincere "sorry" to Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator because that e-mail you sent me got destroyed in the crash with everything else and I had only skimmed it before that happened. So I'll need you to send it to me again after the computer is fixed. (Dang it.) Sorry. I'll let everyone here know as soon as we get things back up and running. So, no pictures today. As a kind-of consolation prize, I now turn things over to Jeremy the Football Newbie and his coverage of Monday night's Steelers/Jaguars game. Rock it, J-Man!

Thanks, Blockade Boy. I had decided at the start of the season to root for the Chiefs and the Steelers so last night was freaking horrible. The Jaguars stomped the Steelers 9-0, making it the lowest-scoring game in the history of Monday Night Football. If I understood the announcers right, it was also the first time the previous season's Super Bowl champs were shut out since the Raiders in 1981 (it happened to them three times that year! What, did the entire team contract Epstein-Barr Syndrome over the summer?) Still, it was cool to see Ben Roethlisberger in action (first time, for me) -- impressive even though he was playing with a 104-degree fever! Some random notes:

• According to the announcers, the game drew a "sellout crowd!" Yeah, I liked that crowd a lot better before they went all commercial. The phonies.
• Thank you, NFL, for showing me why comic book artist are still designing superheroine costumes with out-of-fashion belly shirts. It's because all the cheerleaders are wearing them.
• Playing left tackle for the Steelers was #77, Marvel Smith. Sidelined: Valiant Juarez, Fantagraphics Davidovich and Kitchen Sink Kaufman, as well as twins Red Circle and Impact Al-Bashir. (Now there's an obscure reference!)
• In the first quarter, ESPN showed a detailed graphic of Roethlisberger's inflamed intestine. Three months from now it will be swiped by Greg Horn for a She-Hulk cover.
• The announcers said Jaguars' #18 Matt Jones has "a five-inch advantage" over Steelers' #24 Ike Taylor. I know sports fans love their stats but isn't that kinda personal?
• Nobody commented on the fact that one of the refs was wearing the Living Eraser's bracelets on his hands. Nor did the fact that the silvery robot doomsday device from that old Star Trek episode was flying ominously over the field.
• On a sign held aloft by a Jaguars fan: "Every Steelers Possession Nullified." My visceral reaction: "How dare you, good sir! *slaps fan with white linen glove* We shall meet on the field of honor. Pistols at dawn!" On the other hand, maybe the fan was a Catholic priest and he was just being helpful.
• Other signs spotted by the camera at the end of the game: "Every Steelers Player's Nightmare" and "wE Spare Pittsburgh No pain." Damn, my dueling schedule is going to be packed. Just as well. It's not like I'm going to be doing any posting for the next few days. *grumbles*

Wish me luck with the computer, pals, and I'll post again as soon as it's fixed!

Hey, Nerds! Football!

Hi, guys! It's me, Jeremy, the football newbie. I didn't think it would make any sense for me to barge into Lance's post so I'm doing the football commentary separately. Yesterday I watched the Denver-Kansas City game. It was another close one. Tied 6-6 at the end of the fourth quarter, and the Broncos finally won with a field goal in overtime. I was pissed. (Hey, I am turning into a football fan! If a team I like wins next time, maybe I'll vandalize something. Or overturn a police car.) Some thoughts I scribbled down as I was watching:

• According to the commentators, the Broncos had "too many turnovers last week." Yeah, me too. Too many delicious, piping-hot apple turnovers with cream cheese icing. My lower intestine was like a Play-Doh Fun Factory.
• In the first quarter, KC managed to fumble the ball less than ten yards from the goal line and Denver grabbed it away from then. It was the most frustrating moment of the game for me. Until the second quarter, that is, when Denver took the ball away from KC when it was one foot from the goal line. Gah! And then, of course, overtime. *weakly shakes fist in the general direction of Denver*
• KC's fill-in QB Damon Huard spent 2121 days between starts. That's enough time for Kevin Smith to write two whole comic book scripts!
• I just noticed, when football players pull their helmets up and back and let them just kind of squat atop their heads like big inflated berets... that'd be a good look for Maximus the Mad.
• Second quarter, actual quotes from the announcers: "Smith is down!" "But the ball... squirts out at the end." Sounds like somebody forgot to wear a cup!
• In the third quarter, KC's Huard passed to Kennison, and Denver's Ferguson managed to push him out of bounds after essentially waltzing with him for about ten yards. It was freaky. They just twirled around and around for what felt like forever. I kept waiting for Bruno Tonioli to say something.

Steele, Crazy After All These Years

What's shakin', poindexters? Lancelot Steele again, with more excerpts from my stupendous new how-to book, "Be Steele, My Heart." That's the one where I transform you, the lowly nerd, into an irresistable love beast. All you have to do is follow my easy-to-understand rules! Here's a web-only exclusive rule: stop wasting your time reading comic book blogs! ...Hey, come back here! Hey! Where are you-- goddammit!!! I didn't mean right now! No, don't cry. Don't -- what? No, I'm not mad at you. I'm not! Jesus Christ, you are a freaking mess. Thank God I'm here to help, huh? Shh. Shhhh. It'll be okay. Daddy loves you.

We alright? Great. Now, on to rules that actually appear in my book. Like the ones illustrated by the above panel...

Rule #54: Be muscular, somehow. I don't care how you achieve this. Illegal steroids, expensive and dangerous plastic surgery, or even that tired old workhorse, exercise. Just be muscular. And once you do that...

Rule #55: Make sure other people know about it! Tell everyone you know. And when you've done that, tell complete strangers! If they try to change the subject, subtly steer the conversation back around to your body. Also, remove all draperies and Venetian blinds from your home and office and keep the lights on at all times. Teach yourself to sleep standing up, facing the largest window on the front of your house. Start a chain letter where people have to mail a photo of you to ten of their friends or else their pet will die. If your local homeowners' association will allow it, paint a realistic mural of yourself (naked if possible) on your roof, so your beautiful muscular form is visible to airplanes and med-evac helicopters and hang-gliders and people with jetpacks. Have sexy, nearly-nude photos of yourself printed on all of your checks. Or if you prefer to bank online, find a way to send your creditors a video file of yourself dancing around topless and/or bottomless to some hot, sensual song. I recommend "Crocodile Rock."



Read Cassandra's dialogue again. Did you all catch that? I wasn't even flirting with that four-eyed popsicle stick but she automatically visualized herself doing a lap dance for me! As if I'd even let her! Which brings me to...

Rule #62: Everyone will want to sleep with you. Don't let them. Now, I know this sounds like crazy talk, but bear with me. Here's the deal. Aside from all the time management issues full-time lovemaking would cause, you have to maintain some standards. Hmm. How can I explain this to somebody who has never had sex before? Huh. Okay, it's like this: let's say you live in a mansion. A tall, broad-shouldered mansion with huge "guns" and washboard abs. Sure, you could let a Puerto Rican come inside -- but if a neighbor saw, it would devalue your property. Oh, I'm sorry. That's a terrible analogy, and offensive to boot. Because the phrase "come inside" makes me sound gay! Again, my apologies. But you get the idea.



Rule #77: Always be lifting something. And make sure it's heavy! So-called "experts" will say that you shouldn't work every single muscle group every day, and that "rest periods" are necessary to avoid stress and strain. This is 100% pure b.s. promulgated by some whacked-out women's libber chick who wants to keep all us men down. She's the same person who secretly instigated such feminizing man-fads as beard dyes, eyebrow shaping, and bathing. Personally, I do none of those things. But I digress. The above panels show the devastating results from when I took a day off from exercising. Look at it! Blech! Disgusting! I'm practically a skeleton. I could barely hold that plant! And Cassandra had to help me up the ladder. We were just like Jimmy Stewart and Barbara Bel Geddes in "Vertigo!" ("I look up, I look down. I look up, I look down...")



Rule #80: Technology is for turkeys! If you're reading this on a computer screen then I've just proved my point. So get in touch with your caveman side! The foxes may say they want a sensitive, hairless nuturer with the heart of a poet, but way deep down inside their woman-parts they crave a horny neanderthal. With a paycheck. So never pass up an opportunity to demonstrate any skill that would serve you well in the wild. Like yelling! See that panel up there? Here's what really went down: I have powerful lungs to go along with my powerful everything else, so I pretended I couldn't work the phones. For added sexuality I loosened my tie and touseled my perfect coif (just a tad). Also, between panels I ate that entire pencil! Sideways! Made the Dazzler wetter than the flume ride at Six Flags. Not that I slept with her, mind you. (See Rule #62.)

For the rest of my rules, you'll have to buy my book! That's "Be Steele, My Heart" by me, Lancelot Steele, available in all fine coffee shops, stripper clubs, church lobbies, and Amazon.com, just as soon as I figure out how to work the "collate" function on the copy machine.

Steele This Book

How's it hangin', turkeys? Not good, I bet. Hi. Lancelot Steele here. I'm sure you remember me from the first three years of the "Dazzler" comic, specifically issue numbers 3 through 31 (May 1981 to March 1984). And I'm here to tell you about a fantastic opportunity!

• Are you a miserable, sexless loser? But of course you are... you're a comic book fan!
• Do you long to become a rampaging sex magnet who spends every night atop a sweaty, greasy, writhing pile of the opposite or homogenous sex?
• Are you easily gulled by "get rich quick" schemes and shady, fly-by-night internet merchants?

If you answered yes to any of these questions then you'll want to buy a copy of my latest and greatest self-help guide, "Be Steele, My Heart." If you answered yes to that third question I highly recommend purchasing several copies of my book! I guarantee it will quintuple in value within six months! So lay your eyes on this, dudes and dudettes! The following is just a sample of the bonertifically-proven advice I'm offering you, my loyal fans.

Rule #22: We all know there are two kinds of women: dogs and foxes. But did you also know that there are two kinds of foxes? It's true! There are winners and losers, and you have to know the difference before you can score! So how can you tell? Easy! Try putting the moves on her. A loser fox will hem and haw and mumble something about "not wanting to lose you as a friend" or "being married to the Lord" or how she's "over ninety years old and quite fragile" or how she's "just a voice in your head and what you're flirting with is actually a role of carpet somebody leaned up against the wall." A winner fox? Will be on you like cheese on a steak sandwich, and she won't take your wallet when you're not looking, either!

Rule #35: Dress for action. You want steamy, violent, underpants-destroying sex (or as the more sensitive types call it, "romance"). You need to send a clear message. Do it visually! I'm not saying wear a jacket with the phrase "Horny Now" embroidered on the back of it (although I do own one). That's actually too literal. Use pictures! I had a series of t-shirts emblazoned with simple pictograms -- like the kind you see on traffic signs and restroom doors -- indicating whichever sexual position I was most interested in that day. But I kept getting carted off to jail so I had to go with the more ambiguous "heart' symbol. It still works!

Rule #46: Don't tolerate competitors! You're a horndog. You need to mark your territory. No, not like that! That will also get you arrested. (Learned that one the hard way.) And not only are the turkeys in the above panel sniffing around one of my favorite hunting grounds (the hallways being used as a makeshift tornado shelter at the mall) but the way they're dressed is positively stomach-churning. Setting the mood is key when you're on the make. I go for total ambience. If anybody else around is wearing something that crimps the love vibe I'm sending out, I hussle their asses through the door. Sometimes they resist. Then you have to get physical. See that lady in the dowdy green Lois Lane dress? I just punched her in the face. Didn't want her "hassling the talent!" And to answer your question, yes, I do refer to my penis as "the talent."

Rule #47: Sometimes turkeys you think are competitors don't have the same sexual interests that you do! And sometimes they think you "need to be taken down a peg or two" and that you're a "pretty boy" with a "whorish mouth" and they drag you into a broom closet! Listen up: it is vital that you learn to identify which turkeys are after the foxes and which ones aren't. I still have trouble with this one -- sometimes I run into the same non-competing turkeys week after week and they smirk at me and they say "Look who's back for some" and I try to run but they grab me and pin me down. I don't know how that keeps happening. But my point I'm trying to make is that when it comes to this situation, you losers are on your own. I'm just giving you fair warning, is all.

I'll be back with more excerpts from my book on Monday. Until then, hang loose... and go for it!

Jewel Live To Regret This

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ring Salesman: Next!

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

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

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

Ring Salesman: Which is...?

Me: A dazzle gem.

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

Me: I still want one.

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

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

Ring Salesman: Just choose something else.

Me: Inertron?

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

Me: How 'bout Zuunium?

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

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

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

Me: Sigellian.

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

Me: Duralim.

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

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

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

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

Ring Salesman: Most of 'em, yeah.

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

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

Me: So how much would that run me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Yeah, no thanks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manny's Worst Day Ever

Dear Glynda,

I am writing you from the prison hospitle. In France. I know thats probly a shock but I figger its best to just be out with it like rippin off a bandaid.

So heres what happened this time. You know that one guy Hap who used to hench for the Calculater well he told me last time I was in jail I oughta take me a electronicks class cause then I can get better paying gigs. And I did! And it was easy! Like I learnt COMPUTER LANGUAGE which is a breeze you dont have to worry about captilzashun or fancy-shmancy grammer or nothing. So then like two days after my releas I meet this guy Whitey who says hes rounding up tecknolodgical-minded henchmen for a big cushy job in some guys big floating fortress over in EUROPE and the airfare is free and they even take care of faking the visa and what-not so of course I say YES.

Well it turns out the boss is a one-armed NAZI name of "General Sal" or something ekwally stupid and Im thinking of cutting and running right there I mean even a old merc like mes got standards but I already signed the contract and I really need the dough so beggers cant be choosers I guess. In the plus collum I get to wear only the sweetest hi-teck supersuit like EVER. All shiny and red and silver and the arms and legs look like Slinkys and the guns are BUILT RIGHT IN and the helmet is so big they had room for some kinda machine that gives you a Japanese massajh now and then just for kicks. The teck part is top of the line like even more advansed that a Commodore Vic-20 if you can beleive it. Even better the suit was already detailed when I got there washed and waxed and the interior smells like pine needels so I guess other than the Nazi part that General Sal guy is a real class act.

There was maybe a couple hunnert henchguys there altogether so natchurly I seen a lotta famillyer faces. Smitty and Clubber and Freebie and Porky and Two-Tone and Nosey and Stumpy and Winks and probly even more I cant remmember right now cause the beating I took whapped some a the names right outta my skull. So after we all suit up we get devided into groups some a us have to invade some jerkwater country nobody likes called "Zandia" and some a us have to right away fight the New Teen Titans and some a us are put in "resserve" for later. Guess who gets put in resserve? You got it and Im thinkin GREAT no bonus for me but then MORE super guys attack only these ones are EVIL. So General Sal says "Sic em."



Evil guys dont play fair (and I should know) so I right away I know we are royally screwed. Clubber plows into this German guy who looks like the time Manny Jr. ate too much cotton candy and yakked it back up onto that quilt your Gramma made you and the German guy MELTS him. Just like that. Oh and by the way I cant help but notice one a the other groups appairently beat the Titans cause now the Titans are in a big Popamatick bubble deal being turned into cavemen altho I couldunt tell right away at first I thought maybe they were all just Italian or somethin.



Anyway like one second after Clubber bites it this freaky chick with big weird calligraffy eyebrows puts a whammy on Two-Tone and Winks and me too a little bit only I wasnt really paying attenshun to her so it didnt work too good on me like everybodys arms start to look like snakes and Im thinking "That aint right" so I shake it off but Ill tell you what Two-Tone and Winks sure got a load of it. The poor dumb shmoes start shooting at eachother like theres no tommorrow and they even wing me in the arm and the cassette drive whirs and the video screen prints out LEFT GUN MALFUNKSHUN and then Winks nails Two-Tone point-blank in the chest and then he turns on ME so what am I gonna do? I got no choice right? I gotta shoot Winks right in the head. And the hole time Im thinking of '66 when he got my back in that barfight we had with Ding Dong Daddys gang but now it was every man for hisself.



So the freaky chick dont do nothing after that she just stands there looking all proud a herself or maybe shes thinking up more stupid ways to drawn on her eyebrows so Freebie and Smitty and oh yeah this guy Id just met before named Sluggo we charge at this French guy whos in a fruity gold number and his head looks like its coming outta a lobsters ASS and Im praying to God his superpowers are as lame as he looks so of course he wiggles his fingers and the four a us are in SPACE. Yeah I know. WHAT THE FUCK. The visor starts to frost up and I feel like my eyeballs are gonna pop right outta my skull and I can see the other three just floating away but I was last and I reach out for whatever I can and by pure dumb luck I grab the edge a the hole Frenchie made and its SOLID. So I pull myself back thru into Earth again and hightail it for the exits cause contract or no contract Id had enuff of THAT shit. And the video screen is saying JYROSCPICK COMPENSATERS MALFUNKSHUNING and Im bumping into shit left and right but the hell with it I just want out. Oh and at this point the Titans had freed theirselfs so I have to worry about dodjing THEIR sorry asses. But whaddaya know I make it outside free and clear so guess what happens next. No GUESS.



That one Black Titan Cy Berg or what have you I guess hes Jewish like Sammy Davis Jr. is hanging off a the floating headquarters by one a his stupid Inspecter Gadjet arms and Im heading strate for him cause I cant mannoover too good no more and this OTHER sunuvabitch who they tell me later is Whitey the guy who got me INTO this mess is ALSO heading strate for him from the other direckshun and then ZOOP! Cy Berg yanks hisself up and we crash and the suit blows me to Kingdom Come and by Kingdom Come I mean France.

I wake up in a hospitle bed in prison and its worse than reglar prison cause its FRENCH PRISON and it smells like garlic and everybodys all snooty just cause I cant speak France and they alla them smoke like ALL THE TIME even when their showering I dont know how they do it. Also I been having them dreams again where Im that guy on that other Earth. The last one was the weerdest I was in a supervillain PARADE and it ended with me going to jail which is appropreeate.

So thats all the news. Take care and dont forget to jot down my new address and also if you can make me some snickerdooduls. I gotta craving for some snickerdooduls.

Your loving husband,
Manny

Clark Svent

I hear he used to play for the Vikings! From "Thor" #373 (November, 1986) it's the Thunder God's "secret identity," Sigurd Jarlson. Really, Odinson? That's the best you could come up with for a name? How 'bout Lars Kent? Bror Wayne? Hal Jurgens? Dierk Grayson? Jansen Storm, which gets bonus points for use of the word "storm"? Mike Hammer? No, wait, wait... I got it! Chuck Norse!

This is a very simple look for Thor. It was 1986, so I think he really could have worked a cream-colored Italian suit with a sky-blue t-shirt and some nice Nordic-themed silver jewelry. For a slight edge, I'd match it up with some alligator-skin boots. I'd also either keep the hair in the ponytail but slick the whole thing down with something appropriately greasy, or undo the ponytail and fluff the hair up into a perfectly 80's mane. He'd look just like those brawny, monosyllabic characters who work as bodyguards for the drug-dealing bad guys in 80's action films. Still, I suppose Thor is trying to not stick out of a crowd so the plainclothes thing is a good idea. Although I feel sorry for anybody who tries to help him with that duffel bag. 'Cause it has Mjolnir inside it! "Jeebus, Sigurd, what do you got in this thing? An anvil? I can't even pick it up!" "That's because thou be not worthy, mortal-- er, I mean, don't sweat it, buddy! I'll take the bag, you grab us a couple a' cold ones!" Which reminds me: apparently Thor can talk like a normal human being when he sets his mind to it. (I always knew he was a poser.)

Let's go to a close-up, shall we?



Yikes. I think he might need to cut back on the cortisone injections. Or the cheese fries. Say, fellas, here's some fashion advice I think you might find helpful: if you want to avoid a case of "fat face" like ol' Sigurd here (and you're not already fat everywhere else) try not to do all of these things at the same time:

1. Have a large, fluffy hairstyle.
2. Grow a big, bushy beard.
3. Wear enormous, cheek-covering aviator spectacles.
4. Be drawn by Sal Buscema.

In "comics nerd learns to appreciate football" news, Jeremy watched the Vikings/Redskins game. He decided to root for the Vikings since he liked their uniforms better. And they won, barely! Some of the adorable tyke's observations:

• When a Redskins player crumpled to the ground in a non-contact injury at kickoff, he said "That's why you don't wear five-inch stilletto heels in a football game."
• On the news that Minnesota starting safety Dwight Smith had been "deactivated": "Ah, so he's kind of like the Vision... if S.H.I.E.L.D. had caught the Vision doing something indecent to a lady in a stairwell."
• Darren Sharper, with his hyperbaric chamber, invited comparisons to Jack Of Hearts. And neither of us could figure out why the chamber looked like a cross between a sleeping bag and a cartoon race car.
• In the fourth quarter, Washington incurred a five yard penalty for an "incidental facemask." Which is a good description for this thing. Y'know, when the eyeholes are that big it renders the mask completely ineffectual, Schumacher.
• Going by ESPN's preshow graphics, certain players have the ability to glow radioactively and grow to half again their normal height, then shrink back down again, all in a matter of seconds. Jeremy hopes the league is testing their urine for Pym Particles.

NFL = Nice F'n Logo

Here's a funny story about Jeremy: never the sporty type, as a child he once tried watching a football game with his older brothers and was soundly laughed out of the room after he complimented one of the teams on their "nice costumes." Haw! What a jerk!

Here's another funny story about Jeremy: at the tender age of thirty-seven he's decided to become a football fan. Why? Because he wants to be able to talk about something else besides comic books and Broadway musicals. So why football? Because it's the most comic-booky of sports, with beefy, chemically-enhanced fellows pounding the living tar out of one another (am I right, Trent Green? Trent? Hello? Aw, don't worry about it; you just rest now.) while covered practically head-to-toe in colorful costu- er, uniforms. And he appreciates the strategy element of it, which apparently reminds him a little of "Vandal Hearts" on the PS1 from back in his gamer days. Although football players don't typically burst into noisy fountains of blood when they get sacked. ("SPSSHHH!!!")

Jeremy's tried this kind of thing before, by the way. His efforts in past seasons usually consisted of buying a "season preview" magazine in August, never reading it, and feeling vaguely guilty the rest of the year. Last season he made a decent start but within a few weeks he started to feel overwhelmed by all the teams and facts to keep track of and he gave up. He thought he'd try to go with baseball this summer but he lost interest pretty quickly. (Remember that A-Rod reference I made a few months ago? We haven't watched a single baseball game since then.) But this football season, or so he says, he really, really means it. I believe him. He seems pretty darned enthused about the whole deal. And to avoid burnout, he's going to concentrate on following just a few teams: right now it's the Kansas City Chiefs (because if you're a Kansan it's the closest thing to a "home team", which is kind of sad) and the second one is the Steelers, I think because he liked watching Bill Cowher kiss that one guy. Also, he's going to completely ignore college football because, y'know... baby steps. Someday, for sure, but not right now. And he seems to really enjoy the hell out of watching football games, like the Chief/Bengals match-up yesterday afternoon. And here's another example of how serious he is: he recorded the game before he watched it, and he made the mistake of reading the ticker during the Panthers/Falcons game and saw the Chiefs were down by seventeen points, and yet he still watched the game anyhow. The Chiefs still wound up losing, but at least it was only by thirteen points. That's something, I guess. Anyway, you should see him, hunched on the loveseat, armed with the "pause" button on his remote and his copy of Howie Long's "Football For Dummies", deciphering the abbreviations and initials and such that flash on the screen. He's like the Jane Goodall of gay comics nerds. And I've decided to help the l'il fella out. He'll watch at least one game in its entirety every day that they're telecast and on the following day's blog I'll post any comics-related football comments he made (plus anything else he said that I found amusing.) It connects football to an interest he already harbors. And the very best part? You, my wonderful audience, will know if he didn't watch any games on a particular day, because I won't have anything new to post. And then you all can give him hell. So here's the first installment...

• From what Jeremy understands from watching SportsCenter, apparently Terrell Owens and the Eagles were like Mento and the Doom Patrol, but the Cowboys say he's now like Hawkeye and the Avengers. Except for the "blowing up" part.
• Jeremy tells me the Tennessee Titans mascot is a raccoon (the hell?!) while the New Teen Titans' mascot was a kid who could turn into a raccoon.
• From the Chiefs/Bengals game yesterday: one of the announcers started to say a certain doctor had repaired "Carson's Palmer" but he caught himself at the last minute. Which prompted Jeremy to say that the same doctor had "enlarged Larry's Johnson." *cricket noises* ...Well, I liked it.

But where is the fashion, you ask? Right here! I couldn't help but notice that a lot of NFL logos would look perfectly smashing on various superheroes. For instance, the Bengals "B" logo would be great for the Bronze Tiger. Er... is he still alive? The Titans logo is just busy and faddish enough for a loser superhero like Triumph. The Broncos logo would work nicely for the Night Rider (western Ghost Rider guy)... if he wore spandex, that is. See, the horse seems kind of mean, and its mane looks like it's on fire. Spooky! The Chargers logo is a natural for any electrical-based hero, even it it also kind of resembles a big snaggle-toothed frown. The Cowboys logo would work for any of the Starmen or even Night Girl, although I suppose that's a no-brainer. The Bears' big orange "C" would have looked mighty fine on Cluemaster or Catman but they don't quite count as superheroes. Dang. Well, the big apeshit-crazy bear head would have been nice for Ursa Major, if only he wore a costume. Maybe he could put it on a wifebeater or some boxers or something. The Lions? Captain Britain, natch, although that's really a lateral move. Maybe that godawful "Lionheart" guy could use it. Green Bay's "G" is fine for any hero whose name starts with "Green" and it would be a fine team logo for the Global Guardians as well. The Falcons? Le Peregrine, but of course! The Panthers logo is perfect for the Black Panther, (no brainer) but since the symbol is severed at the neck it's just fine for Pantha, too. Any objections, Pantha? *silence* Yeah, I thought not. And the Rams have a great logo for the Olympian, given his connection to the mythical golden fleece, i.e. he's wearing the damn thing.

Alrighty, now it's your turn. What other NFL logo-superhero connections can you make? There are just two rules: the logo can't have a color that clashes with the hero's costume and the logo can't have any lettering that conflicts with the hero's codename (it's why I didn't use the Chiefs logo for Speedy or Arsenal or Arrowette, since it had those big "KC" initials.)

And to help our little Jeremy wrap his brain around the impossible vastness of the NFL, are there any comparisons you can make between the league or its players/managers whatever and comic books? *makes imploring Sally Struthers face* Please, he's counting on you.

Letter From A DC Henchman

Dear Glynda,

Hello from prison. How are you today? I am fine. Eckcept I been having them dreams again abbout living on another Earth where Im still in the henching game only my name is diffrent and there aint no Superman or Bat-Girl or nothing like that and insted the superheros are all WHINY and MEAN. And you are there too also Glynda but your name isnt the same ether and your a blond which dont look too good on you but Im thinking may be your sister put you up to it cause shes always pulling that kind of busybody crap no offence.

So this time I got braught in by Green Arrow and Speedy who dont even run too fast so I dont know WHY they call him that. And it was all going real good at first before everything went south on us so I'm kinda heartbroke about the hole thing. See instead of just being a henchman where theres some sort of main guy who tells you what to do all the time and treats you like crap and pays you peanuts I joined up with the "Shark Gang" which is more like a group type deal where we take turns being the leader only its not communism so dont be getting any ideas. And it was even going to be my turn this week can you beat THAT? Anyway. I knew this guy Robbie from when we both henched for Captain Cold and Robbie was already in the Shark Gang and he rememmberd that one time Flash made a tornadoe come outta his ass and it flung me into the Central City kiddie pool which is like the size of Hudson Bay and I didnt drown at ALL which made an impresshun on him I guess. So he invited me into the Shark Gang! It was a pretty sweet deal all things considered since the costumes were comfterbul and easy to wear and you know how the shoe salemens always say I got a "high instep" whatever the hell THAT is and its real hard to find shoes that fit me but the boots and flippers and stuff I got to wear just fit like a glove and were real comfy plus I got to put on a green see-thru shark helmet which I wished I coulda kept cause it woulda made a swell Halloween mask at Halloween time but the policeman said no. Oh and the very best part of all was I got to drive around on a shark-mobile which goes underwater at about ninedy miles per hour oh Glynda it was the BEST.



So youd think we were set for life since the only heros in town were Green Arrow and Speedy and what the hell could THEY do underwater? We made our haul and got away from them lickety split but then HALF A DAY later those crumb bums show up AGAIN only now theyre all in a yellow submarine. A yellow submarine... A YELLOW SUBMARINE! And to top it off they got these cross bow deals like for harpooning DOLFINS or whatever and so it was "here I go again" once they started coming at us with the fancy gimick weapens.



First they shoot a cloud of ink or something at us and its probably honest to God octapus ink like harvested from the ink udders of ACKTUAL OCTAPUS and its worth like fifty gazillyun dollars if they got the dough to just haul out a blasted SUBMARINE at the drop of a hat. And just when I wrapped my brain around THAT they blind everybody with some kinda glow-worm arrow and everything is a white hazy blur but I can still see the gas gage on the shark-mobile dashboard jerk from "full" to "empty" cause even tho it looks sleek as all get out its really a peice of CRAP like probably made in HONG KONG for a dollar each for all I know so I tell Robbie on the speshul underwater radio mike that we need to turn sharktail and make a run for it and I hope the radio dont fall apart TOO like the shark-mobile is falling apart and THEN of course some NEW crap comes shooting out of the ink cloud. Guess what it was. No GUESS.



GLUE. So now the shark-mobile is all gummed up and Im sinking like a stone and I get my feet outta the stirrups but one of my boots comes off and a sunfish comes along and BITES my foot which Im thinking cant be a co-incidense like maybe Aquaman is hiding behind a rock or something and laughing his ass off but I shrug it off and swim up to the surface and as Im doing that I see the guys on the boat snagged Green Arrow and Speedy with these big ole fish hooks so Im thinking now everythings going to turn out great you know? But by the time I crawl up on the boat Green Arrow and Speedy have zonked everybody out with elecktricity and Jo-Jo is layed out on the deck with this huge welt on his face and Clancy is twitching and jerking like one of those new dance crazes the kids like so much only his eyes are closed so I knew something was wrong and Im pretty sure Dugan's HEART had STOPPED but I dont think Green Arrow and Speedy have noticed or maybe they don't care cause theyre all busy pumping theyr fists and saying "Woo!" and "Yeah!" and theyre belly-bumping eachother and then Green Arrow goes into this crazy dance thing where hes doing the DUCK WALK like hes Chuck Goddam BERRY and its just INSANE. And then finally the coast guard shows up and they take everybody whose still ALIVE back to jail and Dugan and Clancy are packed off to the morg and so now Im writing you this letter.

So its same old same old for me I guess eckcept for those dreams I just tole you about. Oh and also that one dream I have where Im Superman and I find the great big strawberry dackery but you already know about that one.



Please take care of yourself while Im gone and Ill get out of here as soon as I can.

Your loving husband,
Manny

Hot Town, Cimmerian In The City (Part Two)

Concluding Conan's time-traveling misadventures from "What If" #13 (February, 1978).

First panel: Conan looks down at the dog and thinks "Hey, dinner!" Also? It's nice to see that even the most jaded, hardened Greenwich Village hipster isn't above wearing a tasteful string of pearls. Hey... wait a minute! Those are my gramma's! Stop! Thief!

Second panel: the mellow musical stylings of GROPE! Honestly, Roy Thomas and John Buscema (Ernie Chua, you're just the inker so I'll leave you out of it) -- "punk rock?" I think not. I'd buy "glam" but in no universe do these pretty boys and their frilly frocks qualify as "punk." And I doubt any punk rocker tried to intimidate a rival with a "double-hex whammy smile." Christ, Conan himself is more "punk" they are.



See?

Anyway, that's what happens when middle-aged folks try to depict a current musical fad, Madonna. Or to put it another way, Grope is the Marvel equivalent of Ernie Bushmiller (of the comic strip "Nancy") drawing any and all hippies with ukuleles and flower necklaces.

Whoa. Looks like the alley cat got to the dog before Conan did! (New York is rough.)



Too bad this story wasn't in-continuity, huh? 'Cause I really wanted to see Conan wearing that beret in, like, every story published after this one, forever. I wanted to see Arnold Schwarzenegger wearing a beret in the Conan movies. I wanted to read Conan novels that described the character as "black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, and a kicky little beret." Is that so much to ask?

I leave you with this piece of advice:



Never offer to help Conan move. He'll be stressed out and drunk and belligerent before you even get there, and to top it off he won't even spring for pizza afterwards. (Conan the Dickweed!)

Hot Town, Cimmerian In The City (Part One)

Wow! So, an entire cult has sprung up from the Milton Bradley game "Sorry!" (Salvation is completely random, depending on whether or not you land on a slide -- but any other cult member can bump you back... to hell!)

Naw! I'm kiddin'! Actually this is the guy from "What If" #13 (February, 1978) who put Conan the Barbarian into a huge bucket and lowered him into a time-well. Conan burst through the ropes that had bound him through sheer awesomeness, but wait! Before he could climb all the way out, the rope he was climbing broke (gotta control the awesomeness, dude) and he fell down, down, down... all the way to Greenwich Village in 1977.



Is it wrong that I covet that necklace on the gal in the lower center of this panel? I think I could seriously work something like that. Hmm... dig the pseudo-hippie at the lower far right. A ponytail and a headband? Is your hair really that out-of-control? Hell, why not add some barrettes, a hairnet, a snood, one of those monks' hats, a shower cap, a do-rag, and a couple of Ace bandages? Just really clamp that shit down. Either that or you could just get a haircut, you goddamn hippie!!! On the left side of the panel we have an alarmingly gray-haired hippie (in 1977?! Curse you, LSD!) sporting a perky flip-do that Laura Petrie would have killed for. And in the back, a curvacious -- if somewhat man-shouldered -- female street performer wearing a mesh t-shirt! You give that back to the Puerto Rican man you stole that from this instant, little missy! It's certainly one way to draw a crowd, I will admit. Although they may be somewhat confused about where to put their dollars. Also, if she lets that guitar drop a quarter-inch she's officially committing a felony.



"Hey, look! Some guy's doing the naked-but-for-a-loincloth bit." "Nice way to beat the heat, huh? Wish I could try it!" "But you could try it! I mean, you are a guy, right? 'Cause I really can't tell sometimes, but I was kinda leaning towards 'guy' on account of how flat your chest is and also that little mustache you got happening... Hey! Where are you going?!"

Apparently 1977 was the hey-day of the tank top. Why, everybody who was anybody wore 'em! Michael Douglas, Al Pacino, Burt Reynolds, Truman Capote, Jack Klugman, Red Buttons, Walter Mondale, Henry Kissinger... y'know. All the "sex symbols." Pretty much the only guy who isn't wearing one here is that snide economist in the plum-colored polyester. "With such happenings, it is small wonder the yen gains daily on the dollar!" Really, pal? That was the source of America's economic stagnation? Too many time-traveling fantasy barbarians? Huh. Come to think of it, I remember Jimmy Carter giving a speech on just that very thing. I think his solution was to give the time-traveling fantasy barbarians the Panama Canal.

You know what the worst part of this comic was? The continuous assertions of bystanders that Our Hero looks just like Sylvester Stallone. Yeah. You know what, Roy Thomas? That's not a compliment. I'd prefer to think he looks like Christian Bale or -- ooh! -- Jason Statham, but that's just my deal. And of course, your 1977-self wouldn't have the first notion about those two gentlemen. Hey, how 'bout Harrison Ford? He's tall, handsome, brooding, he's got the shelf-like forehead action goin' on... and unlike Stallone, he doesn't look hopelessly inbred.

Tomorrow: Conan vs. Glam Rock!

International House Of Bitchcakes, Part Two

Who do you turn to when you want a foreign-born hero with an ugly costume, a stupid name, and a cliched theme? "Marvel Super Hero Contest Of Champions" #1 (June, 1982) is a good start! Second choice? DC's "Global Guardians."*** But Jeremy doesn't have any comics with those guys in them, so we'll have to stick with "Contest Of Champions."

"In Israel, Sabra repulses a raiding party with her energy-quills... only to find herself seized by the mysterious red glow!" I once repulsed a makeout party because I showed up right after eating twelve chili-dogs in one sitting. Even Polecat said, "Not cool, dude."

Sabra has way, way too much blank white space on her costume. I like the big spiny cape 'cause that's dramatic and interesting and all, but that's about it. And not that it matters necessarily, but a mask would have been nice. Hmm. Here's a puzzler: if she'd been created circa 1990 instead of circa 1980, do you think she'd have shown more skin? Like, maybe they'd have dressed her in the cape and nothin' else? (Saucy!) That'd put those sexually-repressed religious conservatives on the run, huh? They're barely even allowed to look at a woman's face, and then suddenly BAM! Sabra's glorious rack! All shall kneel before its unfettered perfection!

Also: "raiding party," huh? Nice. That euphemism is even further away from the actual truth than "militant." Even better, it contains the word "party." Who doesn't love a party? (Mean ol' Sabra, attacking a party! Boo! Boo, I say to you now.) Or maybe this is less a case of misplaced political sensitivities and more a case of Bill Mantlo realizing he almost had two different heroes fighting terrorists on the same page. Thank heavens he didn't try to -- oh, I don't know -- show one of them fighting a supervillain! Or maybe it was still too soon after the Munich games to have Islamic terrorists (there, I said it and I'd never take it back) in what was originally an Olympic tie-in book. I dunno. It's the world's least-tantalizing mystery.

According to the internet (so therefore it must be true) Sabra can lift fifty tons, run sixty miles per hour, and has superhuman reflexes, durability, endurance, and self-healing abilities. Plus that kooky cape. She's fought the Hulk at least twice, battled the New Warriors while being mind-controlled by a mystery villain whose identity -- get this! -- was never revealed, and joined Professor X's "X-Corporation," whatever the hell that is. Probably some damn pyramid scheme. But at least she's still alive, eh, Defensor?

"In the People's Republic of China, the hero with the powers of five gifted men drives off a gang of thieves... and then the Collective Man himself disappears!" And then the thieves come charging back in and continue with their looting!

Wow. What an ethnically appropriate yet undeniably butt-ugly costume! Mind you, I'm no fan of the Maoist uniform. Apparently the revolution was neither televised nor tailored! But at least the Collective Man isn't wearing one of those smushed-down train conductor hats all the Maoists have been commanded to like so much. Imagine you're at your favorite clothing store, the saleslady is ringing up your order, and she puts a complimentary trucker cap on the pile of garments. And you say "No thanks, I'd rather not take the trucker cap" and then the saleslady gets all mean, and tells you "Oh, you're taking the trucker cap! Everybody gets a trucker cap! and you say "Screw the trucker cap and screw you, honey; I don't need this shit" and then the saleslady presses a button and the next thing you know you're on a collective farm in Idaho planting potatoes for the next twenty years, wearing a trucker cap the whole time and sure, you hate it at first but after a while you get used to it and towards the end you love your trucker cap, it's like a part of your body, and you can't imagine ever not wearing a trucker cap. That's Chinese Communism in 1982.

Despite all this, I kind of like the Collective Man. He's like Duo Damsel, only two-and-a-half times better, and in reverse. Quintuplets who can turn into one super-strong dude? Rrrowr! I'll take it! Fun fact: the Collective Man likes to surprise and freak-out his romantic conquests by handing them a card post-coitally that says, "Congratulations! You've just enjoyed a six-way with the Collective Man!" The irrepressible scamp!

Apparently the Collective Man has weathered a lot of Marvel stories. Not necessarily good stories, but still--! He's alive and kickin', mostly, except for that one brother who got killed. But the Collective Man is still in business! Heck, he even managed to make the list of 198 mutants who didn't get depowered! He also got at some point a slightly better-looking costume, although I'm no fan of the high-collared, gloveless shirt thing. It makes him look too much like Billy Batson. Also, Shadow Kid once knitted me a sweater that looked almost exactly like that for Klordny Week. Don't tell him, but I pretty much immediately gave it to a homeless guy. (Future clothes!)

"In Saudi Arabia... the red glow claims the Arabian Knight!" Which is a damn shame since he was on his way to the hospital after accidentally ramming his sword through his crotch!

So, how do I like the Arabian Knight's costume? Trick question, as my answer is "I don't." He looks like yet another product of the Marvel Project Runway. "Designers, your challenge is to create a stylish outfit for a Bedouin super-hero with a flying carpet. But there's more! You must also make the carpet. You have a budget of four dollars and thirty-eight cents and you have two minutes to put it together, starting... now!" Gracious, but that's a plain, uninspired costume. Also, I've been looking at Bedouin turbans on the web and so far I haven't come across any that look like that. I suspect our "Arabian Knight" may actually be a Sikh gentleman from Mumbai who got extremely lost and is too proud to ask for directions. And check it: the carpet is solid red. That's not a hand-woven Arabian rug. That's a Stainmaster swatch from the Home Depot. Give it back, you thief!

After "Contest" the Arabian Knight joined the Pantheon, that Peter David supergroup that I could never bring myself to care about. (Wasn't there some poor dope who just had his head sticking out of a big rock, or maybe all that was left was his head and it was attached to a big rock? Jeebus.) And later on, in "Thunderbolts" maybe, he got depowered with a bunch of other folks around the globe and fell to his apparent doom. Like a chump. And Marvel reports that a "new" Arabian Knight will be fighting alongside whoever the hell the current Union Jack is, in a new mini-series. So apparently the first one didn't manage to land on anything soft. Like sand.

"And over West Germany... it spirits off the electrifying Blitzkrieg!" Not over East Germany, mind you, because the Commies would blast his freaking legs off, but over West Germany!

Blitzkrieg's costume is another one that's just "okay" in my opinion. It's your standard, boring "energy-generator's" costume, not a lot goin' on, and the chest logo looks like a pin-headed steer.

As for Blitzkrieg's post-"Contest" exploits? He was an extra in a couple of group scenes, both of them in Bill Mantlo books ("Hulk" and "Rom: Spaceknight") and then he got what probably seemed to him like a huge break: a multi-issue storyline in "Captain America!" Although for some reason his codename got changed to "Blitzkrieger." But hey, he joined a new German super-team, the Schutz Heiligruppe! That's cool, right? Well, there were a couple of problems with it. For one, it consisted of only three people, Blitzkrieg(er) included. And for another, one of the members was Zeitgeist, a.k.a. the Everyman, who was going on a superperson-killing spree. When Blitzkrieg(er) started his own investigation into these murders, Zeitgeist killed him.

Well, that sucks, huh? But at least it's better than just falling to his doom from a flying carpet.

These American ideas of foreign super-heroes are pretty lame. Which gets me to wondering, what kind of dashed-off, stereotypical American super-hero might a foreign comic book come up with? Here's some ideas:

Yankee Doodler! This hero draws energy constructs with a giant quill pen, given to him personally by the ghost of John Hancock!

Yankee Go Home! (A teleporter.)

Cow-Boy! This hot-tempered young bovine mutant leaps into every fray, guns-a-blazin', to compensate for his miniscule genitalia!

The Consumer! A Blob-like individual who absorbs, then destroys, the super-powers of all who come near!

The Fanatic! Secretly pro baseball player Johnny Baptist, this hero wallops all comers with his enormous wooden cross!

You get the idea. But if y'all have some more notions of internationally-created American heroes, I'd love to hear them! (Or any comments about this post at all, of course.)

***Except for the Olympian. Big, hairy guy with a cool, horned helmet, sweet-ass facial hair and a big fur cape? Yeah, I'd better like him; I might as well have designed the fucker.

International House Of Bitchcakes, Part One

Okay, then. Last week, I gave you the inside scoop on the clusterfuck crowd scene in "Marvel Super Hero Contest Of Champions" #1 (June, 1982) . Now I'd like to talk a bit more about the ramshackle, hopelessly stereotypical and thoroughly shoddy international heroes who were created (hastily, no doubt) for the book.

"In France... the high-flying Peregrine disappears from the azure skies!" But nobody really notices or cares!

The Peregrine's costume is a perfect example of the "eh, good enough" attitude that pervades "Contest Of Champions." The gray and black contrast with each other well. The proportions of the colors are nicely balanced. But otherwise, it's a pretty generic costume. I mean, he could have had a nice abstract bird-shape or some other logo on his chest, but all Marvel would spring for was a triangle. A triangle! Jeebus, at least cut a few notches in it, like Phoenix did. And I've seen that type of high-riding bird-head cowl before... on the Golden Age Hawkman, and it didn't make any more sense back then. The goober's entire face is visible below a rather teensy bird head. And it's not like he's wearing a mask or goggles or excessive mascara or anything. It's pointless. I don't get it.

Let's see... what else? Well, I did the barest smidgen of internet research, spending something like a whole five minutes on it... and yet I still couldn't find much on this guy outside of his "Contest Of Champions" appearance! All I gleaned was these two delectable little tidbits: He was mindcontrolled into becoming an assassin in an issue of "Alpha Flight" but before he could do any harm, Sasquatch punched him out or tore his arms off or sat on him or maybe just breathed on him with that killer taco breath he gets sometimes. And... one time Hawkeye told him he was a "reserve Avenger" (y'know, for when they run out of all the good ones) but according to Marvel editor Tom Brevoort Hawkeye had no authority to do that. So, Peregrine actually isn't a reserve Avenger after all. Which makes me think something like this happens at least once a month:

*ring, ring*

Jarvis: Avengers Mansion! To whom may I direct your--

Peregrine: Jharvees! Mon ami!

Jarvis: Oh, Lord.

Peregrine: Eet eez I, Le Peregrine!

Jarvis: Yes, I recognize the voice, Monsieur, but I really must insist you stop calling here. Particularly after midnight.

Peregrine: Ah! But 'ow am I to track zee sheeping status ahv my Ahvenjhairs membairsheep card, weeth all eets attendahnt preevilahjhees? Free 'ousing at Avenjhairs Mahnshee-own, mah own par-sonal Queenjhet, a glahmorous makeovair cartesy of zee Wasp... All zees shall belong to... Le Peregrine!

Jarvis: Once again, Monsieur, I regret to inform you that you are not, in point of fact...

Peregrine: Away weeth you, my seelly frahnd! As 'zo Le Peregrine would take zee wahrd ahv an 'umble sarvahnt! Eenahf tom-foolahry! Fetch your mahster, 'Awkeye, queeckly! Weeth zee sweeftness of a fahlcohn, ahs 'e swoops from zee 'eavahns to pluck zee lowlee fieldmouse frahm 'is meeserable 'idey-'ole! Do zees, ahn' Le Peregrine shahll put een a good wahrd far you!

Jarvis: I shall connect you right away, Monsieur. One moment, please. [leaves the phone off its hook and goes back to bed.]

"In Australia... the Aboriginal mystic Talisman is torn from his trance-state!" Which is just as well, since he was only keeping the other campers from cooking their hotdogs and marshmallows.

So the Aboriginies are big into pirate boots, huh? I don't mind the yellow/white combo. But honestly, the costume's styling is a huge mishmash of cliches, most of which seem to be African and Native American instead of Australian. For instance, I'm not sure why his head is shaved, except he's a dark-skinned man in a comic book and that sort of thing seems to be de rigeur.

All I could find about Talisman post "Contest" is that he showed up in a few issues of "Quasar." Doing what, I have no idea. I'm sure it didn't help his prospects when John Byrne gave Marvel a gorgeous female "Talisman" with great gams, a fetching evening gown and a big inverted Wonder Woman tiara. Didn't see that comin' with all your "trance-state" hoo-hah, did you, Australian Talisman? Where's your Moses now?

"In Argentina, a paramilitary group suddenly finds itself firing at a void where the mighty Defensor had stood!" And they're thankful the weirdly-dressed interloper has vacated the paintball range!

Defensor has one of the more attractive looks created for "Contest." It's colorful without being garish and it's certainly distinctive. That said, I'm going to have to shave off some points for:

• The generic and meaningless starburst on his chest.
• The lazy use of segmented metal underpants, an old Marvel chestnut (holder).
• And the goofy helmet. Why is it shaped like that? Is it supposed to resemble a Conquistador's helmet? And if so, then why does it look more like a blue, foil-wrapped Hershey's kiss that got dropped on a tanning bed? Hell, why not a helmet that's shaped like a tri-corner hat, or like one of those big Marie Antoinette wigs?

Jeremy only has the first issue of "Contest." Internet info on Defensor is -- to nobody's surprise -- practically nil. So those of you who have actually read the story all the way through will have to tell me: just what was it, exactly, that Defensor was good for? I mean, sure, he's got a shield, but big freaking deal. Unless he can boomerang it like that gym queen Captain America (and before you start furiously typing a response, yes, I know Cap doesn't have to go the the gym -- allow me my illusions, 'kay?) or clobber bad guys over the head with it, then it's strictly defensive and therefore lame. It's like this guy I once met, Prince of Space, whose main ability was to gad merrily about while repeatedly telling his enemies that their weapons were useless against him. It wasn't heroic. It was just annoying.

So. All I could find out about Defensor's post-"Contest" career was this: he got killed by a guy named the Everyman. Criminy. Tell me, Marvel, was Defensor really cluttering up your universe so badly that you needed to whack him? He was in Argentina, for Chrissakes! He wasn't bothering anybody! *growls obscenities for an entire minute* Oh, and here's the clinker: Everyman was in his super-secret-triple-reverse-undercover identity as "Zeitgeist" when he killed Defensor. Which means Defensor was murdered by a guy dressed almost exactly like the Clock King. (And at that moment, young Brad Meltzer knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life.)

"In Northern Ireland, a group of schoolchildren stare as their lives are saved from a terrorist's bomb... an instant before their rescuer, Shamrock, disappears!" No wonder she's "the most sought-after hairdresser in all of Europe!" Shamrock, where are you?

I covered both Shamrock's post-"Contest" exploits and what I thought of her costume in an earlier post, so I'm not going to waste any more time talking about her. I will say that her panel here exemplifies another way in which Marvel half-assed it with their new international heroes: none of them were shown fighting supervillains. Of the eight heroes shown on the page from which I took the above scan, four of them were fighting non-super threats, three of them are just flyin' around, and one is kneeling in front of a campfire. At least Sabra and the Arabian Knight had appeared in some of Bill Mantlo's "Hulk" stories, so they didn't necessarily need a splashy intro. But the rest of them? They're not exactly grabbing me by my lapels. The Soviet Super-Soldiers get a whole page-and-a-half where they fight the Red Ghost and Sunfire's measly panel shows him in the grip of a big green robot hand. That's excitement, people! Not that every single hero who got kidnapped was in the middle of a fight, but you'd think the newbies could have been introduced with a bit more pizzazz. That's one thing that "Planet DC" got right. Sure, it was yet another round of pointless character introduction for them, but at least they created some international villains to go with their international heroes. The "Flash" annual especially had a great deal of depth to it; remind me to cover that one day!

Tomorrow: it's gall around the world with more international heroes!

Marvel Super Hero Uncomfortable Cocktail Party Of Champions, Part Five

June, 1982! Before the days of the company-wide crossover series, the closest you could get to that kind of encyclopedic grandeur was "Marvel Super Hero Contest Of Champions." That's the one where every Marvel hero (and I!) was crammed into a floating, cosmic soccer stadium (or whatever) and... stood around, chatting. Yeah, they hadn't really gotten all the kinks worked out yet. Also, the Marvel heroes turned out to be stuck-up bitches who wouldn't pay me no nevermind, so my only option was to walk around by myself, gathering top-notch gossip material. For you!

Additional dialog by Dwight Schrute! "Somebody put us here! But who? And to what purpose?" Really, the dialog here is very Silver Age DC, where heroes would dutifully line up and take turns speaking aloud various segments of a single train of thought. (See also: Donald Duck's nephews.) The spoil sport here is Wolverine, but of course, who's just aching to go buckwild in the most Comics Code-straining manner imaginable. Cyclops laughably attempts to assert some authority, little realizing that back in their own comic he was soon to be written as the Daffy Duck to Wolverine's Bugs Bunny.

So, left-to-right, kind of, we start with Iron Fist. Fun fact: the thing on his chest is the gay cousin of the thing on Doctor Strange's tunic. They only see each other when their family gathers for pagan holidays. Things were a bit tense when Iron Fist's tattoo first "came out" but the thing on Doctor Strange's tunic has finally come around and it's just like old times!

As a great woman of your era once said, "Romper stomper bomper boo!" I see Iron Man, who could be flying around, doing recon, but is too wasted and ridden with STD's to keep from crashing into shit. I see Hawkeye, who smells like grape Robitussin twenty-four hours a day and whose costume I've always thought was stupid (and I always will). I see Power Man, who won a bar bet back in '72 by twisting a hunk of steel around his head and now he can't get the damn thing off but figures what the hell. I see the Black Panther, who is secretly plotting your downfall even as we speak and looks great doing it. I can only see the back of the Falcon's head, which makes him the Nichelle Nichols of Marvel. I see Talisman, who in later years would get sick of people asking if he was "Gateway" from the X-Men comic. I see Brother Voodoo, who was already sick of people helpfully pointing out that he "seems to have something on [his] forehead." I see Sunfire, who is indulging one of his weird Japanese fetishes by sniffing the Beast's underpants. I see Black Bolt the Boring, who has a kick-ass costume but a blah personality, and who is wondering how he can get in on some of that Beast's-underpants-sniffing action. I see Hercules, the ultimate drinking buddy, about to express his moral outrage over Sunfire's behavior, and who is also miffed at the severe dearth of scantily-clad young women and/or bare-chested, hairless young men in the arena. (Leaves me out!) I see Werewolf-By-Night, who -- I shit you not -- was once popular enough to star in forty-three issues of his own comic! I know, I can't believe it either. He's just so damned boring! Especially visually! I mean, get yourself some extensions or some highlights or sumpin'. ...Hang on. Jeremy's jabbing me in the ribs. What now, kid? Oh, Jeremy says that in the 80's, Werewolf-By-Night would sometimes get more wolf-like, with a big wolf-head and everything. Well, let's see it! Oh, he's scurried off to get some of his old "West Coast Avengers" comics. *hums selections from "Wonderful Town" while I'm waiting* Okay, he's back. Huh. I dunno, he still looks pretty dorky to me. He's no Man-Wolf, that's for sure. Okay, where were we? Oh, yes. I see Doc Samson, whose costume was pretty cool, except it didn't go with that lime green mop of his at all. Would it have killed you to change up the color scheme to something more pleasing? Like yellow, black, and green? Or failing that, to dye your hair? (Red's a good choice. I mean, just for an example.) I see Wolverine, looking oddly Munchkin-faced here. Heh. He's like the world's deadliest Campbell's Soup Kid. I see Nighthawk, whose costume I kind of liked, except for the big, stiff wings with the air nozzles or whatever on them. Carter Hall never would have settled for that nonsense. I see Cyclops, whose costume is so boring it defies all attempts at embellishment. Even when you slap a stupendously enormous wraparound "X" on it, it still looks boring. I think he needs to start over from square one. In fact, I think I ought to come up with some costume designs for him! Only not right now. Maybe in a week or two. Daddy's tired.

Shanna the She-Devil? Well, there's someone for Hercules to ogle! She's turned away from you right now because you're a gross nerd and she wants nothing to do with you, and also somebody from PETA has just sloshed red paint all over her. Let's see, I've covered everybody else in this panel before, except... Mockingbird! She was way cuter with the longer hair, wasn't she? And without the "rat tail." Fun fact: in your year of 2006, the Thoroughly Eighties "rat tail" can still be seen, on rednecks and lesbians. Another fun fact: it only looks good on actual rats. Mockingbird's costume hasn't aged well. Especially the huge, weapon-concealing sleeves. Although they do impart an avian flair to the ensemble. My biggest problem is the wide stripe of white, which ends just below her bosom. Mockingbird is tall and well-proportioned, but it makes her look like she has a stumpy torso and ridiculously long legs. Like Judy Garland. And MGM's costume designers struggled with ways to make Garland's waist look like it was sitting a good fifteen inches lower on her body -- y'know, like on a normal person. They finally found a solution, but it involved a quantum math that opened a portal to a nightmarish Lovecraftian dimension. Drove half the department stark raving bonkers. The other half vanished without a trace. There were reports of cannibalism. And you don't even want to know what Hair and Makeup went through!

Nothing much to say about that final panel, except... "What awesome power is this at work??" Jeebus, Doctor Strange, you're the freaking Sorceror Supreme! Why don't you tell us? Actually from what I hear, that's all he's good for, lately. Explaining things.

Next week: even more Contest of Champions crap!

Marvel Super Hero Uncomfortable Cocktail Party Of Champions, Part Four

June, 1982: Presaging the FEMA Superdome debacle, the Grandmaster crammed every available Marvel hero (and yours truly) into hideous, spacebound Facehugger Arena. The assembled ultra-tools didn't know how to react to a fabulous-yet-manly future hero with sweet-ass facial hair, so they pretty much left me alone. Fine by me. I went into purple-and-orange "stealth mode" and evesdropped the hell out of them!

Looks like Ben Grimm found himself a backup boy toy! (Note how Quasar cringes at the Thing's touch. Speaks volumes.) Ever wonder what the Thing's "rocks" look like beneath the blue Underoos? I overheard the Human Torch and Quasar gossiping not long after this panel. Turns out our Mister Grimm is normally smoother than a slab of peanut brittle. But beware! He's a "grower," not a "shower." Also, his member has its own voice box, and it sounds a lot like Godzilla. Ew. Fashion-wise? I've never been a fan of the Fantastic Four's costumes. *dodges various bits of debris* They're pretty boring (and if some fanboy tries to tell me "They're supposed to be boring!" I'm going to reach through the monitor and pimp-slap them). Attempts to change them have usually resulted in making them even more boring. A good rule of thumb is, the smaller the logo, the more boring the costume. I'm constantly surprised by how many wonderful artists forget that. Quasar over there has a more interesting costume but it also happens to be pretty ugly. Nice headband, jerk. It could definitely use some streamlining. To the front of the panel, the Hulk is entering menopause. About his pants... I think it's freaking ridiculous how he (almost) always managed to glom onto a pair of fresh purple pants -- in a stretch fabric, no less! -- during his vagabond period. Jeremy has an issue of the Hulk comic where Bruce Banner digs in a garbage can and finds a pair of purple slacks... that used to be owned by the 3-D Man! As if that flattopped, hornrimmed square would ever wear anything that interesting. Behind the Hulk is undersea underwear model, the Sub-Mariner. I gotta hand it to him: no dialog, but the body language immediately tells you everything you need to know about his personality. Crammed in the lower right-hand corner is Doctor Strange, Lounge Lizard Supreme. (I wish he'd brought his robe with him. So I could've swiped it.) Doc's costume is one of the few old costumes out there that really doesn't need improvement, in my opinion. It's quirky but it works. Individually, the parts are quite dodgy -- liverspotted orange gloves, blue footy pajamas, undoubtedly greasy pencil-line mustache, a cape that Liberace would have dismissed as "too gaudy" -- but I'll be darned if those disparate elements don't all harmonize like the Beach Boys. Something I just noticed about the cape, by the way? It's the source of the original Byrne Doodles! You know, the scribbly crap Byrne puts all over clothing because he's too damned lazy to draw an actual pattern? Byrne's Krypton was lousy... with Byrne Doodles. Or "Ditko Doodles" I suppose I should call them. Way in the back (where she belongs) is Patsy Walker, Hellcat. Funny, I don't think of a "hellcat" as being annoyingly perky or reeking of desperation or vaguely slutty in a "high school cheerleader" kind of way, and yet Patsy somehow manages to be all of those things. Her costume is one that almost works for me, but not quite. My main gripe is that it needs something more to break up all that yellow spandex besides the obligatory 70's sash. An interesting super-logo on the chest would be nice. C'mon, Patsy, there must be dozens of teenage girls across your great nation who would send you their ideas for a logo! ("Patsy's luscious logo designed by Roberta Fleugalblatt of Parsippany, New Jersey.")

Of all the weird categories that the Marvel Folk portioned themselves into, the weirdest -- and smallest -- was the Bald Telepath Contingent. As you can see, Moondragon is trying to bullshit her way into importance with a lucky guess as to the arena's locale. ("My mental scans have done no more that ascertain that this arena is somewhere in space, Professor Xavier! Also, there are a lot of windows and I can see through them!") I gotta ask -- was that emerald swimsuit deal she wore the idea of those Titanian monks who raised her? No, honestly. It's a legitimate question, because Marvel has a rich tradition of spiritual leaders making young women dress like prostitutes. Meanwhile, Professor X, dapper as always, is subtly influencing Moondragon to remove her bra. Next thing you know, he'll ask her to wear a red wig.

Still more Contest of Champions dish tomorrow!

Marvel Super Hero Uncomfortable Cocktail Party Of Champions, Part Three

So there I was, kidnapped to floating, space-bound "Exposition Arena", and none of those stuck-up Marvel super-bitches would give me the time of day. Eh, screw 'em. I'm perfectly happy just wandering around and eavesdropping. Perfectly happy! And I'll fight any man who says otherwise! *fists clench anxiously*

Even a youngster like Kitty Pride can detect the smoldering sexual undercurrents in the conversation between Colossus and... whoever the hell that other guy is. I'm thinking it might be Major Ursus, a.k.a. Ursa Major, the Russian guy who turns into a big bear-monster. (Dang it, I forgot to ask for his number.) "Perhaps I feel I can best serve the Motherland by serving the world... as an X-Man!" Oh, kind of like how American freedom is somehow protected by bombing the holy bejeezus out of a foreign land. When I was younger, I really liked Colossus' original costume, but later on I decided it was too busy. Especially with those three random triangle-things on the knees. I liked the John Romita, Jr. red-and-white redesign better -- although it could definitely use less buckles. But it was the 80's. All new super-hero costumes were required to have a minimum of eight buckles. It was in the Comics Code! Kitty is wearing the old, boring original X-Men uniform, which I kind of hate, but I see she's tried to spice things up by flat-ironing her hair. Not that it worked too well. It's about a half-percent change in humidity away from sproinging back into its normal shape. In the background, Texas Twister (sweet handlebar!) lights a celebratory cigar after giving Razorback a thorough, blood-spattered rogering behind the refreshment stand (Razorback's ass gets so much action he might as well give it a velvet rope and a couple of bouncers). Texas Twister's costume is flashy but I think it works for him. It's hard to go wrong with an Old West theme. Ursa Major (or is it?) is wearing the Marvel version of a standard Soviet military uniform so it doesn't count as a costume. So I shan't speak of it.

Hey, Captain America! Do you interrupt all foreign monarchs, or just the African ones? If you read my "Miss America" post way back when, you'll recall that I utterly loathe Captain America (mock my whiskers, will ya! Grrr...!) so I'm not going to talk about his costume, either. I've always liked the Black Panther's duds -- simple, but classic. It's got a good silhouette, too, which is important. In the background, there's muy macho Gorgon, whose costume I like just fine, although I'm mystified by the horned chrome goggle things on his forehead. Can he see though those? And if so, does that make Gorgon one of those tools who walks around with their sunglasses pushed up on their foreheads, even when it's overcast? Well, that would explain the sweater tied around his neck. I think that's the Torpedo in the back, between Black Panther and Cap. The Torpedo had a cool helmet but that was about it. Plain blue super-suit, no logo or styling of any kind on the chestal region, and the goofiest jet-gloves I've ever seen -- and I've seen a lot of jet-gloves. (I'm from the future!) And in the far right corner of the panel... the Silver Banshee?! But she's from DC! And she wasn't even created yet! And why is she wearing a Saturn hat? Hang on, Jeremy is tapping me on one of my brawny, muscular shoulders. What's that, child? Hmm? ...Oh. He says it's actually the Night Rider. Yeah, I never heard of him.

Why, here's Spider-Woman, who has one of the best super-hero costumes ever designed, and Spider-Man, who has one of the worst (although many would disagree, right, Steven?) As you can see, Spider-Woman's glider-wings (which have the magic power to appear and disappear from one panel to the next) have chosen to remain invisible. They're quite fickle, those glider-wings. Oh, and on a more vulgar note: that's not a web line.

The Son of Satan and Doctor Druid are swapping eyebrow-shaping tips! They should have asked Sasquatch. He's considered an expert by those "in the know." Actually, Daimon Hellstrom's eyebrows are naturally Satanic -- he gets them from his dad! Doctor Druid resorted to a mystical bargain to achieve those awesome Spock-brows. The price? The rest of his hair. There's a shadowy demi-god out there right now with a thick, wavy pompadour. It was totally worth it, though. I mean, who's going to hire a magician who has eyebrows like Whoopi Goldberg?