Conversations With Dud People, Part One

(Somewhere on the Planetoid of Peril, August 8, 3008, 10:29 AM...)

*interbloggamunicator lights up, plays tinny version of "Flirtin' With Disaster" by Molly Hatchet*

Blockade Boy: Aw, hell.

*activates visi-phone function on interbloggamunicator*

Blockade Boy (into the device): Hey, Storm Boy.

Storm Boy: Ola, buddy! ...Yikes. You look like shit! Er, but you wear it well.

Blockade Boy: Just tell me what the problem is, so I can save all y'all's asses again and get back to my vacation.

Storm Boy: Sure, because it's obviously doing wonders for your attitude!

Blockade Boy: ...

Storm Boy: Relax, space-ape. There's no "problem." In fact, everything's been aces since you left!

Blockade Boy: Uh-huh. I ain't buyin' it. None of you clods could wipe your own asses without me around!

Storm Boy: If you'd bothered to tell anybody where the hell you were going, I could ship you an industrial levitator. So you could get over yourself.

Blockade Boy: Fine. So why are you pestering me right now?

Storm Boy: Mainly I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay, but you know what? You can go screw yourself.

Blockade Boy: Okay, okay... you're right. I'm sorry. I'm acting like a real bear. I mean, more so than usual.

Storm Boy: We really are doing great, by the way. I'm not shitting you.

Blockade Boy: If you say so.

Storm Boy: It's just -- oh, how can I put this without it sounding all catty? ...It's like, you were kind of the problem.

Blockade Boy: I WAS--?!

Storm Boy: Well, you know... you're kind of... overbearing? And a control freak? And you kind of make everybody just defer to you, even without you doing it on purpose or consciously or whatever? I think that's why all of us were just hanging out at your pod all the time, waiting for you to tell us what to do.

Blockade Boy: Which, of course, I never was. Since most of you annoy the crap out of me.

Storm Boy: Heh. Yeah, exactly.

Blockade Boy: So...?

Storm Boy: So, once you left, it was like a big, hairy blanket had been lifted off of us, and we could finally breathe and move our limbs. The rest of them are really good guys, once you get past their little quirks, and I figured out a cool new direction for us! By whom I mean, "me and Bad Apple Boy and Posture Queen." Not you.

Blockade Boy: What about Phantom Lad?

Storm Boy: Oh, he took off. He said he had a hot lead about rioting on Imsk. Really tiny rioting. He wants to sell the story to U.P. News and Worlds Report.

Blockade Boy: Are you remembering to feed Cootie?

Storm Boy: Rainbow Girl is taking care of her! It makes more sense, if you think about it. They've really bonded. You might have a fight on your hands when you come back! ...By the way, when are you coming back?

Blockade Boy: I dunno. I feel like I can be more like "myself" out here. Sometimes I think I'm not cut out for Polite Society.

Storm Boy: Heh. I think you're right. Oh! I just figured it out! You're on the Planetoid of Peril!

Blockade Boy: What th'--?! You deduced that from what I just said?

Storm Boy: Nope. I just caught a glimpse of the Citadel of Doom over your left shoulder. Well?

Blockade Boy: "Well" what, smart guy?

Storm Boy: Don't you want to know about our exciting new direction? It's the other reason why I called you.

Blockade Boy: Yeah, sure. Astound me.

Storm Boy: We're the All-New Jagged Edge Explosion Balloon! Featuring Storm Boy!

Blockade Boy: You want to lead my old garage band. Really.

Storm Boy: I've reworked our "sound" to really spotlight the Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone. It's astro-ska! Posture Queen is choreographing all our dance moves, and she plays a mean nuclear-powered zither, and we have Bad Apple Boy on glockenspiel, plus of course he raps.

Blockade Boy: Of course.

Storm Boy: And now that Tusker and Dentata Damsel are out of the nervous hospital, I've snagged them for banjo and didgeridoo, respectively.

Blockade Boy: Holy cats! You're serious about this.

Storm Boy: We've played some nightclubs already, and we're auditioning for a scout from Computoblanca Records. Oh! And Element Lad and Invisible Kid want us to play at their wedding!

Blockade Boy: ...

Storm Boy: Blockade Boy...?

Blockade Boy: Um. Wow.

Storm Boy: Yeah, so since you never were all that into the band, I was wondering if I could get the copyright to the name from you. I'll pay you whatever you want for it.

Blockade Boy: You can have it. No charge. I'll have my lawyer visi-phone you.

Storm Boy: Sweet! So you're doing okay? You're having fun?

Blockade Boy: ...Yeah. I'm great! I gotta go, though. I have a whole big day planned.

Storm Boy: Oh! That's cool. Well...! Keep in touch, okay?

Blockade Boy: Sure. Have a good one, fat-ass!

Storm Boy: Right back at ya, fat-ass! Seeya.

*Blockade Boy deactivates visi-phone function, then hurls interbloggamunicator against a boulder. It bounces off, unharmed. He picks it up again, and stalks off into the jungle.*

He-Mannequin

Y'know, it's nice having this resort nearby. For instance, when I get tired of eating 100% organic food -- by which I mean, "anything that can't outrun me" -- I can always wait until everybody is asleep; scale the outside of the building like it's a big, craggy rock; smash my way through the plasti-glass windows; and raid their honor bars. And then I might follow that up with some skinnydippin' in the resort pool. And sure, the next morning everybody's all pissed-off about how their food is missing, and all the rich people's bodyguards are fighting with the hotel manager's bodyguards, and there's an unaccountable mass of honey-brown "back hair" keeping all the swimmers at bay, but I just peer at their dumb clothes-wearing bodies through the foliage and I laugh my fucking head off!

Well, I'd better search through my pre-loaded comics panels on my hand-held interbloggamunicator, to find something suitable for blogging... hmm... nope. Nope. Maybe. Nope. Oh, that's filthy! I'll look at that one again, later. Nope. Ah! Here we go!

Please, don't touch the lesbians without permission, darling. Or else they'll cut you.

Or maybe I'm mistaken, and it's actually that one kid from "Million Dollar Listing." (Or as I like to call it, "Million Dollar Bowlcut.")

This Can't Possibly End Well

Especially when Junior realizes he's not getting those cha-cha heels he'd asked for.

(Nice matching robes, by the way. I wonder if all of Pop's wives and kids have to wear those, over at the compound? I hope not, 'cause it'll sure make it hard for the FBI to sort through all the bodies!)

"This Is Mad, Mad, Mad!"

My one-man corporate retreat is really helping me to relax! I decided to "kick it" (as Karate Kid likes to say) on the Planetoid of Peril. It features a five-star luxury hotel (the Citadel of Doom) but other than that shocking pink abomination? No other buildings. Anywhere. No, sir... it's nothin' but trees and deadly predators, as far as the eye can see!

Although I treasure my elaborate grooming rituals, it's been a pleasant break to live aw-hells-yeah-naturale out under the high blue sky, man. Just relaxing my mind and letting my beard and my pelt grow as wild as they darn well please; gorging my belly on berries and cacti juice and tubers and mushrooms and deadly predators; walkin' around all naked and nude (with no clothes on!); communicating only in grunts and howls; leaving my (big) footprints in the soft clay...! Occasionally, some venturesome tourist will snap my picture with their visi-phone -- usually while I'm in mid-shamble and my head is turned towards them -- but I do this trick where I shake my body a little at the last possible second, so the image is all out of focus. And then when my scent hits 'em, they topple over backwards in a faint, and I go over there and SMASH ALL THEIR STUFF! And then I might pee on 'em a little leave them a strongly-worded note. (Heh.)

So anyway, I'm living off the land right now, as simple as a Luddite. Except for my hand-held interbloggamunicator. I mean, I'm not an animal. So that's how I can relate the news from my friend at the Time Institute that your very favorite super-hero dimension -- the one where all the villains are psychotic mass-murderers; all the heroes are vicious, sniping, self-pitying crybabies; and half the population is lacking one or more of their limbs or eyeballs -- is about to absorb the Mighty (or "Archie") Comics dimension. It's a rare and beautiful timeological event!

(Gloriously huge version found here.)

I'm guessing that means you all can look forward to a painfully-mutilated Shield, a sex-addicted Fly Girl, and a Comet who wets the bed. ("Kee-rect!") ENJOY!

But How Does He Smell? (Terrible!)

I hated to keep you in suspense -- since I already knew what would happen (me being from the future and all) -- but it's now safe to tell you that Jeremy's septum-correcting surgery was a smashing success! He didn't feel any pain. Not that he'd admit it, since he's a total bad-ass, or at least, that's what he tells people. And after a couple of nights at his sister's house and some bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup, he's doing pretty darned well! He just isn't allowed to blow his nose for a week. Or else the fool thing just falls right off, I guess. Also, he can't lift anything heavier than twenty pounds for two weeks. Or is it two weeks on the nose-blowing and one week on the heavy lifting?

Uh-oh.

Let's see some photos of him, before and after the surgery!

BEFORE:

AFTER:

Yipes stripes. I hope he has a good lawyer!

"Be Sure to Drink Your Ovaltine" (A Crummy Commercial)

Let's all congratulate Spazmo, shall we, for being the first to guess the title of Jeremy's webcomic!

Now, let's all gasp in admiration at a proper advertisement for it.

If I recall correctly -- and my memory's a bit fuzzy on this, since it happened 1,000 years ago and in another dimension -- the "saucy frolicking" wasn't in every strip. But I guess Jeremy wanted readers to prepare themselves for a Sexiest Case Scenario. It's the same thing I do on my dates! Sometimes, Storm Boy appears from under the bistro table, wearing a stewardess uniform and a life jacket, and he elaborately mimes what my date should do in a Sexy Emergency.

Which is weird, since I certainly never told him he could do that.

As for me, I'm going on a one-man "corporate retreat" -- if I can ever dodge this gang of losers which has attached itself to me like a space-barnacle on a really cool space-yacht. I'm gonna fly out to some forest-covered planet and just "hang". Y'know, try to get my head together and stuff. Maybe bang the occasional lumberjack. I dunno. So I won't be blogging for a little bit. Look for me early next week, probably.

On a completely unrelated note, Jeremy is having surgery "today" (as in 7/31/08) to correct that annoying deviated septum of his. Let's just hope he doesn't wind up looking like that Kristen Chenoweth-faced dude who's a judge on "Shear Genius."

But THEN He'll Only Be Able to Count to EIGHTEEN

I think I've spotted the source of the outbreak, and it's all over the torso of that brunette gal. Listen up, missy: that fungal infection of yours may look kind of like a paisley pattern, but there's no need to flaunt the damn thing. Also, button up your damn shirt! (Kids these days...!)

Shameless Advertising, Part Three

Shameless Advertising, Part Two

How Do You Solve a Problem Like My Bikini Area?

In France, nuns are much sexier!

They just can't see a damn thing, is all.

Shameless Advertising, Part One

And Now, a Heart-Warming Tableau

Alien Super-Villain One: Indeed! Our people shall rejoice when they behold-- wait. You're being sarcastic again, aren't you?

Alien Super-Villain Two: NO, Dad, I'm seriously pumped about spending "quality time" with you. This is way better than hangin' out at the Olympus Mons Galleria with my friends.

A S-V 1: Still thy tongue, stripling!

A S-V 2: Yeah? How's about you suck it, old man? 'Cause I could honestly give a shit about helping you kill this alien dough-ball here.

Shield: I'm not doughy! I'm barrel-chested.

A S-V 1: Have you no sense of history, boy? For millennia, have our proud ancestors imposed our singular will upon trembling galaxies, and...

A S-V 2: Screw that shit! What about my dreams?

A S-V 1: What "dreams" would those be? I don't see you working towards anything! Unless you're in training for the "Napping and Acting Sullen Olympics."

A S-V 2: They don't even hold that event anymore and you know it, Dad! By the Emerald Void of K'thglz, you're so fucking lame!

A S-V 1: HEY! YOU DON'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT! You know what? That's it. You're grounded. No hover-biking for seventeen solar-cycles.

A S-V 2: But--!

A S-V 1: Nope! This is final! And don't even think about whining to your mother about it. I'm not changing my mind.

A S-V 2: You--! I HATE YOU! I SO FUCKING HATE YOU RIGHT NOW!

Shield: Look, can I just go, or...

A S-V 1 and A S-V 2: Quiet, you!

Do You Think the Punisher Would Pull This Crap?

Because I'm thinking not.

Oh, but the Black Hood pulls this crap. All the time. Because he's a petty, miserable little fucker.

Oh, and by the way? Nice ears, asshole.

The Crimson Fist

So, it turns out that your boring dimension has its own super-hero after all...! And unlike that "Superboy-Prime" goober? He's cool.

His codename is "The Crimson Fist" and here's how balls-punchingly cool he is: he contacted yours truly about designing a costume for him! (For money!) It doesn't get much cooler than that, people.

Designing a costume for your dimension presented some unique challenges. For instance, I had to go easy on any parts that could be grabbed onto during a scrap (like capes and hoods and such). Why? Because you fuckers fight dirty! It sure ain't that way where I live! In my dimension, if I'm wrestling with some (other) burly dude, and he touches grabs my glorious beard? I know exactly what he's asking for, and it ain't a sock to the jaw. Er, but I digress.

This design features body armor, based on the kind used by dirtbike enthusiasts and, I dunno, cops or sumpin'. Note the protective collar, which comes in handy when some jerk tries to stab you in the back of the neck. Which, I guess, happens where you shmoes live. The cowl has integrated lenses. The buckled boots are combined with kneepads. As a design element, I left the forearms bare. So I guess it's not 100% practical, but hey! I'm an artist.

This next one would be suitable for riding a motorcycle. Just add helmet! I surrounded the fist logo with stylized wings for additional bad-assery. I mirrored the wing pattern on the boots. I went a little Anime in the hair, for fun.

I actually doodled around with a full-on Japanese hero look for the Crimson Fist: armored pants, metal girdle, bare nipples, fun little vest. It made him look like he was one of those twee Final Fantasy characters (not that there's anything wrong with that), and it didn't exactly scream "tough". But I guess I had to go that far, in order to dial it back down to this design. It's my personal favorite!

But the Crimson Fist prefers this third one, and I can't say as I blame him:

This design is clean and classic, with a good balance of color and silhouette. It looks the most like a 21st century super-hero from my own dimension, but it was still designed with practicality in mind. For instance, there is a definite top layer and bottom layer. The tunic is bordered with red at the hem, and it's pulled over the leggings. The boots and the gloves are both pull-ons; you'll note that they are drawn as fitting more loosely than the buckled versions in the other two designs. I'll be producing an illustration -- using this design -- for the Crimson Fist!

Awesome!

Pale Rider

Oh, Eastern Cowgirl Fern, you saucy, spangled temptress...!

Luring wine-soaked businessmen to their dooms as you writhe onstage to ZZ Top; stretching your lanky legs into configurations few thought possible; ruthlessly abrading the metal pole with the scales on your stretchpants; insouciantly tossing your collar tips to select "rough-riders" whom you'll meet later, and secretly; dazzling the crowds with the strobe-light concealed within the ludicrously-tall crown of your cowgirl hat; smiling only seldom, because of your embarrassing overbite; ignoring the numbness in your feet after cinching your "ankle bandana" too tightly; doggedly removing all alcohol and bodily fluids from your tiny daughter's pageant vest before placing it back in her closet right before she awakens (for she must never know how the two of you can afford to live in this respectable brownstone -- that is your solemn vow)...!

Oh, Eastern Cowgirl Fern... why do you fascinate me so?

UPDATE: Holy shit. She's an actual person. Real Eastern Cowgirl Fern, I offer you my sincerest apologies.

I Want a New Rug

Big Max has chosen the "Mamie Eisenhower" model, apparently.

...Since he's splurged on new fake hair for himself, do you think Big Max went in for a fresh merkin as well? I've heard that some of the more leonine body hairs that I shed eventually wind up in those things. I don't even mind! I call it "sharing the wealth." Wear 'em in good health, boys!

And I Think We Can All Agree That He Had It Coming

Remember that night? The night Batman was killed? And everybody was laughing; and slapping one another on the back; and giving out free beer, even to the kids; and putting on impromptu accordion concerts; and making sloppy, care-free love right on the streets of Gotham, in amongst the looting; and also this one guy said that his friend said that his girlfriend's brother told him he had seen some fat stoner take a whiz right on the bat-signal and it electrocuted the bastard, and everybody went "HELL YEAH MOTHERFUCKER!" and started shooting their illegal machine guns into the air?

Remember that?

And okay, so the next day freakin' Hawkman moves in and turns the whole damn town into an alien gulag, but it was so worth it because Batman the Practical Joking, Solid Gold Table Having, Hamburger Devouring Son of a Bitch was DEAD.

Excuse Me. Are Those Bugle Boy Jeans You're Wearing?

"Ah, I see that they are! *sniff, sniff* And the crotch has been expertly laundered! Good work! ...Why, no, I'm not planning on putting you down anytime soon. Just... you be quiet! Shut your... NO! Just shut it! Shut your dirty, whorish mouth! ...Fuck. I was going to carry you all the way to the Batmobile like this, but then I wouldn't be able to reach my keys. What? Aw, HELLS NAW it don't got no 'voice activation', wiseass. This is 1977! How come you're so dumb? You from space or something? ...I SAID SHUT IT! *sniff, sniff*"

Good Luck With That

Nemonok is trying to train Chunkstyle, but it ain't goin' too well.

On the plus side, lazy li'l Chunkstyle hasn't batted Nemonok's brain-jar off of any shelves.

Yet.

Wait, What Kind of "Convention" IS This?

In your era, She-Lah is dating Jake Gyllenhaal! Or maybe she's married to Keith Urban. I forget.

So, how do you solve a problem like She-Lah?

You dare her to fellate a live wire.

The next panel: the Shield tells She-Lah to "go make [him] a sammitch."

I'm not quite sure what to make of She-Lah's robo-togs, here. I mean, she's got the imperious headdress thing goin' on, like the evil queen in "Snow White", but then she pairs it with a drably wholesome ice-skating outfit. It gives off mixed signals. (It's the Mike Piazza of supervillainess costumes!) One gets the feeling that She-Lah would smirkingly order you to get down on your knees, and then proceed to remove the pilled-up lint from the shoulders of your sport coat with one of those sticky little roller things. And then she'd chirp, "There! Isn't that better?"

And you'd wind up cheating on her with the ball-cutting robot next door.