Blockade Boy

That's All He Wrote

2008-08-14T17:48:00.005-05:00

This is my final post, pals.

Just thought I'd get that part out of the way, first. It's like ripping off a Band-Aid (I'm given to understand). Although I wouldn't be surprised if my delusional ex-roommate, Jeremy, added some kind of epilogue.

When last we left your favorite super-hero (me!) I had just laid eyes on the "specialist" that the Citadel of Doom's manager had sent after me. And the sight of this guy knocked me on my ass. Because it was Animal Lad. Remember him?

And it just so happens that Animal Lad is freaking gorgeous. And to top it off, he was wearing that costume I designed for him!

So, my mighty brain was churning with manly emotions. I was shocked and flattered that he somehow managed to find out that I'd done a hypothetical costume design for him, and had gotten somebody to replicate it for him. And I was more than a little irritated that he hadn't bothered to pay me. Also, I was horny.

I hurtled down from the mouth of my cave, roaring like a Venusian gyrak. Animal Lad was startled, but he held his ground. He gestured at me and bellowed, "SLEEP!" Truth be told, I felt just as energetic as before. I guess that's because Animal Lad has the power to "tame" animals, and I'm like, WAY more evolved than that. (No matter what Storm Boy says.) Uninterrupted, I kept barreling towards him. He backed away, and sputtered, "You-- you're a mouse! I command it!" But his power to transform humanoids into lower animals didn't work on me, either. I guess it's because I'm a shape-changer, myself. As a kid, I was diagnosed with "slippery molecules." Although I have been changed into a lot of stuff before. Wait, wait, I got it! It's because I'm in Stockade Boy's body now! Maybe he has some kind of natural immunity. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Before Animal Lad could utter another word, I'd tackled him, and pinned his arms to the ground.

"Nice costume, handsome," I purred. "You can pay me back for the design any way you see fit." I smiled charmingly through my massive beard.

He squinted at me, and gasped. "Blockade Boy--?!"

I nodded, and loosened my grip.

"I didn't even know you were still alive!" he said, sitting up. "Wow, this is a real honor! Still, I have to take you into custody for all the crimes you've committed here. Mainly 'malicious mischief' and aggravated towel theft. Nothing personal. But lawbreakers must be punished."

I grinned. "Actually, I'm the wronged party here. And I can prove it."

His taut, earnest face relaxed, just a tad. "That's... great! I can take your statement on my Omnicom, and...!"

"Nope! It doesn't work that way. You're gonna have to wrestle me for it."

He rolled his eyes. "So you're just messing with me, huh? Fine. Big deal if my powers don't work on you. I'll take you down manually." He scrambled to his feet and took a boxer's stance, adding, "Let's go, big boy."

(And I fell in love with him, right then and there.)

We had a rollicking, devil-may-care, two-man donnybrook that lasted a good thirty or forty minutes, at least. Just punching the crap out of each other. But I finally wore him out, and got him back down on the ground, with one of his arms twisted backwards and my knee on his back.

"Say 'Uncle!'" I growled at him. "Say it! Say 'Uncle!'"

He peered coyly up at me, and hoarsely whispered, "Daddy...!"

That was close enough for me. I spun his body around, and wrapped my arms about him, in a rough embrace. His tongue lapped hungrily at my neck and my chest. And then it moved lower...

Four-and-a-half-hours of sweet lovemaking later, we sprawled langourously on the jungle floor. His head was in my lap. "What were we talking about, before--?" he burbled.

So I told him the whole story. All about how I'd used up most of my space-cheddah last year by purchasing a "hot property" that turned out to be the nearly-worthless dwarf planet of Throon, a.k.a. "the Planetoid of Peril." I figured with a name like that, it was a perfect spot for a summer home. Or a roller coaster! But an unscrupulous hotel chain ("Squatter Suites") had moved into the abandoned Citadel of Doom... even though they didn't own the property! According to regional space-laws, I can do anything in my power to encourage them to vacate the premises. In other words, I can harass the hell out of them, with impunity. I had been planning to sic my lawyer on them anyway, but I wanted to have a little fun, first. I can't help myself! Deep within my furry chest, there beats the heart of a barbarian king.

For backup evidence, I summoned a copy of the planetary deed on my interbloggamunicator. Animal Lad was suitably impressed, and totally on my side. Motioning to the distant Citadel, he said, "You want me to turn 'em all into monkeys? 'Cause I can do that!"

I ruffled his hair. "Sweet kid. Naw, I'll get my lawyer to send some U.P. goods to hussle those bozos into a rocket-bus. Then we'll have this little slice of heaven all to ourselves."

Animal Lad gazed at me with a blissful expression. "I'd like that...!" he murmured.

I sighed, contentedly. "This has been one hell of an adventure!, I'll tell ya that!"

"But one with a happy ending, right?"

I chuckled. "You bet your ass! The last two people in a tropical paradise, with the promise of sweet, sweet lovin' to come...? Not bad, baby. Not bad at all. Even if it's kind of a rip-off of the last issue of Rom: Spaceknight."

"'Rom: Spaceknight?!' What the heck is that?"

I playfully stroked his goatee, and grinned. "You know what? It really doesn't matter."

(Luciously big version available here).

Hey, pals! It's me... Jeremy! [Told you so. -- Blockade Boy] Behold my handsome face!

Look! LOOK AT IT! Okay, that's enough for now. Seriously, stop. You're creepin' me out.

...Huh. I really don't like the way I look when I smile. (Although I sure do it a lot.) I prefer "brooding" mode.

...Ahhhhh, that's better. I'm ready for my soliloquy now!

I'll get a little business out of the way, first. The commissions I'm doing for all you great folks, (like MaGnUs) will now appear in my illustration blog. If I ever get the yen to do any more comic book panel scans (don't hold your breath), they will appear in my LiveJournal. And the first regular installment of "Viking Zombie Boyfriend" appears this Monday.

Since I want to concentrate more on my artwork, my illustration blog should become more lively. And maybe I'll get rid of that depressing black background, and come up with an exciting new logo for it... I dunno.

But it's time for me to put Blockade Boy to bed (preferably with a sexy bearded dude).

Working on this blog helped me grow a lot as both a creator and as a person. Most importantly, it helped me come to terms with my homosexuality. I remember an old "Comics Scene" interview with Howard Cruse (from the 1980's!) where he said that he had a character in his comic strip "Barefootz" come out as a gay man before he did. Little did I know that I'd end up doing something similar. I decided Blockade Boy was gay for the sake of a joke -- so that I could link him romantically to Weight Wizard, and say that Weight Wizard had always talked about dying by being eaten by a giant flower (which happened). I never wanted to make Blockade Boy's homosexuality a joke, in and of itself -- and I hope I never did. So from the get-go, I tried to treat Blockade Boy's gayness with respect.

Before I'd started writing this blog, I'd already discovered "bear culture" via the glorious internet -- but at the same time, I hated myself for being attracted to bears. Mainly because I'm genetically incapable of being one. Not hairy enough, not bulky enough, etc. I suppose it was cathartic for me to take on the "voice" of an absurdly masculine man who was gay. Still, it took me years before I could even admit that Blockade Boy was a bear. My body image issues came to the surface when I brought back the pint-sized Weight Wizard, who hated himself for being attracted to Blockade Boy. Weight Wizard was ultimately a miserable, isolated soul. Thank goodness, both he and my self-hatred are gone for good. A few months after I came out, I had Blockade Boy advise Storm Boy to embrace the fact that he was a "bear chaser." That kind of thing is very important to me: honesty, with others and with oneself. (Although my personal aesthetic has expanded beyond bears; I'm currently dating an otter! Sue me, I like 'em hairy!)

I have a lot of practical reasons for ending this blog. Lack of time, a need to concentrate on my art and on making more money (ideally, from my art). And although I learned a lot about storytelling with this blog, I ultimately feel like I've spent enough creative energy developing characters that are owned by DC Comics, and from whom I cannot derive one penny. With Viking Zombie Boyfriend, I hope to eventually sell some comics with collections of the strips, and maybe some tie-in merchandise like t-shirts and coffee mugs. BECAUSE I NEED THE DOUGH.

Finally, I want to say "thanks" to Scipio Garling for posting about this blog years back and bringing me my first big boost in readership. And thanks also to all the great folks who took a minute out of their days to comment on my posts. Y'all were the best! With my free time, maybe I can do more commenting on your own blogs (instead of just lurking, like I do).

Farewell!

Lazy Thursday

2008-08-14T05:25:00.004-05:00

I'm bored.

Which is why I'm live-blogging this.

Still no sign of the "specialist" that the Citadel of Doom's manager hired to catch me or kill me or what-the-hell-ever. Although I do see a new spacecraft on the Citadel of Doom's rocket pad. It's one of those "environmentally-friendly" foreign models. Y'know. All tiny and cramped and snub-nosed and boxy-lookin'? Runs on starlight and dreams and vaporized cat pee? Probably has a little compartment to store your balls in? Yeah. One of those. If my pursuer is driving that weeniemobile, I don't anticipate him/her putting up much of a fight.

Criminy, but it's quiet this morning. Usually, I wake up to the sounds of the Planetoid of Peril's assorted fauna ripping one another into bloody gobbets. Today? Nothin'.

A flock of venomwings is flying past the cave, providing some welcome screeching.

One of the creatures just gave me the stink-eye, but I just stared it down like I always do. Yeah. You'd better keep going. Heh.

It looks like the venomwings have zeroed in on something below my cave, under the canopy of trees. They're circling, like they always do, and

HOLY SHIT

they

out of the SKY

just

the hell

The venomwings, they just stopped flying and fell, all of them, all at once.

I don't like this.

I don't like this at all.

Well, now I suppose I have to go down there and see what all the hubbub is a

hang on

WOW

Not only can I not believe who they sent after me, but I can't believe what they're wearing.

I gotta go have a "talk" with the "specialist."

*cracks knuckles*

Seeya.

Prank You Very Much

2008-08-13T06:26:00.002-05:00

Yesterday morning, the usual gang of idiots over at the Citadel of Doom had their "brunchtime premiere" for "Space Movie."

It didn't exactly go like they'd planned. (Haw!)

Everything went down around 9:00 in the morning. Most of the actors and guests had partied all night, so they were already tuckered-out and totally plowed. Hours before, I had infiltrated the Citadel, to make my preparations. I lurked up in the catwalk and the ventilation system. Like the Phantom of the Opera. Only cooler. (For instance, I don't think the Phantom of the Opera ever sucker-punched bulky, floating security droids.) The whole operation was surprisingly easy, what with all the chaotic reveling going on. And the only person who sensed that something was amiss was one buxom gal who mused, "What's that smell--?"

The crowd of drowsy drunks shambled into the Chemical King Memorial Ballroom, pausing only to take the gift bags proffered by the Citadel's bright-eyed staff. Some of the guests lurched over towards the buffet tables, while others greedily pawed through their gift bags. It was this latter group who first felt my hairy wrath, as their fingers were assaulted by (formerly sleeping) leechbeetles. By this point, the folks over at the buffet had discovered that the enormous mound of kono fruit-flavored yogurt was actually a cave-protean. (They're like regular proteans, only larger, less-evolved, meaner, and randier!) This seemed like as good a time as any for me to release the crater vipers. And once everyone was herded into the center of the room, I dropped the enormous stink-wasp nest on top of them.

Keeping to the shadows, I made my way up to the Citadel's roof. I watched the angry mob of guests and hotel staff surge out the doors and onto the rocket pad (which is where I'd laid all the flesh-tearing cones from the local razorpines). Let me tell you... those guys were pissed. The guests were angry at the hotel manager, and they threatened lawsuits galore, while the hotel manager (quite rightly) blamed me. Not that he had any idea yet about who I was or even my real reasons for doing all of this. He claimed he had called in a "specialist" who would, and I quote, "put the kibosh on this caveman once and for all." (And yes, we still use the word "kibosh" 1,000 years from your time. It just sounds a lot prettier in Interlac.) This "specialist person" is supposed to show up some time today.

What the hell ever, manager guy.

BRING IT!

Conversations With Dud People, Part Two

2008-08-12T06:09:00.004-05:00

Another mystery solved! YEAH, space-boyee!

Okay, okay... I'll back up.

Yesterday, the Citadel of Doom started filling up with folks who -- and I can hardly believe this myself -- actually want to see the undoubtedly-execrable "Space Movie." Hell, not only do they want to see the wretched thing, but they want to be the first to see it! For "bragging rights", I guess. Honestly, what passes for culture in this day and space-age...! Give me Rimborian speed-opera (all-male and all-naked, if you please), any ol' day.

So. I was up in my cave, spying on all the stupid, hapless dolts who were milling around the Citadel, when suddenly I saw this one insignificant dot leave the mob and strike out into the jungle! I figured I'd track him. And once I found him? I dunno. Give him a good scare, at least.

I scrambled down the cliff and I plunged into the foliage. My handsome nose scented the air, searching for any human-type smells. I eventually latched onto something that was vaguely familiar. Like mothballs, soaked in rum.

After maybe forty minutes, I had gotten close enough to see my prey. He was a scruffy, gangly, dandy of a man, wearing a porkpie hat with a floating holo-card projected over the polka-dotted band. The man undid the little kerchief that was about his neck, and dabbed the sweat from his face. Slapping at the monstrous leaves that brushed against his arms, he minced into a clearing. There, he started to pluck mushrooms from the sward, stuffing them into a fanny pack.

By now, I had picked up another scent that wafted off of the man.

Patchouli.

Holy shit. It was Phantom Lad.

I sneaked up behind him and I cleared my throat -- which sounds like the roar of a Parakat, by the way (the car, not the animal) -- and he jumped a good five feet up in the air. He landed about as gracefully as Ray Bolger.

When he spotted me, his eyes goggled. He hastily removed his hat, and all his long, greasy hair came spilling down over his shoulders.

"Blockade Boy--!" he gasped. A smile tried to find purchase on his face, and failed. Holding the hat behind him, he added, "Check it! Sometimes I land me a square job, y'know, for kicks, and then I take off my hat and I say, "Imagine that: me, workin' for you!"

"No, you don't," I said, flatly.

He looked down at his feet. "You're right," he admitted. "I don't."

"Let's see that hat!" I said. "A floating holo-card, huh? That's kinda cool."

"Oh, it's really not," he demurred, and he began to back away from me.

"Fork it over," I said.

With great reluctance, he did, but his finger "slipped" and deactivated the card before I could see it.

"Oh, c'mon--!" I spat. I quickly found the little on/off button in the brim, and the holo-card hissed back into view.

I know it was wrong, but I laughed my ass off. I'm sorry; I couldn't help it. Because it was a press card, naming him as one "Tod Hamplan", movie reviewer for "The Lallorwood Minute." And I was familiar with "Hamplan's" work. After all, I'd seen it on nearly every holo-film poster for the last three years.

I could barely talk, I was guffawing so hard. "DUDE--! This is that other writing job that Frigid Queen was always hinting at...? You're one of those guys? The guys who give glowing reviews to every movie that ever gets made, no matter how shitty it is? Aw, man! Seriously--! That is so weak!"

Phantom Lad attempted to blush, but the waxiness of his complexion rendered the color a sickly beige.

"I gotta make money somehow," he muttered. "And they give you free sandwiches. But yeah. I kinda hate myself for it."

"C'mere," I said, warmly.

He stared at me, warily.

"C'mon," I coaxed. "Hug time."

As he toddled forward, I grabbed him in a tight "bear hug." He began to blubber into my chest, occasionally stealing glances at where my thick, hairy dingus was pressing into his waist. I grabbed his head and made him look back up at my face.

"Listen," I told him, "You're better than this. I know I give you a lot of grief. But one thing I know is, you're better than this. Anybody is better than this. So nobody wants to buy your serious writing? Screw 'em! Find something else they want! You don't have to prostitute your art. Because your art is sacred. Trust me. I'm an artist; I know what you're going through. Keep writing. Keep writing and don't ever stop. But don't let somebody else turn your writing into a joke. They don't have the authority. Only you do."

He sniffled. "Yeah, I guess I oughta quit. The money's good, and the sandwiches are fucking heavenly, man, but you're right. It ain't worth it."

I led him over to a low boulder and we just sat there for a while, with my arm around him, while he softly cried.

Finally, I patted him on the back, and I stood up. "So, are you feeling better?" I asked him. Casually, I pulled my own long hair into a samurai-style pony tail (or "Patrick Swayze in 'Road House'-style pony tail" if there's something horribly wrong with you).

Phantom Lad stared at me, but didn't say a word.

"What--?" I prompted him, feeling mildly irritated.

"That's hot," he gulped.

"And that is a whole 'nother talk," I laughed. "Now get out of here, you bum!" With a slap to his ass, I nudged him out of the clearing and back into the jungle.

"Oh, and one other thing!" I called after him. "You might want to be well away from the Citadel of Doom around 9 AM tomorrow morning."

Blockade Boy, Robot Fighter

2008-08-11T06:24:00.006-05:00

My weekend was okay. Until I had to fight the giant robot.

On Saturday, I moved into this sweet cave way up in the side of a cliff. It's high up enough that I'm afforded a wonderful view of the Citadel of Doom. And yet, it's not so high up that it makes me tired to climb up to it while holding a bunch of "liberated" hotel swag, bound up in the hide of a Lesser Gurn (as is my wont).

And oh, what swag they got over at the Citadel of Doom! In my charming, care-free, breaking-and-entering style, I've "acquired" something like eighty assorted monogrammed towels (made of the finest, fluffiest Winathian cotton); a way-cool chef's hat; some silk drapes that I think I could make into a kick-ass waistcoat or smoking jacket; thirty-two bottles of Chateau Femnaz Sauvignon; and an ice sculpture in the shape of a hot naked dude (and I licked that fucker down to a nub.)

Saturday night, I almost swiped one of those complimentary Orandoan mints that they leave on everybody's pillows -- y'know those mints, the ones that are the size of an armoire? Yeah. Those things are the best. Well, I'd just about made it through the window with that thing on my back, when suddenly I heard a small sound, like the coo of a dove. I turned around, and there was a little Xennian girl. Her round, lidless eyes were wet with tears, and she wailed, "Sasquatch, why? Why are you taking my complimentary mint, why?"

"I ain't Sasquatch, honey," I sighed, and I hoisted the damn thing back onto her bed. Then, with my best coyote yelp, I jumped out the window.

The Citadel of Doom's manager sent the giant robot after me the very next morning.

Not that he knew exactly who I was or where I was, but he'd equipped the thing with some kind of vague, hominid-sensing tracking system. I remember watching the robot leave the hotel, while I thought, "Huh, I wonder where that thing's going," and then as it got closer and closer to me, I was like, "Aw, shit."

I let the robot chase me for a while, until I could lure it into a narrow canyon. Then I scampered up the side and started a rockslide, trapping it. From there, it was a simple matter to jump down towards it, turn myself into a steel wall in mid air, and repeatedly clobber the holy bejeebus out of it. The only bad part? I had to do it about six hundred times before the robot was destroyed. I could have spent Sunday napping and eating and planning how I was going to swipe more stuff from the Citadel of Doom, but no. And now my muscles feel like they're being flame-roasted, from all the climbing.

I'm looking out at the Citadel of Doom, now. That big holo-projector they have in the roof is showing an advertisement for something called "Space Movie." Poppin' planets! It looks like it's another one of those stupid Lallorwood holo-films that pretty much just duplicate scenes from other movies (with added fart jokes). And apparently, the "galactic premiere" is happening at the Citadel of Doom!

Oh, it is fucking on, motherfuckers.

Conversations With Dud People, Part One

2008-08-08T10:40:00.010-05:00

(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

2008-08-07T07:13:00.005-05:00

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

2008-08-06T06:04:00.002-05:00

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!"

2008-08-05T06:36:00.005-05:00

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!)

2008-08-04T13:09:00.002-05:00

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)

2008-07-31T05:59:00.005-05:00

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

2008-07-30T05:56:00.003-05:00

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

2008-07-30T05:21:00.001-05:00

Shameless Advertising, Part Two

2008-07-29T05:32:00.002-05:00

How Do You Solve a Problem Like My Bikini Area?

2008-07-29T05:29:00.002-05:00

In France, nuns are much sexier!

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

Shameless Advertising, Part One

2008-07-28T06:49:00.000-05:00

And Now, a Heart-Warming Tableau

2008-07-25T06:08:00.004-05:00

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?

2008-07-24T06:55:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-23T06:32:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-22T06:23:00.005-05:00

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

2008-07-21T06:26:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-18T06:20:00.002-05:00

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?

2008-07-17T05:56:00.002-05:00

"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

2008-07-16T12:50:00.005-05:00

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?

2008-07-16T06:15:00.005-05:00

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.

Briefs' Interlude

2008-07-15T17:26:00.007-05:00

Vince Briefs over at the Saiyan King's Blog is now providing an appropriately raucous home environment for feisty Fizzle! The best part is, there are plenty of other "unique" pets for Fizzle to play with. Let's just hope they don't all destroy the world with their tomfoolery.

I'd also like to give a shout-out to Johnathan of Paul and John fame, for giving Chunkstyle a comfy spot on their sidebar. They haven't posted about him yet, but they did make Chunkstyle a link to this blog! Just like Bill S. has done! And that's good enough for me!

Another Day, Another Ass-Pounding

2008-07-15T06:43:00.002-05:00

It looks like Jon is still trying to convince people that GWF (Gay Wall that Falls) is a wildly popular fetish. It's sad, really. There's nothing wrong with having an obscure interest, Jon. Go ahead and fly your freak flag!

Besides, everybody knows that all the cool people are into GBPBGG (Gay Boulders Pummeling Big Gay Giant). And Colossal Boy is into it as well.

Now, everybody help themselves to some boiled prawns. There's a big heap of 'em, on the right side of the panel.

Borgsko

2008-07-14T21:58:00.002-05:00

Bloggers Dr. Kate Basil and TX have swept dear little Bosko into their eternal battle for supremacy. And the Borg Collective now has its cutest drone yet!

Maybe it's just me, but Borg Bosko is somehow even cuter than Regular Bosko! Look at the little hat! Or brain-controlling helmet. Or whatever. Borgsko is perfectly adorable! Forget "Locutus"... the Borg should have made Borgsko their public relations rep!

Or Maybe It's John Byrne's Fault

2008-07-14T06:05:00.003-05:00

Yes, "Blockade Boy": the destination for dated, irrelevant, and factually dodgy insular fanboy humor.

It's Not Lost; It Just Got Stuck Between the Sofa Cushions

2008-07-13T08:23:00.006-05:00

Fizzle, the cutest, mind-controllingest kitty of them all, has found a home over at Lost Hemisphere! (I'm sure that Fizzle will be running the whole show in no time.)

Thrill Ride

2008-07-11T05:26:00.007-05:00

Wow, Cootie's kittens are just flying off the shelves! Usually with one of my priceless knick-knacks in their mouths, which they then drop on my head, like little bombs.

Thank the Luck Lords, people are actually wanting to take the critters off my hands!

In other news? I'm still jobless. I've had countless strategy sessions with the other Eyeful Rejects (as I've taken to calling them) but we can't reach consensus on anything. And the stress must be getting to me, because Posture Queen pulled me aside and said:

"BLOCKADE BOY. You're a BEAUTIFUL SUPER-HERO with a UNIQUE BEARD. When you first invited us over for snacks we were BLOWN AWAY by your SMILE (on the rare occasions we could glimpse it beneath that ginormous mustache of yours) but NOW? You seem to be FADING. Storm Boy said you SNAPPED at him during BRUNCH this morning. And that makes you LESS PRETTY to me. WHERE is that Blockade Boy who DAZZLED US at the BEGINNING? You need to DIG DEEP and FIND THAT WITHIN YOURSELF, because we're starting to question WHY YOU'RE HERE."

And I hollered, "I'm here because it's my goddamn house! Why the hell are you always here?!"

So then she started yelling at me ("I BELIEVED IN YOU! WE ALL BELIEVED IN YOU!"); and Phantom Lad yelled at her for yelling at me; and Bad Apple Boy started stomping around and making all these crazy hand gestures and saying "YO, this shit is WHACK"; and Cootie and several duplicates of her kittens were all yowling because they didn't know what was going on; and Storm Boy was laughing so hard he choked on his protein bar. (But if you've observed the obscene manner in which he eats the damn things, that's not unusual.)

So I hollered for everybody to SHUT THE HELL UP. And like normal, they did. (Even the cats!) And I apologized for being snippy, even though I'm pretty sure I hadn't but I have to use diplomacy, I guess. (And I suppose I have been on edge, lately, since I broke up with most of my boyfriends because they looked exactly like me and it was freaking boring, man, so I hadn't "gotten me some" in at least fifty-two hours.)

And on the spot, in a grand gesture that is typical for me, I told everyone I was treating them to a day at Lallor's famed "Paper Dollar City" amusement park, namely at its newest section, New Jersey Country.

Well, we had a heck of a fun time, until the roller coaster got stuck. The park sent up a technician with a jet pack, to take a gander at it. He was a beautiful freakin' dream, man. Brawny fireplug type, shaved head, handlebar 'stache, and a tattoo of a dark beast skull on his neck. And I couldn't help flirting with him, and Storm Boy was flirting too, only he peppered his dialog with techno-centric engineering talk. So I won, because I speak the language of SEX, brother, and my voice is like fine-grit sandpaper against your nipples.

And sure, okay, maybe it was "bad form" for me to make love to him right in that stalled roller coaster car. But at least I gave everyone a few seconds of warning.

Mind Over Litter

2008-07-10T06:23:00.003-05:00

Nemonok has found a place in his ~~heart~~ cerebral cortex for li'l Chunkstyle! And I'm sure he'll provide a stable, loving environment that will -- *sighs, shakes head*

OKAY ALREADY, so he's going to use Chunkstyle to destroy his arch-enemy, some dude named "Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator." Wow, that's the same name as one of my most loyal commenters!

What a funny coincidence!

We'll Always Have Sturgis

2008-07-10T06:17:00.003-05:00

So, are there any websites out there with slashfic about characters from the 1971 Gold Key series, "Mod Wheels"?

Because there totally should be. (Haw, haw!)

Sweetening the Pot

2008-07-09T18:19:00.003-05:00

The kind-hearted individuals who choose to adopt one of Cootie's kittens NOW have the option of displaying one of these handsome images on their sidebar!

JEALOUS...?

(Just right-click and download it to your computer or, y'know, whatever. And if they're too big, still, I can probably shrink 'em, some. Just let me know what a good general size is. Or maybe you can access 'em on my Flickr photostream, where I post as "blockadeboy5440." Heck, I dunno how your dopey steam-powered 21st century technology is supposed to work!)

Cabbage Patch Cooties

2008-07-09T06:18:00.003-05:00

FREE KITTIES!

Please, won't you give these adorable super-powered kitties a home? Each kitten is a four-in-one value, since they'll split into four even cuter kitties at random intervals! They're sweet and precious and fun and they totally won't destroy all your valuable collectibles with their out-of-control otherworldly powers. Scout's honor.*

All you have to do is claim the kitty in the comments section of this post, and write about it on your own blog. Let me know when you do, and I'll link to it! Just don't be mean to the kitties, because then I will POUND YOUR ASS, and not in the fun way. Also, I'm totally fine with duplicate claims, although I seriously can't imagine that even happening. But I have a duplicator ray on hand, just in case.

Let's take a look at the ~~merchandise~~ irrepressible li'l munchkins, shall we?

Here's Bosko! Bosko Black can tap into a weird "shadow dimension" to project huge blobs of inky terrifying ectoplasm! Bosko Yellow has a nifty "paralysis" ray that can stop anybody in their tracks with only minor side-effects! Bosko Orange spews acid from various orifices at a range of up to eleven meters! And Bosko Red can shrink down to microscopic size and ~~give you a stroke by gnawing on your brain~~ add the perfect touch to any knick-knack shelf.

Say "hi" to Fizzle! Fizzle Aqua has mind-control powers, so you don't even have to bother with buying food or changing the litter box. That's what the zombie hobos are for. Fizzle Yellow shoots lighting! (Surge protector sold separately.) Fizzle Pink can walk through walls and fall through floors! And not onto your table in the middle of important meetings with your press agent! Nope! Fizzle Purple has super-speed! Try putting Fizzle Purple on a treadmill hooked up to a generator, and watch your power bills plummet!

Look out! It's Chunkstyle! Chunkstyle Bronze can expand into a Harryhausenesque giant monster whose looks will stop traffic... literally! Chunkstyle Gold can transform into a Colossus-style armored juggernaut, which is kinda cool until it's time to "knead bread" on your lap. (Might I recommend wearing a cup?) Chunkstyle Copper can teleport to any location, and positively won't embroil you in an intergalactic scandal by fetching valuable jewels from foreign embassies! Chunkstyle Silver's "freeze breath" is handy for chilling soda pop, beer, or the privates of certain friends who have taken to hanging out at your sweet-ass bachelor pod and are totally jacking with my game, Storm Boy. Er, but I digress.

Adopt one today! It's the latest thing (I've decided)!

*This is not a legally binding guarantee.

Kaboodled

2008-07-08T06:58:00.002-05:00

I'd love to write a post for you all today. But as you can see, I'm kind of busy...

Not pictured: the proud mother. Also not pictured: the no-good sumbitch whose cat knocked her up. Razzin' frazzin' frickin' frackin'... *grumbles inaudibly*

Choose My Own Adventure

2008-07-07T05:46:00.008-05:00

(If you haven't read last Friday's post, you might wanna go ahead and do that. I'm just sayin'.)

Okay.

So, Eyeful Ethel gave me a more formal firing, later that day.

She thanked me for my "months of service" and gave me a hefty wedge of severance-cheddah. On a more personal level, she pointed out that I would never be comfortable with having a boss. Which is true. She said I should look into getting a job where I can "run the show." That sounds good to me.

But what should I do? My band, Jagged Edge Explosion Balloon, has had some luck playing at small venues, like hover-biker bars and space-mitzvahs. Or I could train as an "ultimate brawler" and battle my way up into the Beat the Living Crap Out of You League. But that would take forever. I want glorious success RIGHT GODDAMN NOW, goddamn it! Is that so much to ask? Maybe I could become a bounty hunter? That'd be easy. And fun! You get to slap folks around... with impunity! Or with whatever else that happens to be lying around.

I invited my fellow firees back to my pod this morning, for a strategy session. And also because I feel kinda responsible for getting them into this mess. Have I mentioned that Bad Apple Boy, that pseudo-gangsta lunk-head, quit? As "a gesture of solidarity (yo)"? So he's here, too. The only ones who stayed with Ethel were Compass Kid (who I don't really know), Frigid Queen (because she's trying to avoid her sort-of-boyfriend, Phantom Lad), and Rainbow Girl (because she actually has an ounce of freaking sense.) I also secretly reasoned that by holding the strategy session at my place, maybe all these other super-heroes could help keep Cootie in check. Yeah, it ain't workin'. I've had to save Storm Boy from getting pummeled to death by mind-controlled hobos, like, four times already!

And Posture Queen--! Don't get me started. Okay, so I'll start. She's driving me bonkers. She wears wigs all the time, and never travels without at least two or three spares. She talks like a crazy person, going in and out of this effed-up cutesy "baby voice" and some kind of sultry whisper which she wrongly assumes is sexy. And she's always posing and telling everybody else how they should be posing, and I'll decide how everybody should pose, thank you very much. And she apparently thinks she's hilarious, but she's not, trust me. (But Storm Boy does think she's hilarious, and he and she are new BFF's, apparently. GUH.) And she has to infuse every mundane moment with High Drama. For example? She volunteered to make a run to the Infernal House of Pancakes to grab breakfast sandwiches for everybody. Only she screwed up the order. So we heard the front door slide open, and we bustled into the sunken living room to find Posture Queen standing in the foyer, looking down on everybody with her "serious face" (which makes her look like a frightened robot) and she intoned, "I see four beautiful super-heroes in front of me. But I only hold three sandwiches in my hand."

We were all kind of taken aback for a few seconds. But then I broke the silence by hollering, "WHO THE FUCK TALKS LIKE THAT?!"

It's going to be a long day.

But while I try to pull my shit together, why don't you guys partake of this nice costume I designed for fellow blogger (and evil genius) Captain Koma? It uses his signature motifs: the blue/black color scheme, and the hood. I also glommed onto a snake theme, based on the time he was turned into a half-snake creature (and because snakes are evil, which was scientifically proven by Lithuanian researchers in the year 2466). So the padding is meant to suggest a snake's belly, and I crafted Ouroboros symbols for the cloak clasps and for the belt. The clasps are joined by a yoke, based on Celtic jewelry. Now Captain Koma can conquer the universe in style!

(Gee, I hope that doesn't make me an "accessory." Er, oops.)

Nothing Left To Do But Parade

2008-07-04T13:10:00.007-05:00

Personally? I hold Phantom Lad responsible for this mess.

Okay, so that's not really fair. Big deal. BIG FREAKIN' DEAL! I'm in no mood to be "fair" right now.

And besides... as annoying as that phony hipster was back when I was pretending to be a "straight arrow" imaginary twin brother to my legendarily bad-ass self, and he looked on me with total disdain... well, he's only gotten more irritating now that everybody knows who I really am. Because now Phantom Lad is my biggest fan. He's always hanging around my desk, asking me if I need more space-java, or a new pad of holo-notes, or even *shudder* a foot-rub. GAH. Anything I say, he immediately agrees with, aggressively. Even combatively. And I'm pretty sure he's stalking me. He tried to rummage through my garbage the other night, but luckily Storm Boy was already there, searching for used undershirts. And I've tried ~~screaming at him and threatening his very life~~ having a rational discussion with him, but all he does is nod real intensely and say, "Yes, Blockade Boy, of course, you're absolutely right, Blockade Boy" and then the next thing I know he's hanging over my shoulder again. Balls. And he's gotten even scruffier, which I normally would enjoy, but all that extra hair and beard is just making look even more like the Rob Zombie rip-off he is. And just like one of Rob Zombie's movie characters, his first love is the sound of his own voice, and he just won't shut the fuck up! Granted, he's mostly talking about how incredibly awesome I am, but that actually gets tiresome after awhile. Oh, and he smells. At least he lost that tattered glow-in-the-dark cape. Presumably because the damn thing finally rotted away.

Okay.

So what happened was this:

Phantom Lad, Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and I all had to come into work today, even though it's it's "Co-Dependence Day" on Lallor, and most everything is closed. Except liquor stores, and armories. Over at Eyeful Ethel's Detective Agency (Featuring Blockade Boy) we were the "skeleton crew", I guess. I had to be there because I'm the assistant manager or somethin', and Storm Boy had to be there because Lallor's customary radioactive heat waves tend to cause brown-outs and he's the only guy who can restart the computers. And Phantom Lad and Posture Queen both had to be there even though they're both receptionists, because Eyeful Ethel is making them train as "junior detectives" to increase efficiency. So yeah, the four of us were the only ones in the office, and we were already kind of pissed-off about being there. And I was also pissed off because of some recent personal troubles:

I tried this new Lallorian tanning method that involves submitting one's body to a barrage of intense cosmic radiation, since that's the only way I can get UV rays to penetrate my dense pelt of sexy, sexy body hair. (And no, I'm not going to shave the hair off and then get a tan and then let the hair grow back! What kind of sick idea is that?!) So anyway, I now have a handsome -- one might even call it "glowing" -- tan, but my DNA has been damaged to the extent that I've lost most of my shape-shifting powers. It's back to just plain ol' steel walls for me! Dang it.
Meanwhile, my sixteen-legged cat, Cootie, is exhibiting even more powers! This started a few months ago, when she displayed a "paralysis ray" power, kind of like Rainbow Girl has. Now, Cootie has something like sixteen different super-powers. That's one for each leg! And she's gotten hyper as hell, running all over the place, destroying my (manly) knick-knacks with freeze-breath, blobs of inky ectoplasm, and mind-controlled hobos. Also, she's peeing all over everything.
My press-agent has stopped returning my calls, probably because I've started losing endorsement deals left and right, probably because my signature style has become so popular, a good 70% of all brawny, hairy guys now look just like me. If you refine that sampling to include only the brawny, hairy guys who are my boyfriends, the number jumps to around 92%. Which is at least three-hundred people!

So yeah, I was in a foul mood to begin with, and when I showed up at work, the place was like a dimly-lit oven, because, y'know, no power. And both Phantom Lad and Posture Queen were crammed behind the reception desk, arguing about who cares what, and then Phantom Lad spotted me and about killed himself scrambling over the desk like some kind of broken-legged spider, and one of his big dumb feet knocked the computer terminal flying and it busted into a thousand pieces, and then Posture Queen was pissed at Phantom Lad for breaking it, and Storm Boy was pissed at Phantom Lad because now he had to fix it, and I was pissed at Phantom Lad because... well, because he was goddman Phantom Lad, and that was good enough for me. (Have I mentioned that for all his unwavering devotion, he still won't divulge the nature of this mysterious "extra job" that Frigid Queen once alluded to? He said, "Naw, man, I can't tell you that! You'd lose all respect for me!" And I said, "I assure you, that's impossible." But he still won't breathe a word about it. Which, of course, just makes me want to know about it even more.) So anyway, about an hour passed in total silence, because nobody called, because it's a freakin' holiday, and nobody said a word, because they were all seriously bitter about even being there, and apparently Phantom Lad couldn't stand the tension anymore because he suddenly yelped, "YOU KNOW WHAT WE NEED?! SOME MARCHING!"

Storm Boy and Posture Queen looked at him like he had lost his space-marbles, but I was intrigued. I mean, you all know how much I love marching! And Phantom Lad started doing this crazy high-stepping march, with his gangly, withered limbs flying all over the place. "C'MON, PEOPLE!" he barked, with forced gaiety. "LET'S HAVE OURSELVES A GOOD OL' AMADAN-STYLE MARCH, LIKE BRIGADIER BLOCKADE DID ON THE DECK OF THE H.M.S. EXQUISITE!" He started humming "Cum On Feel the Noize" -- which is my homeworld's planetary anthem -- and maybe it was my patriotism, or maybe I was just moved by the sight of Phantom Lad's flop-sweat, but I hopped up from my desk and started marching around, behind Phantom Lad! He beamed grungily at me and said, "Oh, no, after you! Of course!" And I grinned and said, "Don't mind if I do!" and I took my place at the head of the parade. The two of us did a couple of turns around the office. On our second pass, I heard Storm Boy mutter, "That does kinda look like fun," and then he inserted himself in line between Phantom Lad and me. Posture Queen gaped at us as we marched past the reception desk, and I didn't think she was going to join in. But I guess she gets turned on by the sight of erect spines, because she wound up shoving Phantom Lad out of the way and getting in line behind Storm Boy. I could feel myself really getting into it -- being a natural leader, I guess -- and after a final circle of the office, I booted the door open and led everyone down the frozen escalator and out into the streets!

"Wait, where are we even going?" laughed Storm Boy.

Without even a trace of mirth in my voice, I bellowed, "TO THE MUSIC STORE!"

When we got close to the local music shop, I used my force gauntlets to pry the door open, so we could march inside without even pausing. Stomping about the empty store, we grabbed instruments off the shelves. I nabbed a bass guitar, Storm Boy took the most phallic clarinet he could lay his mouth on, Posture Queen grandly commandeered a "marching harp" (which is like a regular harp but with wheels on it), and Phantom "Maynard G. Krebs" Lad helped himself to a set of bongos. I slapped a big wedge of space-cheddah on the counter, pinwheeled my arm to strum the first chord of "Ace of Spades", and led my impromptu band out the door.

YEAH, boy-ee, it was one kick-ass parade! I could tell that Lallor's usual milling half-wits and vagrants had never seen such a sight before. I marched us to the center of town and right down Beast Boy Memorial Boulevard. People were practically tumbling out of their hovels (or maybe they were pushed) to join us! Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and Phantom Lad wordlessly formed themselves into a single rank, three people across, and the newcomers followed suit. I was still in front, moving with the measured, unstoppable ferocity of a Khundian mail carrier. I entered a kind of fugue state, where my only thought was "MARCH MARCH MARCH" and from what the other three have told me, they were kind of swept up into my mania, as well. I pushed us relentlessly onward, never looking back. I could hear the swelling sounds of the parade as it developed behind us. People sang along with us as we performed numerous inspirational marches, like "Cat Scratch Fever" and "Back in Black" and "Tush." After a while, there were so many voices that it all blended into an articulate roar. The road ahead reflected brilliant flashes of colored light, and the scent of gunpowder teased my nostrils. My mind dimly registered this as "fireworks."

And then the blazing husk of a hover-bike whizzed over my head and slammed into the pavement, not eight feet away from me.

I looked back.

And so, presumably for the first time, did Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and Phantom Lad.

We were speechless. Well, except for Storm Boy, who made a pathetic little gurgling sound.

What we had thought was a harmless (if lively) parade, was -- in reality -- a full-scale riot. It turned out that the native marchers were all drunk off their asses and armed to the teeth, and quite disgruntled. They looted luxury boutiques, overturned hover-cars (which takes a lot of work, believe me, on account of the internal gyroscopes) and generally set fire to everything they could. In the distance, Lallor's brutish police force was tussling with a group of people who were hollering "Revolution! Revolution!" Another, smaller group shouted "Anarchy! Anarchy!" and toddled about in random patterns.

Simultaneously, all four of our Omnicoms buzzed.

It was Eyeful Ethel.

"Congratulations, numb-nuts," she said. "You're all fired."

Get Away With It (Part Four)

2008-07-03T04:55:00.003-05:00

Only in the world of super-heroes can you...

4. Hide giant wings or a cape under your shirt without looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame or -- gasp! -- a shoplifter. For some reason, this rule doesn't apply to super-villains.

Get Away With It (Part Three)

2008-07-02T03:14:00.003-05:00

Only in the world of super-heroes can you...

3. Wear your underpants on the outside. Nobody will even care. The only drawback: this will often cause your genitalia to vanish.

Get Away With It (Part Two)

2008-07-01T05:56:00.004-05:00

Only in the world of super-heroes can you...

2. Sport a kooky hair-do or beard style in both your super-heroic and civilian identities. People will flat-out refuse to ID you!

Get Away With It (Part One)

2008-06-30T05:01:00.006-05:00

The 2008 Prism Comics reading guide has a two-page article by none other than the Unbeatable Blockade Boy! ...And yes, I've started not only adding the "Unbeatable" when I say my own name -- which is a lot -- but also requiring others to add it, as well. So of course, Storm Boy now wants to be called "the Unstoppable Storm Boy." Yeah, I'm not doing that. Although, I may have to start slapping him on the back of the head more often.

*takes hearty sip of space java*

AAANNNYYway, it turns out that the Unbeatable One's awesomeness was just too massive (and vein-y and throbbing) to fit into a mere two pages. So they had to leave out some of the illustrations I'd provided for them. It makes me wanna holler!

*unleashes mournful bellow, like a wounded earthquake beast)

...Okay, I feel better now. So as I was saying -- hang on, excuse me. WHAT. WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! ...NO, YOU GET BACK TO WORK!

*glares at Bad Apple Boy until he wets himself and rushes out of the office, all red-faced and crying*

Criminy. How is a guy supposed to get his blog posting done when all of his coworkers are bugging him? It's ridiculous!

OKAY.

So the deal is, my article was supposed to have an illustrated sidebar with four fashion "don'ts" that only the Super-Hero Set can ever get away with. But in the finished product, the sidebar was turned into a box, and there were no pictures at all. So this week, I'm going to post the pictures, in glorious Blockade Color! (Everyone, don your special glasses now.) Here's the first one!

Only in the world of super-heroes, can you...

1. Leave your house dressed only in lingerie, without being mistaken for a hussy.

Punch Him in the Ink Sac!

2008-06-27T12:41:00.003-05:00

I guess the (busty!) Octoid Men of Luvan are fond of wearing matronly one-piece swim suits, with their terminal spermatophoric ducts tucked between their legs.

Damn Viking Hippies!

2008-06-26T05:25:00.003-05:00

"...Specifically, from my pubes. Also, I made earrings for you. Carved 'em from some of my denser stools! ...Hey, where are you going--?"

(Meanwhile, Kristen's trampy friend Hilde is traipsing about with that jewel-encrusted gold crown that her boyfriend Erik pillaged for her.)

Bikini Area 51

2008-06-25T04:10:00.006-05:00

I hope Chameleon Boy remembers to thank Shrinking Violet for letting him borrow her blouse and panties.

What in the Sam Hill is going on here, you might ask, if you were a comic-relief "old prospector" character from a Hollywood Western? It's pretty simple, really. Let me break it down for you:

Chameleon Boy is sweet on Jan. Sadly...
Chameleon Boy is too shy to "make the first move", so...
Chameleon Boy has resorted to a trick taught to him by Timber Wolf...
And has shown up in her room with no trousers on. Unfortunately...
Chameleon Boy forgot to shape-shift himself some genitalia.

But that's no big deal, Cham. You don't need your junk to "press the button", if you know what I mean.

Now, Which Osmond Brother Is He Supposed To Be...?

2008-06-24T06:13:00.003-05:00

Princess Projectra should apologize immediately, as Chameleon Boy's plan is obviously fool-proof.

Chameleon Boy is a little bit creepy, and a little bit rock-and-roll.

"Wow, Shock Absorbers!"

2008-06-23T04:48:00.004-05:00

The next day at school, all three of these drama club nerds received the beatings of their young lives.

The icing on the cake for me is the top hats. I get the feeling the kids already owned the hats, which they probably purchased themselves, no doubt with money earned from working in a tea room. Why, they were just itching to wear these debonair chapeaus out in public! Before, they'd mainly used the hats for impromptu stagings of "A Chorus Line." Am I right, kid?

Well, okay then.

(Finally: Parade-Hater Horace and Jeremy Rizza: separated at birth? It's an uncanny resemblance, if you ask me. I never did see both of them at the same time.)

Rubber Clown Suits Become You

2008-06-20T04:58:00.003-05:00

A fine "bromance"! Intrepid sexual adventurers Ant-Man and Southern Cross thought it would be fun to break into Yellowjacket's house for their latest escapade. The danger makes it all seem so much more thrilling, somehow, don't you agree?* Half-hidden under a pile of blankets in the master closet, Yellowjacket was too sloshed on mojitos to join in on all the wrestling and spanking. But that's okay. He loves to just watch, too.

Starring Arch Hall, Jr. as Ant-Man! (Seriously, his head is like, 80% pompadour in this panel.)

*For realsies, though: don't actually try this, kids. Unless you're the Unbeatable Blockade Boy! I've battled my way out of many a "sticky" situation, and I have the switch-laser scars and phaser burns to prove it!

Spidey Don't Surf

2008-06-19T05:11:00.003-05:00

Preteens drawn by John Byrne = creepy, adult-faced dwarves. But I take it the human growth hormone finally kicked in.

~~What's wrong~~ What else is wrong with this picture? Well, how's about the way Cassie appears to be dropping from the ceiling onto Scott, like a monster in a horror movie? But the main thing that bugs me is that Spider-Man t-shirt. In his own universe, the general public regards Spider-Man as a dangerous vigilante at best, and a creepy villain at worst. So this is kind of like giving her a jacket with Bernie Goetz's face embroidered on the back.

Doctor Graves: Master of the Obvious

2008-06-18T04:08:00.004-05:00

In "Baron Weirwulf's Haunted Library" #50 (Charlton, July 1980), Doctor Graves -- who is totally not Ditko ripping off his own "Doctor Strange" character -- must battle a giant "evil entity" who is bent on conquering Earth! Luckily, his astral form is capable of ballooning to enormous size. Which is kind of a rip-off of the Spectre, but what the hell.

With his white temples and painstakingly-trimmed facial hair, the natty Doctor chills in a New York home crammed with scrolls and grotesque objets d'art; fires goopy, Tinker Toy-shaped mystic blasts from his arthritically-contorted hands; traverses surreal (yet familiar) dimensions; and sends his pallid astral body flitting all over the goddamn place.

But he's not Doctor Strange--!

No sirree Bob.

Suddenly, Spider-Woman's Rogues Gallery Is Looking Pretty Gosh-Darned Intimidating

2008-06-17T06:01:00.003-05:00

The (kind-of) original Blue Beetle -- the one who was an archaeologist and not a cop -- defended the world against such menaces as (clockwise from top left)...

Baron Von Howdy Doody!
Furry Conventioneer Who Can't Walk Upright Because A Couple Of Ruffians Jabbed Pool Cues In The Costume's Eyeballs Man!
The Micronauts Bandito!
The Red Hulk's More Flamboyant Uncle!
Battle Roomba!
The Living Loincloth and his atomic-powered baby bottle!
Fellatiobot!

Okay, so that last one was a bit obvious, but c'mon. I couldn't resist!

Night of the Quaffing Dead

2008-06-16T05:13:00.007-05:00

"He'll be sorrowful looking enough in a moment -- after he realizes he's drinking a 'Natural Ice!'"

Confession time: I kind of covet those boots. The rest of the get-up? Not so much. And that facial hair is way too tentative and delicate for my tastes -- like he could sneeze and it would gently explode and then drift away on an air current. Like a dandelion! (See also: that blond douche from "The Hills.")

(This is from "Shadow Play" #1, from the reliably boring Whitman Comics in 1982. No month given, probably because it was destined to plague the gift shops of various Stuckey's and Nickerson Farms, accreting root beer spatter and chocolate thumb-prints until it became a sticky boulder that was used by a robber to bludgeon the night manager.)

Worst. Legion of Substitute Heroes Member. Ever.

2008-06-10T04:59:00.005-05:00

She has the power to give anybody "perfect posture" for up to half-an-hour. Bad Apple Boy showed me the holo-vid of her Legion of Super-Heroes audition from a few years back -- somebody dug it up, slapped some dance music over it, and put it on UniversoTube. At first, I was going to just ignore Bad Apple Boy, due to the manner of his address. ("Yo yo yo! B-B! Check it out! This ho is wack!" ...AAAGH.) But I have to admit, the holo-vid was a knee-slapper. Posture Queen suffered from the old "M-my power--! I can't control it!" syndrome, so the Legionnaires wound up with their spines bent backwards. Sun Boy's scalp was practically touching his ass, which I found delightfully symbolic. Anyway, Bad Apple Boy goes off on a rant, liberally peppered with "street" lingo, all about how Posture Queen looks like a "straight-up skank" with a "broke-down booty", but admitted that he'd also "like to hit that." And so of course, we hear somebody clearing her throat and we turn around and there's Posture Queen herself (cue musical "stinger" on a phlegmy trombone) because she's Eyeful Ethel's latest hire! Posture Queen is apparently Ethel's new "personal assistant", which turns out to mean that she has to sit at the receptionist's desk while Ethel does Who Knows What in her office with the actual receptionist, Phantom Lad.

Yeah, Phantom Lad. I know. It'd be like making out with a shrunken apple head doll.

But it's not like he's cheating on his girlfriend. Not exactly. I guess Phantom Lad and his paramour (and co-worker) Frigid Queen have been on the skids even more than usual lately. She booted his ass out of their one-bedroom pod, and have settled into a routine where Phantom Lad goes on the town and "gets hisself some" (to quote Bad Apple Boy) while Frigid Queen stalks him and is glimpsed through windows and binoculars, making threatening gestures with a melon-baller.

And in a month or so, they'll switch.

Hey, bonus!

Looks S-H-O-D-D-Y and D-A-N-G-E-R-O-U-S!

It's only $1.98 for the whole set, plus another $5000 to warranty against the dolls coming to life and murdering you in your sleep. (With the warranty, the worst they'll do is smack you around a little.)

...And with that, I'm taking a short break. Undercover space-detective stuff. I'd explain it, but then I'd have to travel back in time and kill you all.

Don't fret! I'll be back on the blog job, next Monday!

Interfere Factor

2008-06-09T12:53:00.003-05:00

Here's a panel from a promotional comic that was given away with every kids' meal at "Extinction" E Saw's Eatery. It tells the heartwarming story of the first (and only) social worker to set foot on Rimbor. The succeeding panels show how she was immediately beaten senseless with her own hat, shoved into the garbage chamber of a rocket-barge, and shot back into space. I believe the moral of the story is, "Don't meddle." (And might I add, screw that noise! I'll meddle all I wanna meddle! I'm the goddamn Blockade Boy!)

The Berating Game

2008-06-06T06:25:00.004-05:00

Ah, it's Joe Quesada's perception of Spider-Man's marriage! (And scrunch-faced teenage imitation Web = Venom. Am I right, people? ...People? *flop-sweats*)

Y'know, the more "Web" stories I read, the more his super-hero career feels like a belabored metaphor for internet porn. (Which is especially astounding, considering they're from 1966.)

Also: "Scrambo"?! Freakin' Jerry Siegel...

Does This Dress Make My Hippie Look Big?

2008-06-05T06:18:00.003-05:00

Beware! Big Hippie is watching you! Yes, it's a Cory Doctorow wet dream, where high-powered executives are continuously monitored by hippies! (And to be honest, that doesn't sound like a bad idea, right now.) If only the comic itself was that revolutionary!

In a typical romance comic, a hippie comes in one of two not-so-groovy flavors. He's either a mixed-up "pretty boy" who shows up in the last two panels with a suit and a shave, in order to sweep his blissfully relieved sweetheart to a life of stifling conformity, OR he's a lout who dares to lightly pet the heroine before marriage and who is summarily sucker-punched by the square who really loves her. In this story from "Girls' Romances #136 (October, 1968), the leading lady is faced with a swing-a-delic "Sophie's Choice" and she finally goes with... the hippie! Sure, it's because he's going back to college and has told her parents he's going to marry her "whether they like it or not" (I'm guessing "not"), but he's also made a name for himself as a rock star, and there's no talk of him getting a haircut or a shave (or taking a bath) so that's something. I guess.

Okay. Enough hippie talk! How about that dress? It's not a good look for her, because it makes her look like a Pringles can with arms. She enjoys crocheting, doesn't she? Maybe a little bit too much! Because it looks like that dress just keeps going, all the way to the floor and beyond, like she's Morticia Addams Barbie. Or a humanoid tea cozy! It's unsettling! It makes her look boneless, like there's nothing under there but undulating white pulp that just sways back and forth, making little bleating noises. Like she's growing out of the floor! She's like some mythical creature, some siren that never moves, but waits for men to fall in love with her, so she can mealy-mouth over which one she loves best, until they finally get bored with her, or die. And still she'll wait, gently swaying. And bleating. *manly shudder* Wow, I creeped myself out with that one!

What Goes "AWP"

2008-06-04T05:43:00.003-05:00

"Unexpectedly" is right!

I know that Jerry Siegel gets a lot of guff for his writing (most of it from me) but now that I think about it? The typical Siegel story has jocular, exclamatory dialog; constant, nonsensical plot twists; and a general air of flat, self-consciously theatrical weirdness, like a bunch of second graders staging an Ionesco play. Well, I got news for ya, fanboys: you apparently adore this shit, and its called "Grant Morrison".

That's not the real Web up there, by the way; merely a criminal imitation. Or maybe I should say "delinquent" imitation, since he's supposed to be a teen. Oddly, he's drawn with a squat, wizened face, which means he's either lying about his age, or he's DJ Qualls.

Meanwhile, in an Alien Fertility Clinic...

2008-06-03T05:38:00.003-05:00

Maybe Fly Man's "twigorgs" wouldn't be "perma-locked" if he'd only go a size up in his spandex trunks!

(Mind you, I'm gayer than a Hello Kitty ice cream cake, so I personally couldn't give a shit about motility...!)

Full Frontal Prudery

2008-06-02T06:50:00.003-05:00

Hey, they were only pointing out that your fly was unzipped, Shield! Sheesh! (So sensitive--!)

You Are Feeling Very Creepy!

2008-05-30T11:57:00.005-05:00

...The white-haired man cried out, his velvety baritone roughening into a hoarse bellow. At last, his tautly-muscled body fell forward onto a mound of pillows. He rolled over onto his back, and sighed. His pale eyes roamed hungrily over the lanky, hairy form of his lover. "Truly, you are magnificent," he purred. "It seems an epoch since last I was loved with such tenderness -- or such savagery!" He chuckled, softly.

The other man was quite tall, with unshorn hair that surrounded his head in a shaggy corona. He swept a few stray curls away from his eyes, and grinned. "Think nothing of it, my good fellow," he said, warmly. "Jellybaby?" He plucked a handful of the candies from a nearby dish.

The white-haired man's smile shrank a bit, became unsure. "Mightn't we--? That is, we do have all the time in the world...!"

The tall man leaned over the white-haired man, and playfully rubbed his stomach. "I'm afraid it just can't be done, old boy! Duty calls, and all that." He poked the white-haired man's chest. "Now, you must promise me to be a 'good lad' until we meet again!" Suddenly, he was on his feet, and donning his trousers. He tossed the white-haired man his clothes, without looking at him. "Ah! Don't fret, you silly sausage! I have a gift for you." He strolled over to where the white-haired man was glumly pulling up his socks.

The tall man took the golden medallion from around his neck, and slipped it onto the white-haired man's broad shoulders. "It's a family heirloom," said the tall man, solemnly. "It's special. Just like you, my love. Swear to me -- you must swear it -- that whenever you look at it, you'll think of us."

The white-haired man's ashen face took on a soft pink glow. "Oh! Always!" He pressed the medallion to his lips, and then -- impulsively -- leaned forward and kissed his curly-haired lover.

"Let me help you dress," said the tall man, with a hint of impatience in his voice.

A minute later, the white-haired man was fully-attired, save for his hat. "I shall never forget this night," he said, sadly. "Would that I could be your constant companion! But alas, the currents of Fate draw this traveler to another place, and another time. We shall meet again; of that I am sure. But until then, I must remain... a stranger." He placed his fedora on his head, and vanished.

Wordlessly, the tall man sauntered over to the nearest wall, and removed a large panel. He retrieved another gold medallion from its storage place, and slipped it about his neck.

The Omega Knees

2008-05-29T05:57:00.003-05:00

Ah, a typical New Yorker, dressed for the subway.

I have so many questions.

How did he get past the front desk, dressed like that? Does he have a key card? What is the guy watching the security monitors doing right now? Eating a hoagie? And masturbating to this very scene? Why couldn't "To Catch a Predator" be like this? Is that a gun, or a video camera from 1982? And was it really necessary to put his super-logo on his knees? Is that where he expects his clients and victims to focus their eyes? His knees? Does he have big knees, and is he kind of sensitive about it? Like in the middle of a conversation, he'll get all offended, and huff, "I'm up here"?

...And Cinemax is Born!

2008-05-28T06:46:00.002-05:00

In the days before "naughty web-cams", people had to work with whatever technology they had on hand.

(Even creepier: Cookie and his girlfriend appear to be ambulatory ventriloquists' dummies.)

The Sneerness of You

2008-05-27T05:54:00.004-05:00

See, this is why "Moose" from Archie Comics should never be allowed to dress himself.

...Okay, so the mesh t-shirt was my idea. But then that big dumb dope had to accessorize it with a three-sizes-too-small fedora, a woolen suit coat (Who does he think he is? Sonny Crockett?) and his mom's scarf. GAH.

Meanwhile, the three points of the Universe's Most Boring Love Triangle don't realize that they're sitting in the mouth of a giant parasitic plant, which will soon snap shut and dissolve their stupid, quarreling bodies.

Put Your Cat Clothes On

2008-05-26T10:32:00.008-05:00

Back in February, Ryan Eldridge (of Westchester is for Lovers fame) asked me to redesign the costume of one of the X-verse's blandest, most generic mutants (and that's really saying something): Rusty Collins.

I remember reading about Rusty in some of Jeremy's old "X-Factor" comics. My impression of him: a nondescript, red-haired "nice guy" with pyrokinetic powers and a pleasant disposition, and that's about it. He and his equally bland girlfriend, "Skids", were like an even less-exciting version of Justice and Firestar, if you can imagine such a thing.

According to the Font Of All Wisdom (Wikipedia), Rusty later adopted the mucho Image-y moniker of "Firefist." *snicker* He got brainwashed by Stryfe -- y'know, the guy with the helmet that looks like a Cuisinart attachment. And then he aligned himself with Magneto. And then he got killed. Because he's boring.

Well, I don't think Rusty would have ended up as just another dead Marvel mutant (there's roughly a bajillion of them at this point), if his creators (Bob Layton and Jackson Guice) had just bothered to toughen his sorry ass up in the first goddamn place. In other words, they could've made him less like Howie Cunningham and more like Fonzie. [Edited to add: As Captain Nice Guy points out in the comments section, I meant to refer to Richie Cunningham, and not his dad. Still, I'm leaving my goof intact, since Rusty was a mite -- to borrow a phrase from Captain Nice Guy -- "Tom Bosley-esque".]

Which brings me to my styling choices. I knew I wanted to make him more like a runaway "street kid" (minus the prostitution) than the square he actually was. That way, he'd be somebody who could handle himself a little better, score a more interesting girlfriend, and not get stuck hanging out with melon-headed twelve-year-olds (Artie and Leech, I'm talking to you). After considering a "grunge" theme for him, I decided to hew to a musical subculture that was actually around when he debuted in the mid-1980's: rockabilly! After all, Layton and Guice had once "humorously" dressed the Beast in a retro-themed suit and glasses, a la Elvis Costello. Why couldn't they have styled Rusty like Brian Setzer?

Now, this guy has a yen for twanging guitars, curvaceous dames, and "car culture." Maybe Marvel could have gotten Coop to draw a miniseries about him! And I can guarantee he wouldn't be stuck looking after a couple of macrocephalic twerps. Naw, he'd be too busy scoring.

As you can see, the new-and-improved Rusty has a wicked 80's pompadour (it's fluffy!) and muttonchops, plus some kick-ass arm tattoos. The tattoos are designed like the stylized flames found on the sides of hotrods back then. The silhouette of the boots mirrors the pear shape of the flames. And the entire outfit is leather, natch. The studded belt has a nifty "devil's head" buckle, and it hangs low, just like some actual rockabilly musicians used to wear them in the 1980's. Note also the chain, going to his wallet. I've designed a devilish "R" logo for him. And -- since it makes more sense with his powers, and it just sounds tougher -- I bet he'd change his nickname to "Red." A Spirit-style mask completes the look.

There ya go, Ryan! And it only took me about four months! *chuckles nervously, then looks down at floor*

Doctor Tectonic

2008-05-23T06:10:00.003-05:00

Here's fellow blogger Doctor Tectonic, in a little ensemble designed by yours truly. See? I can do formal wear! This is the picture I did in exchange for using the Doctor's tattoo ideas. It depicts the Doctor in a classy outfit of trousers, vest, top hat, and exoskeleton control harness. I wore something similar to court when I had to contest a hoverbike speeding ticket. I was forcibly ejected from the proceedings when I threatened to "destroy [them] all." Er, oops.

Doctor Tectonic is a steampunk-styled genius inventor, who owns both an earthquake cannon and a battlesuit, the latter of which I'm told resembles an egg with a handlebar mustache. Not that there's anything wrong with that. His otherdimensional alter-ego, Seth McGinnis, has the Doctor's glorious facial hair and goggles, but not the cannon or battlesuit. Which is kind of lame. Gee, I'm glad I don't have an otherdimensional alter-ego! (Jeremy who--?)

So, Who Brought the Pig's Blood...?

2008-05-23T06:02:00.002-05:00

That's what all the closet-cases say, Brown.

Bad Apple Boy

2008-05-22T05:24:00.004-05:00

This muscle-headed goober is Si Las, codenamed "Bad Apple Boy." He's one of the new detectives at the Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency Featuring Blockade Boy, and I can't stand his phony ass. I hate his smooth, hairless body, which he likes to smear with baby lotion and potting soil. I hate his goofy Chia Pet soul patch. I hate his stupid sideways moopsball cap. I hate his two-tone footie-overalls, and his synth-rubber wristband that reads "LIVE WRONG", and how he wears the damn thing on the same arm as his dumb frowny-face apple tattoo, instead of wearing it on the opposite arm to provide visual balance, like any sensible person would. I hate how that whiskey-rough baritone voice he likes to use is a total put-on, as evidenced by the time I caught him talking to his brother on his Omnicom and he sounded like Mike Tyson. I hate how he goes on and one about how he's from Rimbor (the Toughest Planet in the Universe) but if you read his personnel file, it states quite clearly that his family moved away from there when he was like, two months old, and he spent most of his life on an agricultural satellite, and the only time he got into trouble with the law was when he threw a stink-bomb into a restaurant full of hyper-chicken farmers, on a dare. From his frat. GAH.

Okay, okay, so that's a lot of bile. I have to work with this tool, so I might as well remind myself of his good qualities! He, um, well...

...I got nothin'.

Belly Shirt State Penitentiary

2008-05-21T06:21:00.003-05:00

Let's go-go to prison!

Here's the Dazzler, from issue number 13 of her own comic (March, 1982), bralessly fighting for her very life against the Grapplers! Not to be confused with the Gropers, whom I'm pretty sure are Chuck Austen characters. And this titanic tussle takes place in Ryker's Island! ("I've read about that place", Dazzler exclaims to her permed-and-mustachioed lawyer. "It's a JUNGLE!" No, dear. It's a prison.)

Now, you might assume from the tomato-red hue of Dazzler's top (with matching clam-diggers, and I apologize for how dirty that sounds) that she's wearing an actual prison uniform, and maybe she found the time to alter it into something trashier, and also she removed the numeric I.D. patch, and really that's an awful bunch of assuming, and I have to wonder at this elaborate dream-world you've created for yourself.

But NO.

In fact, HELL NO, because these are the Dazzler's own clothes. See, the Dazzler apparently decided that this flimsy get-up -- sans bra! -- would be just the thing to wear to a rough 'n' tumble prison! Criminy. And yet, it's far from the most salacious ensemble worn by a female prisoner there! Let's flash back to a few pages earlier, when the Dazzler is unceremoniously dragged onto what appears to be the set of a Jim McMahon courtroom drama:

Yes, in 20th-century American prisons, the inmates just saunter around in their undergarments. ...DAMN IT! How come I never was told this? I could have volunteered to teach some brawny, nearly-nude he-hoodlums how to read, or some shit. And then somebody would have made an inspirational movie about me. For Colt Studios. ...Wow, my whole life could have been different. Holy BALLS!

Like "Frogger", But HOT!

2008-05-20T06:11:00.007-05:00

Wait, so you can't navigate a log in high heels? It's not a problem for any of the lumberjacks I know. (And if their socks get all squishy, it ain't from water.)

My jaded brain is boggling from the idea that her "best dress" is this limp, feces-brown, matronly "wrap" number. Seriously, what are the runners-up? A macramé ballgown? A cheesecloth trapeze dress? Two milk caps and a whisk broom? A sock in the jaw? For realsies, I just can't picture it!

Robotic Gesture Theater Presents!

2008-05-19T06:47:00.005-05:00

Forget that goateed heel, honey; he just got a job working in a Tom of Finland comic. (Seriously, why else would he leave a sexy manikin like her? She has twenty-two points of articulation!)

Bonus: Remember when those kinds of lapels were found in places other than clown costumes? ...Yeah, me neither.

I'm Evidently a Dreamboat

2008-05-16T06:41:00.007-05:00

Say, who's this handsome devil?

Why, it's none other than me, as envisioned by fellow blogger (and arch-villain) Captain Koma, over in the Heroes United forums! It's stunning, no? I'm not currently in the market for a new costume, Captain, but if I ever turn to the dark side -- and contract conjuctivitis -- I'll definitely consider this look! Hot damn but I'd look fetching! Observe, if you will, the lush red beard, the dashing eye-patch, the marvelously masculine segmented shoulder-pads! I'm a hunk! I mean, I'd jump this guy's bones in a nano-second! And he's me! ...Okay, so that image is a trifle too "out there" even for yours truly.

My apologies.

Well, this is as good a time as any to give you all a little flavor of my life as it stands right now. My massive, rampant, uncut celebrity is starting to sag a little. I no longer get mobbed by hoards of nearly-naked hover-bikers. Dang it. Still, I have enough clout that I worked out a deal with my good friend Eyeful Ethel: to help restore confidence in her stockholders, her company is now officially called "The Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency, Featuring Blockade Boy." I don't think she resents it too much.

Ethel tried to lure Dentata Damsel away from that voiceover gig she'd taken with Paramount-Universo. It turned out that the folks at Paramount-Universo had never even heard of Dentata Damsel. We later discovered, she'd been living with Tusker in some twisted "Beauty and the Beast" (TV show) scenario, and, in her words, "platonically banging" him. They're both in counseling right now.

Still no sign of Nightmare Boy.

Ethel hired two new detectives: Compass Kid and Bad Apple Boy. The first is a mildly-powered Braalian with an uncanny sense of direction; the second is a Rimborean poseur with souped-up Chlorophyl Kid powers. (You'd be surprised how many toddlers have fallen into vats of mutagenic hydroponic solutions. It's a national tragedy!) I'll write some more about these two next week.

Storm Boy has regained some of the weight he'd lost, but it actually looks good on him. I guess it's because he's still working out. So he's kind of "husky" now. The important thing is, his upper arms are finally thicker than his forearms. Which is great, because the whole "Popeye" thing had been freaking me out.

Oh, and I still have enough name recognition (and raw, blistering sexiness) that I've been invited to enter a holo-vid reality show contest! It's sort of a biathlon, where the contestants have to master both complicated sexual positions and complicated ballroom routines. The show is called "Schtupp It Up and Dance." (And for me, the first part should be a breeze.)

Chapeau by Jiffy Pop

2008-05-15T05:08:00.003-05:00

The last time I saw a hat like that, it adorned a "hillbilly" teddy bear at the Cracker Barrel.

Judge, Jewelry, and Executioner

2008-05-14T05:52:00.005-05:00

Normally, I'd excoriate Judge Carter Blaire for being so snippy about his daughter's accessories. I mean, the Dazzler is a grown-ass woman; if she wants to tramp it up with glow-in-the-dark plastic crap, that's her prerogative!

But I was once sent into a sulky, weekend-long drinking spree over one of Storm Boy's belts, so I'm not about to throw stones.

Here's to Your Cramming It

2008-05-13T06:41:00.005-05:00

Judging from the "his 'n' hers" go-go dancer costumes, I'm guessing they're on the run after cheating on Lifetime's "Your Mama Don't Dance".

You know me; I'm not a huge fan of cut-outs to begin with. I mean, I know I've used them before, but they have to be placed sparingly and strategically. And for a bent, cone-headed oldster, they should be placed nowhere. Nobody wants to see your liver-spotted love handles, Gramps. And if you wear that nutty tunic over a filmy white bodysuit (as you are in this case) it just makes it worse. Because then I'm forced to employ my imagination.

And I can imagine some pretty freaky shit.

Operation: Fascinate!

2008-05-12T06:05:00.004-05:00

I can't tell if those things on their heads are flowers, crocheted doilies, luncheon meat, or just their brain matter bulging out of the holes in their noggins.

I also think it's telling that one of these "hats" totally effed up Mister Spock when it got stuck to his back, and yet these ladies don't even notice them. (Granted, the li'l neural parasites would have to burrow through a good eight inches of hair-do before it touched flesh.)

Beauty School Freak-Out

2008-05-09T06:44:00.005-05:00

Man, she is really upset about her new hairstyle!

Relax, sweetheart. Okay, so it's a little on the puffy side.

...Scratch that; it's huge. And misshapen. It's the Rondo Hatton of hair! It looks like a big white hairy butt, and I cannot lie. It's so big, Night Girl's hair has just issued a public challenge. There's to be a hair fight, like with those two gals in "Uzumaki." And Night Girl's hair can kick any other hairstyle to the curb. If I were you, I'd disguise that bloated abomination with a Pucci scarf and some "Jackie O." sunglasses, and I'd hop the next freighter to Helsinki. Taking refuge beneath the midnight sun is your only hope now.

So THAT'S What Happened to My Throw Pillows

2008-05-08T10:23:00.006-05:00

Dig those crazy shoulder pads! From her outfit, I gather she's a stripper by day, and a linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers by night. Also, she may moonlight as a hair model.

Isn't she being a bit much? (Yes. Yes, she is.) I think if you presented Joan Crawford or Krystal Carrington or even Typhoid Mary with this shoulder pad design, they'd ask you to "tone it down a tad." But just think of the storage capacity! She could pack a whole 'nother outfit in one of those puppies. (Might I suggest a tasteful pant suit?) And maybe she could use the other one for her toiletries -- including the scads of hair-care products she obviously requires. Also, a couple of spare tampons. And maybe some "Armor All."

Blockade Boy: the Michael Moore of Comic Book Bloggers

2008-05-07T05:03:00.004-05:00

And now, two unfairly out-of-context panels from "Daredevil" #154 (September, 1978):

FIRE MAN-BOOB MISSILES!

Best. Sound effect. EVER.

Stop reading now, if you don't want the context explained.

Seriously, stop.

Okay, you've been warned!

In the first panel, the Paladin's chest-armor is absorbing the impact of missiles fired at him by the Cobra.

In the second, the Purple Man's last word of dialog gets lettered as a BIG SCREAM! So big, it's popped the word balloon!

...I like my versions better.

Mackinaw the Knife

2008-05-06T06:03:00.002-05:00

DUDE. Go easy on the starch next time! I'm pretty sure you could use your lapel to slice a potato.

J'onn J'onzz, Playa From Mars

2008-05-05T08:38:00.003-05:00

The Martian Manhunter's "bachelor capsule" is in a geosynchronous orbit, and is equipped with all the latest alien-babe-snagging devices. There's the Living Loveseat, which contracts into a tulip shape when triggered by certain pheremones; the chlorine-fog machine (an aphrodisiac for many species; pure poison for others, so choose wisely); and, of course, the vibrating pillow with blinking hypno-light button.

The belly-baring gal hopes to get J'onn to play "policeman" with her, since she wants him to yell "Hands up!" and she's not wearing a bra. (Also note how the arrow on her belt buckle subtly points to the location of her unearthly genitalia.)

In a Single Binding

2008-05-02T06:11:00.003-05:00

Spawn called; he wants his cape back.

...And yes, all you "Superman scholars" (bless your Cheeto-clogged hearts!), I know that it was "canon" for Kal-El's cape to possess elastic properties. For example, he used to muffle explosions with it. But this nonsense belongs in the "trap villains under a rapidly-expanding S-shield" category of inane powers that briefly materialize because the writer is bored and/or high.

Also, you'll note that although the Legion Rejects are all being crushed to death, they're drawn by a young Mike Grell, so their legs are still in that wide-open stance favored by baseball pitchers and the cast of "The Hills."

Whatever It Is I Think I See

2008-05-01T05:40:00.002-05:00

Lately, I have suffered from a mysterious eye condition, much like that suffered by the waif in a certain 20th century ballad. I can't recall the name of the tune, but I do know that the youngster was stricken with madness, such that any cylindrical object in his field of vision was seemingly transmogrified into toffee candy. Only with me? It ain't candy.

Whatever I've got, I hope it wears off soon.

(Just not too soon. Heh-heh.)

Museum of Modern Smut

2008-04-30T06:57:00.002-05:00

Well, HELL NO, that ain't a painting of a finger.

...Aw, don't be such a prude. My own magnificent member has been painted on countless occasions! Also, somebody once did a portrait of it. *rimshot*

Daimon Hellstrom: Cabana Boy!

2008-04-29T12:40:00.002-05:00

The second circle of Hell is really quite pleasant, once the wind dies down.

Taunting: You're Doing It Wrong

2008-04-28T20:25:00.002-05:00

*stage-whisper to Esper Lass* "Her name is Imra."

Two Funerals and a Wedding

2008-04-25T06:21:00.003-05:00

From "Secret Romances" #27 (Superior Publishers, July 1955) comes this charming tale of Andy the brain-parasite. Andy's soft, boneless form luckily resembles a limp little army hat. Nobody will be the wiser when he feasts upon the gray matter of a shady soldier boy, and then rides the corpse like a pony at the state fair! Nobody, that is, except the soldier's sister, who happily consents to become Andy's wife! All the couple has to do is change their identities and move to some backwater town where nobody knows them. Perhaps they will take up alligator farming on the bayou. Andy will be known (and beloved) by the locals as "Old Shep", the sweet (if somewhat bloated, greenish, and foul-smelling) eccentric who utterly refuses to remove his old army hat, no matter the circumstances! Anne, meanwhile, will dutifully give birth to a litter of hybrid children, who totter about on rubber-boned stumps, and who generally resemble half-filled colostomy bags.*

*Disclaimer: I might be making all of this up.

The Jugs of Navarone

2008-04-24T04:50:00.004-05:00

Yeah, I'm pretty sure those two were already headed "behind the pillars," smart guy. (They've been reunited for like, three seconds, and he's nearly got that bra off of her...)

Also: "Only a loan"?

"Resistance fighters", my firm, hairy ass! NOBODY can resist Zorba!

Souvlaki Squad

2008-04-23T05:57:00.004-05:00

"Suddenly..." (at a Foo Fighters concert...)

"4th of July buttons"?! How the hell are those going to be helpful? Well they get Zorba into the county fair? He'll be able to buy a cotton candy and ride the tilt-a-whirl without fear of persecution?

I confess to finding Zorba a tad sexy. Just a tad, mind you. His Pan-faced mug is a mite too close to Jeremy Rizza's for my tastes. But the scruff is ambrosial. I'm not thrilled with that Dennis-the-Guerrilla stripey shirt. But then, the shirt doesn't have to stay on, heh-heh...

Baby Jane Hudson: the Teenage Years

2008-04-22T13:11:00.002-05:00

In this heart-wrenching tale, a young Bear Bryant is forced to end his affair with the robot from "Small Wonder."

That's Not What Guys Mean By "Bros Before Hos", Superboy

2008-04-21T06:09:00.002-05:00

Mon-El first grew suspicious when he awoke to find a greasy, S-curled pube in his mouth.

Hey, Watch Where You Point That Thing

2008-04-18T05:25:00.003-05:00

"Awright, Pym... bend over!"

I gotta give some credit to Captain America, or U.S.A-hole or Ameridouche or whatever the hell he was called at that point: he understand that if you possess mad improv skillz, you can fake your way to sexful sophistication! Just act like what you're doing is so way-out freaky, it's the other guy's problem for not "getting it." ...Er, not that I've ever had to resort to this. I just heard it from Storm Boy. Yeah.

*flop-sweats*

Bendis-Speak Doctor Doom vs. Zagor!

2008-04-17T05:49:00.002-05:00

In other words, Zagor, Doc Doom will be your Huckleberry.

WHO DO YOU TRUST?

2008-04-16T05:58:00.003-05:00

Yes indeedy! It's a Zagor "Secret Invasion" tie-in (I presume)! THRILL as the inhabitants of Earth battle to keep from being pushed off of their own planet by a hoard of shifty, racist, disease-carrying, agreement-breaking alien interlopers!

(By the way, "Kara Bela" is my favorite Italian restaurant; their manicotti is to die for.)

Robe Playing

2008-04-15T05:45:00.003-05:00

After weeks on the lam, it's nice to be back home in my swingin' bachelor pod. I just had to do a little cleaning. For example? I had to rip down all the police tape. Also, my closets had gotten all rummaged and shit, so I had to re-organize them, and make a list of everything the U.P. investigators had ~~stolen~~ taken into evidence. Finally, I had to move my stone slab of a bed off of the Science Police rookie it had tipped over on (about a week ago). And before you ask, he's fine. In fact, I'd say he's mighty fine. His body was brawny enough to avoid serious injury. Still, I'm not letting him leave until I doctor him back to health. I'm fattening him up with some of my special protein broths (fortified with omnibeast lard), and I've also forbidden him to shave, and I'm in the middle of designing some nice tattoos for him. Just because. (Shut up.)

But the best part of being home again is the freedom to pad about my pod in this super-cool kimono that Silvercat designed for me! Check out her drawing of me wearing it! Sweet!

It's All Fun and Games Until Gadfly Lad's Arms Get Chopped Off

2008-04-14T05:55:00.007-05:00

Well, thank the Luck Lords that's over! The Blockade Boy Revenge Squad is suitably smashed, and I've acquired like, two hundred new boyfriends who don't mind it when I tell them how to dress. Oh, and most of them are green, thanks to Green Boy, but I'm told that will wear off. Eventually.

Of course, there was the not-so-little matter of Gadfly Lad. I'll get to him in a bit. But first, some bullet points:

Most of the Revenge Squad is now in jail, and rather quickly, too. It turns out Gadfly Lad had already transmitted the Squad's records to the U.P. before I got a chance to. So the Squad's headquarters were stormed by U.P. ~~goons~~ soldiers (and a fine, upstanding bunch they are, too!) about twenty minutes into the donnybrook.
Intern Alchemy got one of the longer sentences, for counterfeiting space-cheddah. But from the look on his face when they loaded his battered, moist body into the hover-ambulance, I think he's going to like prison just fine.
Polecat and Calamity King kept arguing over which one of them was the mastermind of the whole operation, so both their asses got handed life sentences.
After a thorough review of his activities in the Squad, Green Boy was arrested for "aggravated loitering", given a lengthy scrubbing, and sent to a halfway house for depressed losers.
Gossip Queen is in the prison hospital, getting his face reconstructed, to accommodate two regular robot eyes, instead of that souped-up model he used to spy on me. It's back to short-range psychic tracking for him! By the way, I've heard that he told the doctors that he wants to look like Coluan teen heartthrob, Dox Efron.

Now, about Gadfly Lad...

It turns out he's got a soft spot as well as a hard-on for Calorie Queen, because when I tossed him his old flying harness (hidden trickfully behind my cloak), he grabbed her arm, and hollered, "Come with me, if you want to live!" But just then, two of the less-savory members of the Blockade Mob sliced his arms clean-off, using laser axes. Gadfly Lad collapsed in an adorably tiny heap. Calorie Queen held up her own arm, with one of Gadfly Lad's severed arms still clinging to it, and then we both started screaming and punching the living daylights out of the Mob members. I took a moment to shoot Ox a look and to nod my head a certain way. Ox took my meaning, because he gathered up what was left of Gadfly Lad, and barreled his way through the riot, and outside, to safety.

At the hospital satellite, Gadfly Lad was given two options: they could either grow two new arms for him, which would take nine months and cost three whole wheels of space-cheddah, or, they could slap on some robot arms, which would take immediately and cost one-jillionth of the first option. Gadfly Lad asked if they could outfit the robot arms with lightning bolt powers. The doctors shrugged their shoulders and said, sure, why not?

The U.P. dropped all charges against me, but they insisted I complete my contract as a space-pirate. Since I don't have any artificial limbs (anymore), I'd have to be a first mate, or something even more degrading. And then -- bless his heart! -- Gadfly Lad raised a metal arm, and asked if somebody could replace me in my unfulfilled space-pirate duties! That's right: the scrappy li'l fella is gonna be a space-pirate captain! With his new robot arms, he's more than qualified! Gadfly Lad also wrangled a deal for Calorie Queen to serve as "first mate", on a work-release program. I couldn't help but notice the sparse black fuzz already sprouting on his cheeks. It seems my little man is getting older! Or maybe the frequent screwing with Calorie Queen has jump-started something. Either way, it's nice to see.

Gadfly Lad decided he doesn't want to be called that anymore, on account of it not befitting a space-pirate, and also that it would "cramp his romance" with the insect-phobic Calorie Queen. A dazzle-gem of an idea gleamed in my eyes. I told him that I had the perfect new identity for him. So, one new costume, some hair extensions, and a pair of spray-painted Nth-metal wings later, I give you...

THE NEW BLACK CONDOR!

The Hounds of Amadus (by Blockade Boy Revenge Squad Treasurer, Intern Alchemy)

2008-04-12T19:08:00.002-05:00

Attend us, friends; we are undone!

Via as-yet-unknown means, the Hairy One himself has breached our defenses, and the Grand Ballroom has transmogrified into a realm of Chaos! It is only here, in our space-cheddah vault, that I am afforded security. I confess, readers, it is an imperfect sanctuary; Green Boy's haphazard sheetrocking work left appreciable gaps in the corners.

I am live-blogging this, in the hopes that my brethren in the Great and Secret Art of Alchemy will read it, and come to our aid! Alas, I fear this will not be the result, as we Alchemists are a solitary lot, more apt to fiddle with our beakers than to commune with the Material World. And yet, as a young princess abandons her rich clothes on her wedding night to show herself to her husband in her virginal and sumptuous nudity, so too must I abandon my scholarly robes and supplicate myself on the shimmering altar of the Intergalactic Intraweb.

'Twas no more than five minutes before the initiation of Calorie Queen's festivities, when a mighty knocking sounded upon the Inertron Portal that serves as our chief means of entrance. Polecat beheld the image on Security Monitor One, with a curious mixture of delight and apprehension. He motioned imperiously to Green Boy, and barked, "Let them in!"

At this, Calamity King grew petulant, and retorted, "I'm the leader, and I'll give the orders, here! ...Green Boy, let them in."

Our visitors proved to be a pair of men, both of great height and breadth, with trunk-like limbs. The one in the buckskin cloak and cowl held the second, who was bloodied, seemingly unconscious, and tightly bound with ropes. The former, none of us recognized. The latter was Blockade Boy.

Gossip Queen entered the room in a frantic, cane-tapping dash, exclaiming, "He's here! Blockade Boy is here! I can sense it!"

"Easy, fat-ass," hissed Calamity King. "He's trussed up."

"Screw U, CLOSET-CASE!!!!!!" sneered Gossip Queen.

In a deep, unmodulated whisper, the first man introduced himself as "Zagor", a "mountain man" from Earth, and a superior hunter and tracker.

He was armed with only a stone hammer and an antique projectile weapon, and yet, he had brought low our Nemesis. All of us gathered 'round, to gaze in wonderment at this prodigy. Calamity King smiled queerly. "Blockade Boy's blood," he murmured. "How delicious!" And with that, he swept his fingers along one of Blockade Boy's wounds, and licked them.

His expression altered to one of consternation. "The hell--?! Strawberry jam?!"

Two stout protuberances thrust upward from beneath "Blockade Boy's" wig, and belched an overpowering cloud of musk that enveloped the Squad. The admittedly-pleasant odor suffocated us, and caused our eyes to brim with tears. All of us, that is, except for Polecat, who just stood there, stewing with a quiet fury.

I glimpsed the following events through a veil of saltwater: "Blockade Boy's" ropes slipped away, and he hopped to his feet, triumphant. Likewise, he removed the wig (now askew) from his head, revealing a bald pate. "Za-Gor" plucked off his cowl (with attached hair!) with a flourish, as a sickeningly-familiar brown-and-white beard sprouted on his face. It was Blockade Boy.

"Good work, babe," he purred to his compatriot. He punctuated this sentiment with a genial slap to his confederate's ass. Then, he whistled, and his eight-legged super-cat, Cootie, emerged from a large pouch on his waist. Thus fortified, he addressed Polecat: "Jig's up, motherfucker. I know everything you've done, and once I present my proof to the U.P., they'll send all of your asses to Takron-Galtos, while they give me a full pardon. I mean, what's a little unintentional fraud and some aggravated makeovers, compared to illegal arms trading and attempted murder?"

Wordlessly, the false Blockade Boy removed a force-field gauntlet and handed it to the real one. As he slipped it onto his hand, Blockade Boy smirked, and said, "So do you want to come along peacefully, or do you want me to beat the holy bejeebus out of you, first? 'Cause I am spoiling for a fight."

My vision began to clear, and I pulled myself to my feet, as did the rest of the Squad. Calamity King spat, "I'm in charge, here! And I say we fight! There's seven of us, and only two of them, not counting that damn cat."

"Tater" began to interject, but he only had time to say "Ack'shully...!" before the Intertron Portal was forced open by a crazed mob!

They were a horrific sight: a hoard of strapping, hairy men, all of them dressed in amalgams of Blockade Boy's various costumes. This gaudy apparel mingled obscenely with hover-biker gear of shiny ebon leather. Most of the doppelgangers were smoking pipes. Among them, I spied several (former?) lawmen whom Blockade Boy had forcibly "made over", doubtless in more than appearance.

The interlopers numbered in the hundreds -- at least! -- and they surged forward, engulfing friend and foe alike in a raging, punching, kicking mass. In the confusion, I found one of the secret passages I'd installed in our Headquarters -- passages so secret, I alone know of their location. (I, and mayhap the insignificant buzzing insects I've so often heard there, of late.)

The passages now resound with the roar of battle, more fearful than the baying of the dragon Charcouroboros. From the general noise has emerged an ominous thumping, which grows e'er louder. Could it be... footsteps?

God, they are breaking through! They are breaking through! Smoke is pouring from the corners of the wall. Their tongues-- ahhh--

You're Invited!

2008-04-11T05:14:00.004-05:00

Hey there, fellow vengeance-lovers! This is Calorie Queen, the public relations officer of the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad, with a special invitation, just for YOU (and whomever else is reading this right now)!

How'd you like to meet the Squad, IN PERSON? That'd be super-cool, am I right? Well, now's your chance! Just show up at our "mixer", this Saturday night, starting at 7 PM. But I can guess what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Calorie Queen, it's always been my dream to meet you; I remember your days as a Beat the Living Crap Out of You League Diva, like that time you got Sun Woman in a headlock, just using your thighs; and also, your boyfriend sounds pretty bad-ass as well, I can't wait 'til the two of you get married, 'cause that'll be like the most awesome wedding, like EVER, like, maybe you'll 'kiss' by smashing two monster hover-trucks into each other, and the train on your gown will be carried by trained BLITHS, man, and it'll just be SO GREAT! But here's my problem: I don't even know where your secret headquarters EVEN IS!"

Relax, pal! For starters, we're located right here in Lallor's planetary capital, in the south-southeast sector, so THAT should be easy enough for you to find. And if you need for me to get more specific? Well, here's a map:

We'll have pizza and fizzypop and EVERYTHING! And all YOU need to bring in order to get in, is ten individually-wrapped slices of space-cheddah. (Have I mentioned that this is a fund-raiser? ...I haven't? Oh. Oops.)

See you there!

Please Enjoy This Virtual Seat At An Official Revenge Squad Meeting!

2008-04-08T19:08:00.006-05:00

(It's just that you're not allowed to say anything. Deal with it.)

Calamity King: Hear ye, hear ye. This meeting of the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad will now come to order! Secretary, do we have any unfinished business from our last meeting?

Gossip Queen: Polecat wanted 2 make a resolution barring U from parking your tricked-out Alfa Centauri Spider rocket-car in front of our SECRET HEADQUARTERS!!! But!!! You made us TABLE IT until the NEXT meeting!!! Which is THIS 1!!!!!!!

Calamity King: No way I'm moving my ride, dude! It's a total pussy wagon!

Polecat: I would have said "skank engine", but space-potato, space-potah-to. You have to listen to reason, Calamity! Even forgetting the glow-in-the-dark finish you painted it with, the spoiler you put on it is like, three times bigger than the car itself! It attracts unwanted attention!

Calamity King: Fine! Let's put it to a vote! All for moving my rocket-car?

Polecat: Aye.

Calamity King: All opposed?

Calamity King, Calorie Queen, Gossip Queen, Green Boy, Intern Alchemy, "Tater" Bugzz: [all of them displaying reluctance]: Nay.

[Suddenly, Polecat's chair collapses out from under him.]

Calamity King: Yikes, huh? You okay, pal? Green Boy, go get Polecat another chair.

[Green Boy lazily shambles out of the room.]

Calamity King: Weird, how you're the only one that ever happens to, Polecat. Maybe you need to go on a diet.

Polecat: Luck Lords damn you! I know it was your fault! We all know! [to the other Squad members] How long are we going to take this? He's the worst leader the Squad has ever had! I say, it's time we stood up to him! He can't take all of us at once, and--

[Abruptly, a ceiling tile falls on Polecat's head and knocks him on his ass.]

Calamity King: Wow! That looked painful. Polecat, pal, I think this little tantrum of yours has got you all tired out. Why don't you take a breather. Go design us all some new hats or something.

[Polecat leaves, muttering.]

Calamity King: Alrighty! Time for new business! Treasurer, how are we doin' for space-cheddah?

Intern Alchemy: By the winged staff of Hermes Trismegistus, it goes not well, my liege! The wheels of space-cheddah in our most-sacred vault are vanishing into the ether! I made free to spend yesterday evening within the vaults itself, as a guardian! Truly, I had purified myself for the vigil, touching neither food nor drink (save my customary flagon of space-wine). But still, a peculiar fatigue overcame my person. The mechanations of an evil spirit, I trow! When I had again recovered my senses, but one wheel of space-cheddah remained! Without a doubt, sinister forces are moving against us! Or maybe, y'know, we just have rats or somethin'. I dunno.

Calamity King: Big deal! Make us some more, already!

Intern Alchemy: Regretfully, I have suffered ill-fortune in every attempt, of late. Strange fluids have appeared within the pasteurizing vats, polluting the curds.

Calamity King: The hell? Like what?

Intern Alchemy: Urine, mostly.

Calamity King: So we're talkin' sabotage.

Gossip Queen: R we?????

Calorie Queen: Yeah! Are we, really?

Calamity King: What the hell is that supposed to mean?

"Tater" Bugzz: Prob'ly yer sleep-walkin', pardner.

Calamity King: Watch it, newbie.

Calorie Queen: Everybody knows, Calamity. Don't get us wrong, you're a cool guy and all, but you need to figure out some way to stay inside your Venturan star stone sarcophagus at night. Otherwise, all your bad luck mojo is gonna contaminate the whole squad! Unless you've figured out some way to control your power while you're sleeping.

Calamity King: I do not sleep-walk!

Gossip Queen: Oh????? Then HOW do U explain why you're always waking up outside your sarcophagus lately?????? We keep finding U dozing in the holo-vision lounge, in the kitchen... and outside the space-cheddah vault!!!!!! OMG!!!!!!

Calamity King: Aw, c'mon! You can't seriously think--

"Tater" Bugzz [to Gossip Queen]: Ackshully, I figgered you were the culprit, Gossip Queen! I mean, 'tain't no secret ya got a hankerin' fer cheese! [He pokes Gossip Queen's belly and man-boobs, repeatedly.]

Gossip Queen: Hey!!! Back off, SHORT STUFF!!!!!!

"Tater" Bugzz: "Yeller"?! NOBODY calls "Tater" Bugzz "yeller"!

Gossip Queen: "Yeller"???? What th'--?????

Calorie Queen: Relax, honey, I don't think he meant--

"Tater" Bugzz: I'LL SHOW YOU "YELLER"! [He punches Gossip Queen in his cameramatic eye prosthesis with one of his shock gauntlets, smashing the lens and frying the circuitry at the same time.]

Gossip Queen: GAH!!! I'M BLIND!!! YOU CRAZY BITCH!!! YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE!!!!!

"Tater" Bugzz: YEE-HAW! WHO WANTS SOME? I'LL TAKE ALL Y'ALL ON! HOO-DOGGIES!

Calorie Queen [dragging "Tater" towards the door]: I'm really sorry, you guys. "Tater" has this condition where he gets these really sexy berserker rages. There's only one way I've found to calm him down. We won't be back for, oh, about three hours.

[They exit.]

Calamity King [blinking in wonderment]: What the hell just happened...?

Gossip Queen: WHO CARES??!!!! Just get me 2 an Omnicom so I can order another camera-eye!!!!

Calamity King: Holy balls! How long will it take to arrive?

Gossip Queen: 6-8 weeks, usually!!! In the MEANTIME, I plan on holing up in my bedroom suite with a carton of fudge cakes and my massaging showerhead!!!! And I am NOT to be disturbed!!!!! Oh, this STINGS like a BASTARD!!!!! That little TURD BUCKET...!!!!!!!

[Calamity King and Intern Alchemy escort Gossip Queen from the conference room.]

[Two-and-a-half minutes later, Green Boy enters, listlessly dragging a chair behind him. He gazes morosely at the now-empty room.]

Green Boy [barely audible]: Hello...? Anybody...?

[One minute later, he crawls under the conference table, curls up into a ball, and begins snoring.]

A Revenge Squad Exclusive Interview!

2008-04-07T20:44:00.005-05:00

Howdy, y'all! It's your friendly webmaster, "Tater"! Y'all've got a hellacious treat in store tonight: an exclusive interview with the Revenge Squad's MVP: Gossip Queen! I spoke with the Maven of Muckraking earlier today, in our top-secret headquarters!

"Tater": I just don't know how the Squad would keep track of that dad-blasted varmint, Blockade Boy, if you weren't around. Bless your heart!

Gossip Queen: Bless YOUR heart, sweetie!!! Also, I just wanted 2 tell U, U did a BANG-UP JOB leading us in our daily Two Minutes Hate this morning!!!!

"Tater:": Aw, shucks.

Gossip Queen: Although... U probably DIDN'T have to keep shouting "FILTH! FILTH!" like that!!! U don't want people 2 think you're trying 2 hard!!!!!!!

"Tater": I'll take that under advisement... pardner!

Gossip Queen: Of course, it was your first time up at the hover-podium!!! We can let it slide!!!!

"Tater": That's right neighborly of ya! Now, in the git-to-know-ya post I did, you said you hated Blockade Boy because of "back hair." Would ya hanker to elaborate?

Gossip Queen: I'd be proud 2, "Tater"!!! Let me start out by saying that I am a smooth-bodied man myself, and I like 4 all the men I date 2 be smooth, also!!!!!

"Tater": Amen, brother. Ain't nary a thing wrong with a hairless torso!

Gossip Queen: And I had my pick of all the hunky guys in my high school, until Blockade Boy transferred in!!! Pretty much EVERY guy in my stable of available sex-stallions gravitated 2 that freaky ape-man!!!! And WORSE, all these beautifully smooth dudes let their GROSS body hair grow back!!!!! Some of them, the ones who'd had their hair SURGICALLY-REMOVED, wound up getting body hair TRANSPLANTS!!!!! Like, from six-armed BLITHS and other furry beasts!!!!!! It was a NIGHTMARE!!!!!!!! [breaks into sobbing fit]

"Tater": Thar, thar. How's about ya share yer special talent with our readers?

Gossip Queen: O--okay!!! You know, I can project not only my own memories from my cameramatic eyeball implant, but I can also track guys I've seen, after they leave their field of vision!!! Like Blockade Boy!!! Here's a good 1, from when the dumb bastard broke out of the Super-Stalag of Space! I was THERE, U know!!! Way in the back!!! Anyway, it turns out, Blockade Boy just tagged along with Matter-Eater Lad, and he spent the whole time BITCHING about how useless his super-power was!!!!! But at least he didn't have that stupid beard!!!!! The DOWN-SIDE is U could see MORE of his FACE!!!!!!

"Tater": Heh-heh. Sweet doodles, dude!

Gossip Queen: Thanks!!! I made them myself!!!!!

"Tater": That brings up a question I've had on my puzzler for nigh unto a week, now! How does your power work, anyhow? Is it like that telepathy business, like them Titanians can do? Or do ya got yerself some kinda cyber-whatsis hook-up to a spy satellite? Oh! And a follow-up question: what kinda range are we talkin' about? Could Blockade Boy ever escape yer all-seein' eyeball?

Gossip Queen: It's complicated!!! But I guess it's a psychic power that's augmented by my cybernetics!!! Once I've gotten within visual distance of a person, I can make a permanent psychic link with them!!! But it's not deep or anything!!! I can't read their minds!!!! It's more like playing "tat" or when you "bookmark" a site on the Intergalactic Intraweb!!! And then I can send out a portion of my astral body 2 wherever he goes!!!!! Even across the UNIVERSE, or OTHER DIMENSIONS!!!!! My astral body gives me a "video feed" that I can project just like any other memory!!!!!

"Tater": That's so cool! But what if somethin' were ta happen ta yer cybernetics? Er... just hyper-thetically, mind ya.

Gossip Queen: HUH?????? What do you MEAN????????????

"Tater": Well... Say the electronics got all jacked-up, say from gittin' hit by a spanner, or maybe some feller sprayed the lens with black spray paint. This is just scientific spec'yurlation, natch.

Gossip Queen: I never really THOUGHT about it B-4!!! If the implant got damaged, it could severely limit the transmission range!!! I might not be able to send my astral body as far!!!! Or if I could, I might not be able 2 receive the video feed!!!!! If all that happened was the lens getting covered up, I just wouldn't be able 2 project what I SAW!!!!! But I could still TELL everybody!!!!!

"Tater": So, what yer sayin' is, this hyper-thetical individual'd have to also gag yer mouth and tie ya up, or otherwise incapassy-tate ya, perhaps with a drugged bottle of space-wine.

Gossip Queen: I don't underst--

"Tater": Hyper-thetically.

Gossip Queen: Can we get back to talking about--

"Tater": Well, that's all the time we have fer today! Thank ya kindly, Gossip Queen! This interview has been enlightenin' as all git-out! ADIOS, AMIGOS!

Roll Call!

2008-04-02T05:15:00.009-05:00

Welcome back, comrade!

It seems like you can't go anywhere nowadays without seeing Blockade Boy's face. Be it on a wanted poster, an unauthorized holovision documentary, a t-shirt at Hot Space Topic, or merely shaved into the haunches of a poodle, Blockade Boy's obnoxious, fur-bearing mug is impossible to avoid. And you're undoubtedly SICK TO DEATH OF HIM.

Relax. You're among friends, here. Because the good men (and woman) of the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad have been hating on Blockade Boy for years. Like you, we possess a heightened sense of aesthetics (and propriety) that opened the doors of our perceptions to the Grand Secret of the Universe: namely, that Blockade Boy is not "all that." Or, to be perfectly blunt about it, that he's a raging jerk-hole who somehow enjoys happiness and success that is far in excess of what he deserves. That's why the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad works -- tirelessly -- to balance the cosmic scales. From slipping Blockade Boy a depilatory to tying his sleeping ass to a missile and firing it across the sea, the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad is on your side, giving the Great Gay Ape what-for.

But who are these shadowy, heroic figures? Wonder no more! It's time for the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad Roll Call!

POLECAT: the Squad's founder, and a three-time former president. He currently serves the Squad as "creative consultant" plus he designed the uniforms!

Powers and abilities: can squeeze out a powerful musk from his horns! And he loves to dance.

Turn-ons: Khundish Leather deodorant (because it barely works at all), pudding-eating contests, buffalo plaids, cobbling. Turn-offs: nature hikes, jet exhaust, obstetrics. Hates Blockade Boy because: Blockade Boy created the cruel nickname that followed him through high school and college ("Polecrap"); Blockade Boy crushed him under his steel-wall form so many times that he's pretty sure it was on purpose; look at him, I mean, just look at his face, don't you just want to pop him one?

GREEN BOY: former Squad president (impeached), former Squad secretary (impeached), former Squad public relations officer (impeached). Nowadays he's mainly sent out for coffee and pizza and such. Green Boy is currently on a "spiritual quest" to discover a practical use for his power.

Powers and abilities: Green Boy can make anything green! For instance? His hair!

Turn-ons: staring into space, slouching, mumbling, bed rest. Turn-offs: making eye contact, complete sentences, hygiene. Hates Blockade Boy because: Blockade Boy spurned his advances. Also, Blockade Boy is so happy and successful that it plunged Green Boy into an existential crisis. Honestly, will goodness (by which we mean "blandly agreeable passivity") never prevail?

GOSSIP QUEEN: Squad secretary. Real name: Perez Dox. Other aliases: Camera Eye, Camera Kid, TMI Teen, Paparazzi Perez.

Powers and abilities: 12th-level bitchery, plus he had his eyeballs replaced by this super-cool device that lets him record anything he's seen, and then project it onto walls, with scribbles drawn all over it. With great concentration, he can also see the current whereabouts of anyone he's met in person... like Blockade Boy! How handy!

Turn-ons: pastels, pastilles, pistols. Also, anything deep-fried. Turn-offs: Princess Projectra (he is so over her), kangabronc-skin pants, back hair. Hates Blockade Boy because: back hair.

CALAMITY KING: Squad president. (His campaign slogan: "Bring Sexy Back.")

Powers and abilities: can alter probability to "jinx" people, and he can mostly control it these days, unless he's asleep.

Turn-ons: hats (the tinier the better), childbearing hips, surgical scars, stomach crunches. Turn-offs: women who "mouth off" or who are taller than 1.72 meters, culottes. Hates Blockade Boy because: Blockade Boy started a rumor in high school that Calamity King is gay, just because he kind of hates women, but he's NOT! He's totally not. Calamity King has slept with over seven hundred lovely ladies in a valiant effort to put an end to this misinformation, but he still can't stop thinking about Blockade Boy, and what he said. Damn him!

INTERN ALCHEMY: Squad treasurer. Former name: Rann Antar, but that's all forgotten now, since he initiated himself into the secret brotherhood of alchemists.

Powers and abilites: genius alchemist. Most of his experiments involve changing things into either feathers or lead. However, he has also hit upon a formula for transforming milk, bacterial cultures, and certain enzymes into space-cheddah, which is how the squad can pay for all of its wonderful projects (such as strapping Blockade Boy to a missile).

Turn-ons: musty old scrolls, musty old books, musty old DVD's. Turn-offs: sunlight, physical exercise, the laughter of small children. Hates Blockade Boy because: not quite certain, but it started after he tried to create a "signature fragrance" for Blockade Boy in the parfumerie in the back of his trailer pod, and it freaking exploded and caused all his pubes to fall out. He would like to someday transform Blockade Boy into lead. Or, perhaps, feathers.

CALORIE QUEEN: Squad public relations officer.

Powers and abilities: can eat anything (like Matter-Eater Lad) and it makes her super-strong (like Popeye!)

Turn-ons: quarries, piles of rubble, hover-car wrecking yards, face paint, natural blonds, short dudes, cowboys. Turn-offs: insects. Hates Blockade Boy because: when they were both life guards at the same pool that one summer, he just would not shut up about her thighs, and she developed an eating disorder. The sad part is, he thought he was being helpful.

"TATER" BUGZZ: Squad webmaster, who not only came up with the idea for this website, but devised some method by which it's on a secure network, and cannot be viewed by the wrong people. (There are "wrong people", you know.)

Powers and abilities: knack for trivia, plus a skilled brawler and he has these "shock gauntlets" which pack quite the whammy.

Turn-ons: demolition hover-car derbies, wrasslin', playin' sad songs on his fiddle down by the crick. Turn-offs: space-cops, Lallor's crippling dependence on foreign nuclear rods. Hates Blockade Boy because: Blockade Boy swindled him out of his family's farm in a poker game, and his ma died from the shame of it. He's gonna git Blockade Boy. He's gonna git 'im good.