Legion of Substitute Costumes: Tusker (Revised)

When I designed Tusker's last costume, I was trying to "think outside the crotch" and devise a male costume that didn't rely on sex appeal for it's primary visual impact. In retrospect, I wound up creating a garish eyesore. So I scrapped that costume -- literally, by tearing it off a startled and terrified Tusker and tossing it into the atomic incinerator while he watched with big confused tears running down his cheeks. Then I patted him warmly on the shoulder and buttocks and explained I was making him a much better costume. That cheered him up, just a little.

Tusker had trouble working those thought-controlled automatic dental tools on his old duds because, well, he's rock-stupid... so I decided to go low-tech this go-round. I also wanted a more iconic look for him. Starting with the dentist angle, the image of a bloody smock appeared in my mind, and from there I imagined a leather apron like butchers (and serial killers) use, and I finally had a concept that combined the stylings of dentists, butchers, blacksmiths and Olde Tyme executioners:

The leather is crimson instead of boring old black or brown because it stands out more, and it looks good with Tusker's pinkish skin and carrot-hued hair. And as you can see, ol' Tusker has some new mouth bling goin' on! The last time I tried to get him to replace one of his tusks with a gold-plated version he balked at the last possible second. But after Weight Wizard kicked one o' those choppers clean out of his mouth he really had no choice in the matter. I think it makes him look pretty tough! The two dental pliers can be held by straps on his belt when he's not using them to de-fang an enemy. The beautiful silver of the tools is carried through on his costume by his chrome-plated "T" symbol and his steel-toed/heeled boots. I'm taking the whole crew out on the town when we land on Rimbor and I think this new look should net him a lot of hot sexy action! And if he's lucky, some of it might even be with women! (Heh, heh...)

Your Memories Have Just Been Sold

Your corrupt, ramshackle 21st Century press machine has at last seen fit to publish an article on yours truly, in this month's issue of "Instinct." Go buy a copy, or I'll know, somehow. Go on. Right now! Git! I don't care if you're in Uruguay or whatever. Get your ass on a plane and fly someplace th' dang magazine is available! It's your blogtriotic duty.

Okay, fine. Here's a big image of the blurb.

Crybabies.

The writing's okay, I suppose, but I wish people would stop attributing my blog to Jeremy Rizza. Okay, so I crashed at his old pad for a year-and-a-half and he let me use his computer, and I'm still accessing it now, from my glorious future world that you filthy Neanderthals couldn't even begin to comprehend, but that doesn't make him the blog's "author." Why is that so hard for everybody to understand?

I don't really like that picture they used of me, either. That one's from a few months ago, when I was messing around with a re-design of one of my older costumes, just to see if I wanted to cover up my cyborg legs. I decided against it. And my eyes look crazy. Probably from staying up for a solid week working on the damn thing, with only coffee and Weight Wizard's travel-sized hotness to keep me going.

Also, no way, no how am I "bitchy." Storm Boy is bitchy. When you're as big and hairy and as reeking of testosterone (and certain other intoxicating aromas) as I am, you're "gruff" or "saturnine" or "a harsh taskmaster" and that's that.

"...even more bitchily than Mr. Blackwell." Damn it...

Extreme Blockadeover: Ed Novak

Ah, another missive for me from the 21st Century! This one is from an "Ed Novak" but after that "Loren Lassiter" business (I'm still not convinced, "Loren") I'm treating the name of every new correspondent as a puzzle that must be solved! For example, I see that "Ed Novak" is an anagram for "Oak Vend." Huh. ...Yeah, I got nothin'. I'll have to file that one away for later. You've won this round, "Ed." Go ahead and show me your wares. Speak to me from the dusty eons of yore!

Well, seein' as MaGnUs has managed to prove that an interesting costume can be done with HeroMachine, I've decided to put my limited skills to the test. Hope you think this is as cool as I do!

Yeah. Me too.

Huh. Well, I--

Don't eliminate him yet!

How's about you don't tell me what to do, Mr. Vend or whoever you really are? *grumbles*

Your chest is mostly naked beneath the cowl, including your diamond cutters. The purple leotard ends in a sort of triangular point beneath the cape (y'know, I could probably just make a version without the cape...one sec. There we go.) I know you'd prefer your chest exposed at all times, but check this out -- you can show it off whenever you want...WITH A DRAMATIC CAPE FLIP! You'll start a fight with the menacing, cloaked appearance Batman always has, but once you start kicking ass, your rugged shoulders and manly nipples will be out there for your foes (and press) to admire! C'mon, you know that's awesome. And hey, if you want 'em on display all the time, you can just throw the cape back.

Also, the grayness of it kinda evokes the whole "moderately-sized steel wall" thing. And I thought, y'know...it looked nice.

Well, don't tell me, boy! Show me!

Uh-huh. This looks really familiar to me for some reason... where have I seen this before? I know it'll come to me. Any last words while I try to shake a memory out of my battered noggin?

Finally, you're "Blockade" now because the costume makes ya look a little older, wiser, grizzled, and more experienced. Also, it sounds much more badass without the "boy." At least I think so. Please don't hurt me.

You did not just tell me what to do again! *grabs rebuilt Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone from passing Storm Boy and smashes it to bits* Balls. Now see what you made me do. *stews for a minute*

Oh! I just remembered! About the costume... this is almost exactly what I wore to Junior Prom! (And you don't want to know where Weight Wizard wanted me to put the boutonniere.)

Okay, judgment time: I like the idea of the peekaboo cape -- very clever. However, the extreme angle of the "truss" makes it a little too reminiscent of ladies' evening gowns for my tastes. And while it's a good design in general, there's not much in it that makes it stand out to me. (The orange side-patches on the legs remind me of my earlier designs from a couple of years ago... or was it twenty? Damn sliding timeline!) So I'm going to pass on it. Thanks for playin', Oak!

P.S. About the name change... it's so crazy it just might work. I'm still kind of attached to the whole "Boy" thing, though, especially with the Legion still going by "Boy" and "Lad" and "Kid" even while they're pre-registering their kids for private schools and setting up retirement accounts. What do you think, readers? Should I drop the "Boy" from my codename?

Prophecy and Loss

Friends, I extend to you the warmest of greetings. My name is Leopold "Sturdy" Sturdevant, also called "Stockade Boy" by my fellow mountain men. I may also have been called by another name, in another place, and perhaps some day I shall learn it.

The man and woman who reared me were not my true parents. They told me I was found as a babe within a great hole in the ground, near the ruin of a cyclopian Engine, the origin of which they dared not guess. In childhood I was blessed with a miraculous gift: through mere thought, I could transform my body into any manner of wall, be it sod, plank, log, stake, or even brick! At twelve years of age, I looked to all who saw me like a man of twenty-one, and so I left my rustic home to make my way in the world. At fourteen I met an Indian soothsayer who told me I would one day espy a double, and that another day I should come to his aid, when my journey would at last lead me to a realm beyond the tread of mortal man. In this manner, quoth he, I should be of service to his own people, who called themselves the Wolf Clan. Much of his prophecy has already come to pass; the remainder will very shortly occur.

I saw my lookalike, your captain, six years ago, through the window of a telegraph agent's. He was attired as a dandy and conversing with a band of adventurers from another Era, one of whom had seen fit to imitate me. This mimic was of a garrulous disposition, and despite his many skills as a storyteller, he could not long hold the attention of your Captain, who doubtless possesses as active and restless a mind as myself. Indeed, his gaze wandered with great frequency from the mimic's clownish gesturing and gamboling to the buttocks of a ranch hand, namely a young Mister Oswald "Acorn" Oakley. In this I cannot blame him, for Acorn's firm, taut posterior has oft brought great comfort to myself as well, albeit in more intimate circumstances. It occurred to me that I should introduce myself to your captain, but alas, a sudden cramp in my bowels forestalled me. By the time I'd sufficiently recovered, he had vanished. Today I am able to give him my aid, and I do so joyfully, for to help those in need is my dearest pleasure.

I should perhaps explain at this point how my voyage to this distant age was accomplished. My life's path brought me often into the company of the Wolf Clan, and through my good deeds they came to accept me as a friend. At the last they bestowed upon me the greatest honor they can offer to one not of their blood: I was to join a host of Spirits, thereby to assist in the selection of the tribe's new Saganowahna (or "Super-Chief" as the white men call him). I was made to remove my weapons, buckskins and furs, and my hair and beard were alike unbraided and stripped of their many charming adornments. In this plain fashion I was led into a lodge, there to join in the chanting of their most holy and reverent elder, and to draw frequently from a ceremonial pipe, so as to prepare my senses for the Spirit Realm. After a period of time unknown to myself, my Soul slipped my rude, hairy form and flitted into the Ether, there to search for its new vessel. The earthen floor below my feet spun like a child's top and dropped away, the firmament swept over me in a shower of sparks, and peculiar beings paraded themselves before my newborn eyes. Again I saw my double, now a jolly brigand, piloting his craft between the stars themselves, and I saw within him a cancer. I looked ahead, precisely one year beyond your own, and I saw him dead, eaten from within by this metal blight. And so I sent my Soul within him, both accelerating and devouring the disease, until only this shell and the invisible spark of his own Soul were left.

I will now take the shell into the Infinite, thence to test the mind and mettle of the prospective Saganowahna and, the Fates willing, enjoy many further adventures. As repayment for your captain's suffering, I give to him my own fleshly form, and he may take it with my compliments, to do with however he pleases.

Farewell.

...And from what they tell me, tobacco smoke poured out of the metal body's mouth, filling the room. When it cleared, the metal body was gone, and there I was, in a daze, lowering an ancient pipe from my mouth, bare-ass naked. Er, not that you could see anything, what with the hair and the beard. Meanwhile, everybody else was hacking up their lungs.

Storm Boy broke the tension by shouting "Huzzah!" and although I was still kind of out of it, I instinctively slapped him -- albeit kind of weakly. It didn't even make any noise! (Damn it.)

As for the business with Weight Wizard... well, you'll excuse me if I don't feel like talking about it right now. I don't blame Plant Lad for what he did, though. I mean, it was one of those situations where it's him or you. Except I was already kind of dead. I don't know. Sorry. I'm not making a ton of sense, am I?

One thing's for sure, I'm hella thankful to have a 100% genuine organic body again, and the fact that it's from my home planet is just gravy. And Stockade Boy was right about that time way back in Ye Olde Weste. Chameleon Boy was so long-winded and that ranch hand was so hot that I missed the part where Cham said he'd been imitating a real person. Go figure, huh? I'm sorry I didn't get to meet him. He sounded like a cool guy.

I do have some issues with the ridiculously impractical length of my new hair and beard but I don't want to cut them until I can figure out what my bangin' new look will be. Which could take a while. My brain's kind of a total mess at this point.

Still, Cootie seems to enjoy the long beard. She climbed into it and she's asleep right now, just above my knee area.

And I'm standing up!

Everything Comes to a Head

[Excerpts from the transcripted video logs of the iFul Security Services cameras aboard the H.M.S. Exquisite, the morning of 29/08/2987 between 12:02 and 12:18 AM]

CAMERA A-1, CARNIVALE DECK, CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS: RECORDING ERROR, CAMERA MALFUNCTION

CAMERA A-2, CARNIVALE DECK, CORRIDOR 1: CABIN BOY EMERGES FROM CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS, DRAGGING LARGE PURPLE VELVET SACK. SACK'S CONTENTS BOTH ANGULAR AND BULBOUS. IDENTIFICATION IMPOSSIBLE. 12 SECONDS AFTER SUBJECT IS BEYOND RANGE OF CAMERAS, RED LIGHT FLASHES THROUGH LOUVERS OF VENT IN CORRIDOR WALL.

CAMERA B-1, BONDI DECK, MONITOR ROOM: WALL OF MONITORS INDICATE THAT 30% OF CAMERAS ON BOARD ARE NOT FUNCTIONING. SWAB SITTING IN CHAIR WITH BACK TO WALL OF MONITORS AND FACING OPEN DOOR. SWAB TOSSES HUMAN BICUSPID IN AIR, GRABS IT WITH SAME HAND AND TOSSES IT AGAIN IN SEEMING IMITATION OF COIN-FLIPPING GANGSTERS FROM "BROADWAY MELODY" SEQUENCE IN 1952 EARTH FILM "SINGING IN THE RAIN." AFTER TWO SUCCESSFUL ATTEMPTS, SWAB DROPS TOOTH ON FLOOR.

SWAB: Balls.

CAMERA B-2, BONDI DECK, CORRIDOR 1: CABIN BOY PASSES BY OPEN DOOR OF MONITOR ROOM.

SWAB: Who goes there?
CABIN BOY: Shit. Hey, Tusker.
SWAB: Whatcha doin'?
CABIN BOY: Oh. I, um, couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd do a little housecleaning.
SWAB: That's a big pile of garbage!
CABIN BOY: Yes... yes, it is!
SWAB: Need any help?
CABIN BOY: No, I've got it handled.

CABIN BOY PEERS AROUND SWAB AT MONITORS.

CABIN BOY: So, it looks like Rainbow Girl's on the bridge. But where's Storm Boy? I don't see him on any of these monitors...
SWAB: I think he said somethin' about makin' some adjustments on the solar collectors. Or maybe he did that already. Or he could be in his quarters. Or the galley. I dunno. Half the cameras got fried when we had that meltdown.
CABIN BOY: What about the room with the big metal compactor and the airlock access door in it? Does the camera in there work?
SWAB: Sanitation? Oh, hells yeah! Actually it's got three cameras, coverin' the whole joint, and they're workin' just fine. Well, I s'pose I'd better get back to watchin' these stupid monitors.
CABIN BOY: Oh, hey! You know what? The vending machine on the Hula Deck is busted and it's spitting out an enormous pile of free taffy!
SWAB: Awesome! I am so there, dude! ...Wait a minute! Are you tryin' to distract me?
CABIN BOY: Light.

CABIN BOY LEAPS APPROXIMATELY TWO METERS INTO THE AIR.

CABIN BOY: Heavy.

CABIN BOY SWEEPS FOOT INTO SWAB'S FACE, BREAKING OFF ONE OF HIS TUSKS. SWAB FALLS TO FLOOR, UNCONSCIOUS. CABIN BOY RESUMES DRAGGING SACK DOWN CORRIDOR.

CAMERAS B3, B-5, BONDI DECK, CORRIDORS 2 AND 4: CABIN BOY DRAGS SACK DOWN CORRIDOR. AS CABIN BOY PASSES EACH VENT, RED LIGHT FLASHES THROUGH IT, ONCE.

CAMERA C-18, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: CABIN BOY DRAGS SACK INTO ROOM. CABIN BOY EMPTIES SACK'S CONTENTS ONTO FLOOR IN FRONT OF METAL COMPACTOR. IDENTIFICATION OF CONTENTS: LIFE-SIZE METAL PUPPET IN LIKENESS OF SHIP'S CAPTAIN WITH ORANGE CLOTH BINDING ITS MOUTH. ERROR. RE-IDENTIFY. SCANNING. SHIP'S LOGS IDENTIFY SUBJECT AS SHIP'S CAPTAIN, TRANSMOGRIFIED BY UNKNOWN MEANS INTO MOSTLY HOLLOW METAL BEING. CABIN BOY CROUCHES DOWN IN FRONT OF CAPTAIN, REMOVES GAG.

CAPTAIN: What th'--? Weight Wizard? Honey, what are you doing?
CABIN BOY: Think of it as a breakup. Only it's forever.
CAPTAIN: Oh, for Pete's sake. I'm too tired for this right now. Look, just take me back to my cabin. You don't really have to do anything to piss me off this time. We'll just pretend you did, instead. When I'm all better, I'll go ahead and whup your ass just the way you like it. Okay? Okay. Great. Let's go, kid.
CABIN BOY: I'm not shitting around here. You and me? We're over.

CAPTAIN ROLLS EYES, EMITS DRAWN-OUT GUTTURAL SIGH.

CABIN BOY: No, I mean it this time. I'm sick of it! Not just the whole pirate dealio. It's everything you do. And every time we get back together I just feel sicker and more numb inside, and the worst part is I can hear everybody laughing at me, oh, there's the little pussy who needs Blockade Boy to protect him. As long as I'm with you, I'll always be that shrimpy toddler who needed the big freak to watch his back. And it's not just me -- you feel that way too, I can tell, I mean, you're always calling me "kid" and "boy" and we're the same goddamn age! I feel like I'm stuck in my teens and I'll never grow up! When I'm around you, it's like, it's like I'm nothing. Nothing!

CAPTAIN: Yeah, okay, so I spent twenty years of my life taking care of you. Although it feels more like forty-five for some reason... damn sliding timeline! But don't blame me for holding you back. You could act like an adult if you wanted to. We both know I gave you plenty of chances. And hell, look at the state I'm in. Now it's reversed. You can take care of me. That's what a real relationship is all about. Two people taking care of each other.
CABIN BOY: That's... not what I want. At least, at least... not with you.
CAPTAIN: So leave! At the next planet you can go fake your death. Just like you always do.
CABIN BOY: That never works. You know that. Every time I think I've finally done it, I've finally made you angry enough to just leave me the fuck alone, you come looking for me or worse, I go looking for you again. We always find each other, sooner or later. And I've been so weak, I always let it happen. I've got to stop this. And the only way I can do it is to get rid of you. Permanently.

CAPTAIN MAKES SCOFFING SOUND, LAUGHS.

CAPTAIN: Oh, bitch, please. Are you kidding me? Sure, okay, you're going to kill me. C'mon. There's no way! I know you, sweetheart. You don't have the heart for it. Or the balls.
CABIN BOY: Look in my eyes and say that again.

CABIN BOY LEANS DOWN, HIS FACE INCHES AWAY FROM THE CAPTAIN'S. SILENCE: 11.2 SECONDS.

CAPTAIN: ...Damn.
CABIN BOY: Damn right. Y'know, I was just going to dump your useless carcass in the compactor but screw it. I'd rather do it myself.

CABIN BOY STANDS UP, RAISES FOOT OVER CAPTAIN'S HEAD.

CAMERA C-19, PANNING MODEL, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: UNIDENTIFIED ITEM OR SUBJECT OUTSIDE OF SHIP'S HULL MOVES AWAY FROM PORTHOLE #568 WHENEVER IN RANGE OF CAMERA. VIEW OF SPACE DEBRIS THROUGH PORTHOLE #566. ANALYSIS PENDING.

CABIN BOY: Any last words, baby?
CAPTAIN. Special sauce.
CABIN BOY: Heavy.

CABIN BOY CRUSHES CAPTAIN'S HEAD WITH FOOT.

EXTREME DISTORTION OF HEAD AND TOTAL LACK OF FLUIDS INDICATES HEAD IS NOW DEVOID OF ORGANIC MATTER.

CABIN BOY: Wait, what? Special sauce?!

CAMERA C-17, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: SHIP'S MASCOT, IN DIVIDED FORM, MELTS THROUGH VENT, FLIES IN DIRECTION OF CABIN BOY.

CAMERA C-18, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: SHIP'S MASCOT, RED FORM, ATTACKS CABIN BOY'S LEFT LEG. YELLOW FORM: RIGHT LEG. GREEN FORM: LEFT ARM. BLUE FORM: RIGHT ARM.

CABIN BOY: Ow! Damn it! Ow! Shit! Get the fuck off me! Light! Light!

CAMERAS C-17, C-18, C-19, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: CABIN BOY BOUNCES AROUND ROOM, SHAKES MASCOT/S FREE OF LIMBS. CABIN BOY'S LEFT LEG IS ON FIRE. CABIN BOY ROLLS ON FLOOR, TRYING TO PUT OUT FLAMES. SHIP'S MASCOT, BLUE FORM, POUNCES, WRAPS SELF AROUND CABIN BOY'S NECK, CONSTRICTS.

CAMERA C-19, PANNING MODEL, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: ANALYSIS OF SPACE DEBRIS COMPLETE. IDENTIFICATION: BUNGEE CORDS.

CAMERA C-17, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: AIRLOCK ACCESS DOOR IS FORCED OPEN BY AMBULATORY CARNIVOROUS FLOWER/CREATURE, APPROXIMATELY 3 CUBIC METERS IN SIZE, INDENTIFICATION: VORNIAN GREATER LACERATING ROSE.

CAMERA C-18, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: DIVIDED FORMS OF SHIP'S MASCOT RETREAT INTO VENTILATION SYSTEM. ROSE SEIZES CABIN BOY IN ITS TENDRILS. SERRATED PETALS OF MAMMOTH FLOWER HEAD FLEX, PULSATE. CABIN BOY TREMBLES, WETS SELF. CABIN BOY CLOSES EYES.

CABIN BOY: Heavy.

CRACKS APPEAR IN FLOOR BENEATH CABIN BOY. COLLAPSE OF DECK IMMINENT. WITH CONVULSIVE MOTION, FLOWER ENGULFS CABIN BOY'S HEAD, SEVERS IT FROM HIS BODY, EJECTS IT.

CAMERA C-19, PANNING MODEL, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: CABIN BOY'S HEAD REBOUNDS OFF OF WALL, ROLLS BACK IN DIRECTION OF ROSE.

CAMERA C-18, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: STANDING IN PLACE OF ROSE IS SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD.

SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD: That's how we roll in the Beat the Living Crap Out Of You League.

SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD SPITS ON CABIN BOY'S SEVERED HEAD, KNEELS DOWN BESIDE BODY OF CAPTAIN, CRADLES IT, SOBS.

SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD: Oh, no. Oh, Luck Lords, please, no... I'm sorry I didn't get here in time, buddy. You were so good to me. You knew I could be better than I was. You believed in me, even when I didn't, and--

CAPTAIN'S BODY SPASMS, SLIDES ITSELF AWAY FROM SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD, SITS UP. BODY'S HEAD BULGES OUTWARD INTO ITS FORMER SHAPE. DENSE WHITE SMOKE CURLS FROM ITS MOUTH AND NOSTRILS.

SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD: What in--? Blockade Boy...?

CAPTAIN'S BODY SLOWLY SHAKES ITS HEAD, RISES TO ITS FEET. BODY MOVES TOWARD CORRIDOR 11, MOTIONS FOR SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD TO FOLLOW.

................

CAMERA E-4, HULA DECK, SHIP'S LIBRARY: 1ST MATE ENTERS, FOLLOWED BY CAPTAIN'S BODY, BOSUN, SWAB, AND SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD. 1ST MATE LEADS CAPTAIN'S BODY TO COMPUTER TERMINAL, ACCESSES AUTHORING SOFTWARE, INDICATES KEYBOARD TO CAPTAIN'S BODY, TAKES ITS FINGER AND PRESSES DOWN ON A BUTTON. CAPTAIN'S BODY NODS, PRESSES BUTTONS RAPIDLY. MESSAGE APPEARS ON SCREEN.

Battle Hymn of the Exquisite

Hello, blog lovers!

There was an... incident earlier this morning. I'm not sure if I'm ready to post anything about it yet.

...Okay, now I am.

The solar collectors are complete and fully-functional, so now all we have to do is wait for them to charge up, which will take a few days. Weight Wizard wanted to turn in, but the rest of the crew thought a celebration was in order. That's when Storm Boy revealed his "surprise" for me. It turned out to be something he called "An All-Star Tribute to Blockade Boy Featuring Storm Boy With Special Guests Rainbow Girl and Tusker." Which was a fancy way of saying the three of them had worked out a marching band routine in my honor! And I know how much Storm Boy hates marching, so my mighty heart was moved in a wondrous manner.

Rainbow Girl played her fife, and Tusker struggled along as best he could on that ocarina I gave him, and Storm Boy... well, I'm not sure when he even found the time to construct the damn thing, but he was playing an instrument of his own design, a perfectly ghastly-looking object he had dubbed an Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone. It combines the features of a Sousaphone, a saxophone, a timpani drum, and a trombone. And when he operated it, Storm Boy looked like he was simultaneously pleasuring and being crushed by something from an H.R. Giger painting. As near as I can tell he had pre-programmed it with tunes so it was closer to a barrel organ than something you'd see in an orchestra. Cootie was so alarmed by its noise that she scrambled for the lower decks after the first note. I wasn't familiar with any of the songs they played. After the incident I demanded he tell me the titles for all of them and then I also made him show me the sheet music so I could read the lyrics.

It explained a lot.

They started out with "Toxic" by Britney Spears, then segued into "Ain't No Other Man" by Christina Aguilera. I didn't know any better at the time, so I just sat in the reviewing stand (i.e. a folding chair) smiling and holding on to Weight Wizard's increasingly slippery, fidgety hand. Storm Boy and the others stomped merrily around the deck and even made a pass under the big dome in a nod to our temporarily-petrified figurehead, Plant Lad, who is several decks up and strapped to the "prow" in the unforgiving vacuum of space. They had made it halfway through Kylie Minogue's "Come Into My World" when Weight Wizard wrenched himself free of my grasp. "This is bullshit," he hissed at me. "How much longer are you gonna make me sit here and listen to this no-talent fat-ass suck-up and his loser brigade?"

"Easy on the hyphenated insults, kid," I chuckled. I tried to grasp his hand again but he yanked it away. I glanced over at Storm Boy. His face was crimson. He held up his right hand in some kind of signal and his confused bandmates suddenly started in on a new tune, which I later found out was something called "Girlfriend" by one of Canada's most revered prime ministers, Brigadier-General Avrile Levigne-Thicke. Weight Wizard stood there with his back ramrod-straight and his arms folded, scowling at Storm Boy. For his part, Storm Boy marched with great intensity in a circle around him, dipping the bell of his Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone ever-closer to Weight Wizard's face.

"Light," spat Weight Wizard, contemptuously. He leaped almost to the top of the dome. Then he shouted "Heavy!" and he came down like a cannonball on top of Weight Wizard, smashing the Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone and not-so-coincidentally breaking Storm Boy's arm. Then it was on. The two of them started brawling, with Storm Boy getting a couple of rabbit punches in on Weight Wizard with his good arm, Weight Wizard unleashing some impressive karate moves on Storm Boy, and Tusker whaling on the both of them for no discernible reason and with a goofy grin on his face. Rainbow Girl, bless 'er, split into her energy forms and did her best to pull everybody apart. But Weight Wizard was so light and so slick with perspiration that she couldn't get a proper grip on him. I threw myself off my chair and propelled myself across the deck just using my arms, like Ursula in "The Little Mermaid" and the next time Weight Wizard bounced into the deck I snagged his foot, pulled him down, and threw my body on top of his so he couldn't get away. Storm Boy used this as an opportunity to kick him in the arm before Rainbow Girl zapped him with an enervating ray and he crumpled to the deck himself.

Meanwhile, Weight Wizard frothily screamed at me to get off of him, getting spit all over my rugged, handsome face. As I roared back at him to calm down I was overcome by vertigo. My voice went strangely flat and buzzy, my arms lost all feeling, and the two of us suddenly shot up into the air. He deftly rolled my body off of his own. I slammed into the deck. I could see Weight Wizard moonwalk-bouncing off to God-knows-where. Rainbow Girl and Tusker rushed over to me. I could tell by the looks on their faces that it was bad. "It happened again, didn't it?" I buzzed.

And sure enough, it had. My body is now almost totally metal, except for a few fleshy parts inside my skull. Everything else is hollow. Since my hands are useless and I'm not about to put any art supplies in my mouth I had to ask Storm Boy to do a rendering of my current state. Yes, I know. Don't start with me.

I haven't seen it yet. Let's discover it together!

Sweet fancy Moses!

I'm pretty sure I have never adopted that pose in my entire freaking life. (Although you just know Storm Boy does, whenever he needs to hitch a ride or score a free pastry or whatever.) Ugh. Of course, I can't stand up at all now but if I could? I wouldn't do it like that. The picture also makes me look a bit too curvaceous and Art Nouveau for my tastes, but otherwise it's a fair likeness.

I don't know what will happen if (or when) the last of me disappears and the only thing left is this shell of steel. I might be like Plant Lad, frozen solid with my eyes wide open. I wonder... is his mind frozen, too? I know he gets stupider as his whole body slows down in preparation for dormancy, but maybe his brain never completely shuts off... maybe he sees everything and hears everything but it just takes him a long time to process it all. It's a mystery. There are nights when Rainbow Girl is at the wheel and everybody else is asleep, and I pace the deck by myself, looking up through the dome at Plant Lad, and he looks down at me with that glum, sleepy-eyed stare. (Which I sketched a while back. See?)

Maybe he knows exactly what's going on and he's inwardly pissed, and there's nothing he can do to stop it... I hope that's not how it will be for me.

But you know what? I didn't get as far as I have by being a pessimist. I've rebounded from fates as bad... well, almost as bad as this. I refuse to worry about what's to come. And I've got a crew to take care of, so I'm going to focus on that. Okay, enough philosophical claptrap. Back to my narrative! *Portentiously intones* EPILOGUE!

Rainbow Girl helped me into sickbay. I had a heart-to-heart with Storm Boy (the poor sweet dope) where I explained in no uncertain terms that I Just Wasn't Into Him. I think he understands now. Tusker got a stern lecture about Minding His Own Freaking Business and I pointed out that if we weren't in such dire straits he'd be cooling his heels in the brig right now. Then Rainbow Girl and I sat down with some coffee (that sloshed down my throat into the bottom of my hollow feet) and we went through my big catalog of Commendation Medals and picked out an especially nice one for her. (She's also typing all of this for me, which is swell of her as I'm sure she'd rather be in bed.) [Too true! -- Rainbow Girl]

Weight Wizard isn't talking to me, or to anybody else. I know this is hard. It's usually me taking care of him. Maybe I've babied him too much, and that's why he's so stressed-out now. But I'm sure he'll come around. And anyway, with the raucous life I lead there very well might come a day where I have a permanent injury and I'll have to rely on him as my Primary Caregiver. So this is good practice for him. Once he gets over this initial bout of shock and denial, I'm sure he'll be fine. Because I'm an optimist, and I have faith in the little guy.

Everything will be fine.

You'll see.

Marooned

This is a portrait I sketched of Weight Wizard the other day. He'd been sitting so long, just staring into space (i.e. that stuff right outside the spaceship) that I wanted to capture it. Those big, soulful eyes--! Even when he's pensive, he's beautiful. And that little Hercule Poirot mustache I made him grow makes him look ten years older, and three times as Belgian. Granted, the severity of his expression and the fact I used red pastel (the only thing within reach) makes him look like a Soviet dictator on a bad hair day, but hey, it's a sketch! What the hell do you people want from me? Blood? 'Cause that's in short supply right now. But yeah, Weight Wizard's a pint-sized hottie! I just wish... well, I'll talk more about Weight Wizard in a bit. You probably want to know about how we're doing with the whole "Tusker destroyed our main engine" problem.

I'm happy to report good news in that department. Yes, things are looking up! We're still reliant on our backup engine, which doesn't have anywhere near the power we need to propel the ship, but we've finally cobbled together a plan for getting out of this whole big mess. And it's thanks in large part to Storm Boy, believe it or not! Y'see, he's at long last off the sauce, and he's a real fountain of ideas now. Sometimes his thoughts run away from him and he starts off on some dumb tangent and he's babbling so rapidly I can barely understand what he's saying. However, all I have to do is slap him (which he seems to enjoy) and he gets right back on track. Kind of like when you whack the side of a holovision set to make the picture come in clearer. Simply put, the plan is this: we're going to use the countless bolts of Tharrian heat-absorbing fabric we've "acquired" and some other parts salvaged from the ship itself to construct some massive solar energy collectors. They will power up a battery of Storm Boy's design that should give us enough juice to limp into the nearest spaceport for proper repairs. As a reward for his hard work and sobriety I've promoted him from "Swab Trainee" to "Bosun." The news was enough to render him speechless. Finally.

Later, I overheard Storm Boy whispering to Rainbow Girl about some "surprise" he was cooking up for me. I don't know whether to be excited or scared.

Weight Wizard, on the other hand... I'm not sure what's going on with him. He seems pretty restless, like he always gets before he fakes his own death and runs off. Of course, there's nowhere he can go right now. Last night I tried to set up a romantic evening for us in our cabin, with candlelight and kangobronc steaks and a selection of scented oils and metal polishes, and also I had the stereo playing "our song" ("Superbeast" by Rob Zombie) over and over, but he never showed up. I hobbled throughout the ship, looking for him. I finally found him in the ship's library. He'd hacked into a file of love letters for Plant Lad from his various boyfriends. (I'd taken the liberty of having them forwarded to the ship while he's in his current dormant state). He was crying. It broke my heart. He looked up at me and went pale. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something. But he just couldn't conjure the words, somehow. He pushed past me and ran down the corridor. Maybe... maybe I'm smothering him. But he'll get over this, whatever it is. He just needs some time.

Rainbow Girl, Storm Boy, and Tusker are hard at work on the solar collectors and the battery right now, with me checking up on them every hour or so. And I ordered Weight Wizard to pitch in. It's not like he has anything better to do, what with my dingus having altogether vanished. And it's good for him to focus on something other than the two of us. I don't know how much he's contributing, though, because the rest of the crew isn't very fond of him, or vice-versa. So none of them ever ask Weight Wizard to do anything. I can see him through the porthole right now. He's just floating around out there in his spacesuit, all by himself, at the end of his tether.

Becalmed Before the Storm

From Rainbow Girl's diary, August 23, 2987:

"Everything's screwed up.

The big news? We're adrift. Despite constant instructions to the contrary, Tusker found his way into the engine room. Once there, he managed to spill an entire gallon of Bismoll MacMattercuddy's Famous Double-Plutonium Espresso into the reactor chamber, causing a chain reaction that melted the core and destroyed the main engine. We're running on backup power right now, so all the lighting is dim and also RED for no good reason except Blockade Boy must think it looks 'cool' or something. The backup engine is powered by a little hand crank that must be turned every hour. Kind of a pain. I'd make Tusker do it but I'm afraid he'd SNAP IT OFF. Oh, and have I mentioned we're "laying low" in the Gorilla Nebula, far away from inhabited planets and trade routes? Oh, yes, we're quite possibly screwed.

I snagged Storm Boy to help me figure out some way to work around the destroyed engine. But now that he's on the wagon he's really kind of manic and useless, and he can't concentrate for beans. Every piece of machinery he laid his eyes on suggested some outlandish and impractical new invention to him. I just wanted the ship to have a working engine and he kept pestering me with rhapsodies about banana clips that electronically hypnotized head lice into working as a profitable miniature circus, or a combination vacuum-bagpipe that plays music while you clean. And in the middle of all THAT, Weight Wizard showed up in a nude panic demanding to know where we kept the crowbar. And when we asked him why, he just looked down at his feet and said, 'No reason.'

A few hours later and with very little accomplished Storm Boy and I swung by the galley for some breakfast. And there was Weight Wizard. I could tell right away something was amiss, because he was wearing clothes. And he was much friendlier than usual. Normally I can't get two words out of him. (He's one of those smug-yet-frosty types... he's always hanging onto Storm Boy, and usually when I try talking to him he'll either say nothing at all or he'll smirk and whisper something to Blockade Boy. It's irritating.) Oh, and even more suspiciously, he tried to make small-talk. Like we were old friends. But there was something about his eyes that seemed OFF. He looked shell-shocked. So I just asked him point-blank, 'Where's Blockade Boy?'

He shrugged. 'I'm sure he's around here somewhere.' I asked him if Blockade Boy was still upset about getting voted off Next Top Hero. He guffawed, ruefully. Then he mumbled something about Blockade Boy having 'bigger stuff to worry about.'

Just then, Blockade Boy slammed through the swinging doors. He was dragging himself forward on two of his best, most pretentious canes. And the techno-organic bug that had infected his legs and dingus had taken over his arms, shoulders, and a good deal of his torso!

He hobbled over to Weight Wizard and they argued in hushed tones about something or other. I'm pretty sure the word 'dingus' was bandied about. I interrupted them to insist Blockade Boy go to sickbay for a thorough examination. Then Storm Boy interrupted ME by blurting out 'You look HELLA COOL!' He had a peculiar expression. Kind of a surprised smile, like a kid on the first day of Klordney Week.

Scans showed that all the organic and mechanical matter that used to be irretrievably intermingled in Blockade Boy's lower half had VANISHED, leaving everything below his waist a hollow, jointed shell. Like a ventriloquist's puppet! Furthermore, his magnetic codpiece has fused to his crotch, where his robotic dingus USED to be. And the rest of him -- bones, nerve endings, gears and fan belts -- is just DANGLING there inside his chest! To be honest, there is no scientific explanation for why Blockade Boy is even STILL ALIVE. It's weird. And Weight Wizard was not taking it well. AT ALL. Blockade Boy will try to put his arm around him, for support, and Weight Wizard will try to shrug him off, so Blockade Boy will then put his OTHER arm around him and hold Weight Wizard's arm there so he can't let go, and then the two of them will basically WALTZ wherever Blockade Boy wants to go. It's awkward.

I don't know what's going on.

But whatever it is, it can't possibly end well."

Wigged Out

...So I had Weight Wizard organize my collection of ancient romance comics the other day while I steered the ship around a pesky asteroid belt. (When is the United Planets gonna finish cleaning that shit up?! Sure, a spaceway crew was on the scene in their orange spacesuits but there was maybe one guy working while six other people were just floating there, drinking coffee.) Suddenly I hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet and sure enough it's Weight Wizard all out of breath and clutching my copy of "Heart Throbs" #130 (DC, February-March, 1971).

"Here's the dealio," he panted. "I really think you oughta buy one of these!" He presented the back cover, which had a full-page ad for...

"Give me that!" I growled. He meekly handed me the crumbling periodical and I swatted him in the nose with it. "I don't wear wigs," I thundered. "I tell other people to wear wigs!"

Weight Wizard turned pale, but with an eager smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. "But--!" he ventured.

"But what?!"

"Well... I figured maybe you could wear it on top of your cowl. Like the original Captain Marvel! ...Marvel Universe version, of course."

"...That's actually not a bad idea." I have to confess I always liked that look, with the big blond sideburns on the outside of his mask. What? Of course he wore a wig! His real hair is dark brown and curly, and it's massive. Kind of a 'fro, to be honest.

I held onto the comic and after I'd steered us all to safety I studied the ad some more.

Let's see... I already am "bewitching" and "daring". Admittedly, "winsome" and "demure" would be new ones for me but I'd just as soon not, thank you very much. And I often make a "split-second change to a new personality." Just ask Weight Wizard! ...Although now that I think about it, I'd be more accurately described as "bi-polar." Let's see... blah, blah, blah, "surprising new adventures"... "life of the party"... yeah, been there, done that. And I've never heard of this "Sarnel" fiber before. Is it any good?

Oh, it's not. You've failed to impress me, wigmaker! Still, you may show me your wares, for my own amusement. BEGIN! *imperiously snaps fingers* (I just made a split-second change to a new personality!)

Ah, the "I'm incubating a nest of possum babies in my hair and I don't care who knows it" wig.

The "OMG Carol Burnett is teh sexy" wig.

Wow. So they let Steve Ditko design a wig!

I didn't know they still had flappers in 1971. I'm guessing a grandma ordered this one and she jitterbugged in front of her mirror until she broke a hip and collapsed onto the floor, yards away from a telephone. When her family came around to check up on her weeks later, they found the granny dead on the floor with her cats lapping at her corpse and her dog wearing the wig. ...Cripes. That was morbid, wasn't it? My apologies. Let's forget this ever happened. Next!

The "Melted Beehive!" She thought she could rival the height of Night Girl's hair! Little did she suspect that Night Girl's hair has heat vision.

And finally...

Party out back, business up front. Unfortunately, the "party" is an Antebellum cotillion circa 1855, with slaves and everything. Gross.

Yes, Clarkie Dearest

Hey, I once spent an entire weekend playing "Kaboom!" Let me have a crack at those things!

Remember that scene from the "Take Your Daughter to Work Day" episode of the Office, where Toby's preschool-age daughter Sasha asks the Party Planning Committee if she can help them, and Angela says, "No thanks. We'd have to explain everything; it's probably just easier if we do it ourselves." Yeah. Superboy is like Angela. He could have somebody helping him take care of the non-stop crime and natural disasters that seem to plague Smallville on a daily basis and maybe he'd then have more time to relax or develop a social life but NO. Because he has this sick need for everything be freaking perfect he drives everybody away. No wonder he winds up living alone in an arctic wasteland.

What? Me?! Oh, hells no. I'm not nearly as uptight and demanding as Superboy. Why, I have lots of friends nearby right now! ...All of whom I, er, happen to, uh... pay.

Aw, shut up.

(Side note: Weight Wizard once gave me a "glancing blow." So I yanked on his hair and demanded that he try again and put some freaking effort into it.)

Gravity Girl Vulnerability Checklist:
1. Wood (like the Golden Age Green Lantern and most other super-heroes)
2. Fire (like the Martian Manhunter and most other super-heroes)
3. Rock (again, just like every superhero who doesn't possess some level of decreased vulnerability, such as a tough hide or a forcefield -- which is to say, most superheroes)

By the way, Storm Boy isn't happy with some of your responses to his new costume, so now he wants to post a rebuttal. So you might want to brace yourselves for that.

I Hereby Order You To Love a Parade

Happy Independence Day, 21st Century American readers of this blog! But to the rest of us, it's just another Wednesday. Which to the crew of the H.M.S. Exquisite means just one thing: my Weekly Mandatory Parade! We Amadans, we know how to RAWK a parade! My favorite is the one my planet holds every week to commemorate its liberation from the Waxing Tyrants of Depilatory Seven. Picture, if you will, the Amadus Shirtless Hairy Bearded Men's Bass Drum and Electric Guitar Corps (three hundred strong!) marching proudly through the labyrinthine streets of our capital and blasting away at our favorite military anthem, Nazareth's "Hair of the Dog" -- which you may know better by its chorus ("Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch"). Just thinking about it brings a tear to my eye. It also produces some other secretions but we shan't talk about that now. When I was a mere Blockade Tot the noise of it scared the bejeebus out of me, and as a Blockade Tween I would scoff and jeer at how the adults would get all worked up whenever the parade passed through town. That was before my terrifying ordeal in the Super-Stalag of Space!

I have a profound appreciation for the concept of liberty nowadays! So to honor the brave souls who perished in order that Amadus might preserve its way of life, I like to gather the crew and hold a little parade of my own!

As I mentioned before, I have Weight Wizard play a side drum, and I have a side drum of my own, only bigger (of course) and Rainbow Girl expertly plays her fife (which Weight Wizard is not allowed to touch after what we found him doing to the last fife). We play "Hair of the Dog", naturally, and some other classic marches, like "Takin' Care of Business" and "Bad Moon Rising" and "Barracuda." Tusker follows behind, waving and bowing to nobody in particular. As a courtesy we pass by Plant Lad a few times but of course he's in a dormant state so he can't really see us. Sometimes Storm Boy will clamber up from the hold and drunkenly raise a bottle to us... and sometimes he hurls the bottle at us and then I have to break ranks and smack his ass up. But either way it's a festive occasion!

Have a terrific day, everybody!

You're Next, Audrey Hepburn

Night Girl's hair found out somebody was imitating it, so it ordered a preemptive strike! Night Girl's hair doesn't shit around. And it's extremely sensitive. For example, you wouldn't want to tease Night Girl's hair. *rimshot* Thank you, Weight Wizard. At ease.

I suppose I should mention all my rimshots (that's what the kids are calling them nowadays) are provided by Weight Wizard, whose current task is to follow me around naked save for a military-type side drum. You don't want to know what he did with the fife.

Special footnote: the above image is by Jim Aparo, from his All My People Look Like Butter Sculptures period.

Legion of Substitute Costumes: Rainbow Girl

Rainbow Girl is my second-in-command on the H.M.S. Exquisite and she's truly my finest crew member. Granted, it's not much of a competition. Tusker is a dim-witted behemoth who spends most of his time playing fantasy magno-ball on his Omnicom, Plant Lad is a badass but completely immobile, my dear friend Storm Boy is an emotionally unstable lush (bless his heart), and my "cabin boy" Weight Wizard is really only good for "swabbing my deck" if you know what I mean and I think you do. So praise the Luck Lords for Rainbow Girl! She really rides stays on top of cracks the whip on disciplines CRIMINY! I'm mired in accidental sexual innuendo here! Rainbow Girl makes sure the other crew members ("Members"? CRIMINY!) do their jobs! She's diligent and smart and also witty, just a real charmer who can put you at your ease right away. She's also in constant need of validation, so if I let, say, three hours pass without thanking her effusively and in person for the work she's doing, she gets ticked off at me and stops working which creates a domino effect which causes the ship to grind to a complete halt.

So with her personality, I bet her Legion try-out was even more scarring than usual. Because the Legion didn't tell her why they rejected her!

That's it. That one panel's all she got. That's her fifteen femtoseconds of fame as chronicled in "Adventure Comics", the Legion's companion magazine (a profusely illustrated pamphlet in which the details of that organization's doings are heavily dumbed-down for its dumb, heavy fans). There was no embarrassing flub caught on tape, no near-death accidental misuse of her powers, no anything. Just the Legion's typical "take a belt and beat it" shove-off. The United Planets Freedom of Infotainment Act of 2973, or was it 2979, or 2981? Damn sliding timeline! Anyway, that legislation opened the Legion's bits of business to the general public and it was from those formerly sealed records that I found out why the Legion rejected Rainbow Girl. (And then I blabbed it to her). But it's complicated, so bear with me for a minute. Rainbow Girl can split into four separate energy-beings*, each a different hue. Rainbow Girl Red projects heat rays, Rainbow Girl Yellow projects a blinding light, Rainbow Girl Blue projects a freezing ray, and Rainbow Girl Green projects an enervating ray. Which is not Kryptonite, I hasten to add. But the Legion thought it was and they hustled Rainbow Girl out of their tacky clubhouse in two shakes of a borlat's tail. With no explanation and no chance for her to defend herself. But you know the Legion... they're hell-bent on protecting their own personal Mark McGuire and Marion Jones, a.k.a. a certain Kryptonian pair who are so hopped up on yellow sun radiation they can't even recognize a cool facial hair style when they see it. (I had a sweet-ass goatee and muttonchops and they called me "Pappy Yokum"! HOW DARE THEY. Besides, I've always pictured myself as more the "Earthquake McGoon" type. Only hairier.)

Wait, what were we talking about?

Rainbow Girl! Right! Thank you! So. Rainbow Girl might not have received such a hasty farewell on that fateful day if only she'd opted for a more striking costume. And hairstyle! Here's Rainbow Girl today in an outfit and coif I designed especially for her:

Once Rainbow Girl trusted me enough to take me on as her fashion adviser, I had her toss out every bit of rainbow-patterned apparel in her closet. Which was a lot. Her very noggin emits pulses of rainbow-colored light at all times so I don't think she needs anything else competing with that. Her hair doesn't have a lot of body, so I counseled her to switch to a short, layered spiky 'do which gives it more lift. I also lightened it a bit to bring out her natural purple undertones. (And I thought it looked so bangin' I decided to make my own hair that color!) The costume itself is in a silver-gray metallic fabric with hints of violet and turquoise. The silhouette features a scalloped top to evoke a cloudbank. Rainbow Girl is a helluva fighter both hand-to-hand and in her energy forms, so I designed this as a "working" costume. That means the neckline, while feminine and flattering, is also high enough that her bosoms won't pop out in the middle of a scrap. And there are no high heels or dangling jewelry. It's a business suit, and her business is kicking your ass!

*When I interviewed Rainbow Girl for the job of First Mate I asked her if she could do the work of four people. She said yes, not knowing the four people I meant were Tusker, Plant Lad, Storm Boy, and Weight Wizard.

Legion of Substitute Costumes Bonus: Weight Wizard

The crew of the H.M.S. Exquisite has the distinction of including five individuals who were rejected for membership by the Legion of Super-Heroes and one bad-ass Brigadier who could give a space-rat's ass about those stuck-up phonies. Although the Legionnaires have purchased costumes from me and as such are valued customers. What's that, you say? Weight Wizard and Plant Lad aren't on the official list of Legion rejects? Apparently their try-outs were so embarrassing that the Legion didn't even bother to record them! I wasn't there for Weight Wizard's. I found out about the whole deal one day when I came home to find him splayed out on the divan, crying his eyes out. He still refuses to divulge all the details. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure he didn't actually try out for the Legion, he came on to someone in the Legion and got "rejected." Timber Wolf, maybe. Huh. Now I'm kinda pissed.

As I explained in my very first post, Weight Wizard wasn't wearing his costume at the Super-Stalag of Space. That was just a nice t-shirt and cargo pant combo I'd found for him at Old Space Navy. My old 21st Century buddy Jeremy sketched Weight Wizard (and Plant Lad) in some older costumes I'd designed for them.

But that was years ago (my time) and I thought you all might like to see how I'm gussying up Weight Wizard's short, stumpy frame nowadays.

"Weight" + "Wizard" = THIS. I designed it all, including the hairstyle and the nifty scales tattoo. I wanted to make him look a little like a sorceror, ergo the "Doctor Strange" by way of "Iron Fist" feel of it. ("Karate Kid" who?!) The robe hugs his torso via the latest in Colorforms Technology. Cover up the nipples? Not on your life, buddy! I need 24-hour access to those babies! The sleeves are voluminous to support the wizard theme, but the rest of the costume is tight because what little there is of Weight Wizard's body is in fine shape, and also you can't put baggy clothes on a short dude without them looking like a Jawa. And although Weight Wizard is a natural blond, I thought he looked more "mystical" and grown-up with black hair... that had a huge spiked-up purple forelock smack-dab in the middle of it. And yes, although I loves me some hairy chest, it was worth it to get rid of Weight Wizard's chest hair to make room for that tattoo. And the rest of him is still kinda hairy, so, y'know. It's a win-win for me.

I'll get to the rest of the crew over the next week. And I'm allowing Storm Boy to write his own post, which should be... fun. *rubs temples, hoping to stave off incipient migraine*

I've added the "Legion of Substitute Costumes" tag to all my old posts in this category. So instead of having to click on each item in a list, you should be able to hit the tag and pull up every "Substitute" post, including this one. I'll be working on getting every post I've done tagged up, so the tags are actually useful. (A radical idea, I know.)

Yo-Ho-Ho, Check Me Out

New headshot! Because the old one made me look like Axel Rose, as delineated by Margaret Keane. My new mask/do-rag gives me a nice swashbuckling look, plus it helps me to *click* strike terror in th' craven hearts o'me enemies, me hearties! There's none 'at sail the spaceways wi' a mask so orange nor a beard so purple as ol' Brigadier Blockade! YAARRRGH!!! *click* Sorry. Stupid robot voicebox. Anyhow, I'm not the only one aboard the H.M.S. Exquisite with an exciting new look! This week, along with the ongoing adventures of Lana Lang and her hideous new belt, I'll be showing you my makeovers of my crew: Weight Wizard, Tusker, Rainbow Girl, and Plant Lad. I never mentioned Plant Lad before because he's in a hyper-dormant state right now and has actually petrified like an old Sequoia, so I strapped him to the prow. His official title is "Kick-Ass Figurehead." When he wakes up he'll get a share of all the loot we've plundered. Which right now is about 80% ankle socks and banana clips, but hey! A job's a job.

Also, I have an important announcement to make. The "request line" for makeovers is closed for now. I need to concentrate on finishing up all the series I started before I can promise to do anything new. I've made some serious dents in the "Rescue Me" makeovers and I've gotten a good start on the Fearless Five/Teen Tyrants "Moral Reversal" makeovers (and I'll also get to that "Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends" version of it) and the "Legion of Substitute Costumes" makeovers, so that's something, but it's still a ton of artwork and I only have so much time. I'll do Steven's "Criminal Accessories" idea (i.e. giving classic villains funny hats and such) at the end of this month. Everything I've promised to do up to this point, I will do. But I can't promise anything beyond that. Fair enough? Alrighty then.

Rescue Me: The Wrench

Not all of the D-list villains assassinated by Scourge were lucky enough to have their final moments of ignominy illustrated for the approval of bloodthirsty fanboys. Some of those perfidious unfortunates had to make do with a Scourge "honorable mention." Getting name-dropped by Scourge wasn't exactly on par with a mention on "Page 6." It's more like working your ass off on a diorama of "Lab Coats Through the Ages" for the Lunar Elementary Science Fair and receiving a Certificate of Participation, while a lazy dim-bulb like Weight Wizard submits a stalk of celery with freaking googly eyes glued onto it and walks away with a goddamn red ribbon and sure, later you hold him down and threaten to force-feed him googly eyes until he gives you his ribbon but somehow it just makes you feel all hollow inside... um, but I digress.

The Wrench was one of those off-panel victims. "Who?!" you ask. Exactly. The Wrench, a.k.a. Kurt Klemmer, wasn't exactly what you'd call a "supervillain." He was just a big crazy oaf in overalls who clubbed folks to death with a big wrench. Oh, and he also carried a gun. He didn't have a costume and to be honest, he was never even called the Wrench in the one comic in which he appeared ("Omega the Unknown" #6). That comic's cover has one of those old-timey bombastic word balloons where a Hulk-sized Klemmer boasts about "THE POWER OF THE WRENCH" while he belabors Omega about the noggin with a perfectly humongous wrench that leaves a crackling energy trail. (You could always rely on a Gil Kane cover for a spicy, over-the-top rendition of a book's actual contents!) So it's unclear whether that pimped-out version of Klemmer was referring to himself in the third person and by a code name at that -- admittedly, normal villain behavior in the world of 1970's Marvel -- or if he was just really proud of that wrench!

I think it's clear that Omega's writers, Steve Gerber and (uncredited) Mary Skrenes, never intended for Kurt Klemmer to be an out-and-out "supervillain." Which is totally cool. But could he have worked as one? I think so. He had an interesting hook, in that he was a handyman who was obsessed with "fixing" his fellow human beings. Which involved bludgeoning them to death with a wrench, but hey, it's a start. He was a big, sturdy guy, so at normal strength with an ordinary wrench for a weapon he'd make a fine adversary for one of the Marvel heroes who fight street-level crime, like Daredevil or Power Man. Or a writer could go the "Absorbing Man" route with him and have some cosmic being magic-up his wrench so he could battle Thor and Iron Man. Maybe he could join the Wrecking Crew! And maybe he could dress like so:

I thought a somber blue/gray color scheme would be more appropriate for Mister Klemmer's hypothetical villain costume than the mustard hue from his overalls. I designed a stylized "W" using the shape of a wrench, and I added stripes to evoke the overall straps. The boots and gloves have cut-outs in the shape of a wrench's clamps. (Or whatever they're called... here in the future we fix everything by waving a humming rectal thermometer over it!) The long, shaggy haircut symbolizes the Wrench's unkempt mind. I decided to bleach it out to more of a white blonde so it's more dramatic.

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania
• Bonus: Annihilator and Son
• Red Skull 3
• Black Abbott

Nineteen Years Later...

Ahoy from the year 2987! This be yer ol' brother-in-bloggin', Blockade Boy... or as I'm called now, Brigadier Blockade, the most fashionable space pirate in all the Seven Galaxies! But perhaps ye know me by one o' me other aliases, such as Blockade Brigand, Purplebeard, the Closet Raider, or Three-Legged Phyl. YAARRRGH!

Ah, but me starsalt-crusted ears can hear ye askin', "By Satan's compass, boyo, how did ye come to such a pass?" Then gather 'round, lads and lassies, for I've a tale to chill the very marrow in yer bones! But first, allow me to adjust the dial on me accursed cybernetic throat from "Pirate" to "Drinking Buddy." *click* Yeah, that's better.

Sorry about all that yo-ho-ho crap, but it's all part of the job. Hoo-boy! I've got a lot to explain, don't I? For starters, I'd like to point out that even though it's been nineteen years since my last post, I'm still in my early twenties. My secret? No, it's not a miracle anti-aging cream. It's this era's kooky sliding timeline! Remember how dorky all the Legionnaire's costumes looked, way back in 2068? Lightning lad with the big orange diapers and Colossal Boy's "Some People Call Me a Space Cowboy" get-up? That now occurred in 2084. Thanks to all my time travel and dimension-hopping, I'm the only one here who notices that the years keep hurtling forward at an alarming rate while everybody and everything stays pretty much the same. Oh! Also? I spied on some other Legion-era timelines and it looks like my dimension dodged a real bullet! I guess back in 1986 the whole multiverse was threatened with destruction and in one of those timelines it actually got all blowed up, leaving just one version of Earth! Not in my dimension, though. For instance, Superboy's still around! And Supergirl! We can't seem to get rid of them, actually! They're like the sexless squares you invite to a party just to be nice and then it's 4 AM and they're the last two guests at your pad and even though you're busy cleaning up they're just sitting on their asses talking about some boring nerd shit and then they wanna play Spaceopoly for Chrissakes and you really have no choice but to hoist them up by their scrawny nerd necks and boot their asses out the door.

Oh, and just the other day the Legion teamed up with both Earth-2 and Earth-S versions of themselves against Earth-3's Crime Legion. Fun fact: my Earth-S counterpart is a two-fisted crime buster who can turn into a moderately-sized ambulatory steel wall! And for some reason he just won't stop smiling which is a little creepy. He's still damn good lookin', though. Anyhow, to bottom-line it, a whole ton of depressing nonsense won't happen in my dimension! And thank God! 'Cause really, I'd rather not have to see:

• Mordru take over the universe
• Earth's moon get blown to bits
• the Earth itself get blown to bits (Jesus! Enough already!)
• Timber Wolf's nose vanish without a trace
• Dawnstar's gorgeous wings get amputated
• Shrinking Violet -- well, actually, I never gave a flying fuck about Shrinking Violet
• the typical Legion mission consisting mainly of wearing puffy jackets and standing around in a pile of rubble, looking depressed

The only downside? I'm a space pirate.

Woo! Check me out! I ain't wearin' no pants, y'all! But shhh! That'll be just between us. For modesty's sake, I've covered my robo-dingus with a magnetic codpiece. I mean, I'm not a pervert.

It wasn't my first choice, I'll tell you that. But my clothing line went belly-up. (Apparently most men don't want shirts with cut-outs for their nipples.) I was looking at bankruptcy! Then I heard about this United Planets program that was giving out grants to aspiring space pirates, and the only requirement was to be missing a certain percentage of body parts. And everything below my waistline is cybernetic, so I was a shoo-in. What's that--? You look shocked and appalled. Feh! Whatever. Get used to it. And I wish I had some kind of heroic, self-sacrificing tale about how it happened but to be perfectly honest I caught a techno-organic virus from a toilet seat at a rest stop. The pernicious germ latched onto my robo-dingus and really went to town! The cybernetic voicebox implant was a mandatory surgery I had for the job. And here I am, sailing the solar winds in my ship, the H.M.S. Exquisite. I raid fabric warehouses and shoe stores, and I track down unfashionable people and forcibly make them over. It's kind of like that show "What Not to Wear", only with more gunfire. And if I happen to destroy the occasional Khundian trading vessel, well, the U.P. gives me a bonus check!

I've got a terrific crew! Weight Wizard is my cabin boy, of course, and might I add that it's nice having him trapped on a spaceship where I can keep my eyes on him. Rainbow Girl is my gun-toting sexpot second-in-command. Tusker is the big stupid muscle who doesn't talk -- mainly because I told him "shut up" so many times he's afraid to even open his mouth -- for anything... for reals, he takes all his meals intravenously. And of course, my dear friend Storm Boy is here. Ol' Stormy's been kind of a downward spiral since his nervous breakdown back in '85... or was it '77? Or '71? Damn sliding timeline! But my point is, he's in an even worse financial state than I am. And it doesn't help that he's been hitting the space-wine pretty hard lately. That's why I mainly keep him down in the ship's cargo hold, guarding all the crates of buttons, notions and assorted frippery. Still, a job's a job, right?

And for those of you who are just completely losing your shit at these developments, might I respectfully suggest you calm the fuck down. This too shall pass. Trust me. Since the last time we talked, I've been turned into a Balinese shadow puppet, the abominable snowman, a voodoo doll, a merman (fish part on top), a living butter sculpture, a locomotive, and a caterpillar with my head on it. Oh, and once I was split into two different beings, Blockade Boy Orange and Blockade Boy Purple. And if you'll recall, even before I returned to the 30th Century I was turned into a packet of artificially flavored drink mix, a baboon and a wolfman. It never lasts. So cool it. Now if you'll excuse me... *click*

Batten yer hatches, me hearties, for I've a timber-shiverin' tale to tell ye! 'Tis all about me sartorial victory o'er the pernicious Starfinger!

(He be not near that size, by the by.) *clears robotic throat, which produces the sound of static* Me intrepid band infiltrated Starfinger's lair under cover of a cosmic storm and surprised the tacky mongrel whilst he was takin' a bubble bath. Afore he could call upon his she-devils, Starlight and Starbright, we yanked the rings from his soapy fingers and shanghaied his arse back to our ship. Into the irons he went! "Do with me what ye will," he spat. "I'll never cede ye control o' me empire o' crime!"

Me recently glossed lips parted in a smile. "'Tis not yer empire I'm lookin' to control, young feller me lad. 'Tis yer wardrobe!" I whistled, and Tusker's mighty form appeared in the doorway, brandishing a measuring tape. I placed me manicured hands 'pon Starfinger's throat. For the first time in me imposing presence, Starfinger's imperious face registered true fear. "Tusker!" I growled. "Start with his inseam."

I'll spare ye the grisly details of what occurred in the brig that grim night. I'd sooner talk o' why ol' Brigadier Blockade and his stylish band chose Starfinger for a makeover. 'Tis but a simple matter! His powers and the basic idea o' his costume intrigue me fevered brain with their potential. But to this weary seadog, in execution Starfinger is a "hot mess" (as we space pirates say). The pointy cape, the pointy loincloth, the yellow-and-red star theme that uncannily mimics the flag o' the People's Republic o' Mexico (er, has that happened yet, back in yer backwards era? No, ye say? Er, oops.) -- the whole lot o' it we pitched off the starboard bow. A new costume was in the cards for Starfinger!

Seein' as how Starfinger is a crimelord and all, I decided to attire him along the lines o' an ancient Oriental Earth Potentate. This called fer voluminous trousers, pointed slippers, and a heavy robe -- open at the front, as that's me signature style! But 'twas to be no turban, mind ye. That would've made the whole thing "camp." And this spacefarin', purple-bearded, half-mechanical pirate fashion designer will darn socks in hell afore he goes camp! A turban--! Bah! The very idea of it--! Starfinger's energy bubble helmet dealie be his turban, do ye not see, ye blasted idjit?! To give Starfinger's head a more interestin' silhouette, I forced 'im to grow out his hair and beard, and to gel it up into pointed, star-like shapes. Fer jewelry, I gave 'im a king-sized waterfall necklace just drippin' with bling, and a forehead piercin' with a mammoth star. After untold months (durin' which the crew o' the Exquisite and meself had countless adventures and isolated incidents o' daring-do) the project was at last complete! I led Starfinger in front o' me finest full-length mirror, slapped 'im on the back, and said, "Now then, boyo, ain't that better than the way ye used to look?"

Still confounded by the fact I'd not killed 'im yet, Starfinger shrugged and replied, "'Tis okay, one supposes."

"Alrighty then!" I cried. And while I roared with a pirate's savage laughter, Tusker and Weight Wizard whisked Starfinger away, into an escape pod programmed to rocket him right back to where we'd found 'im.

Ah, 'tis a fine thing to be a pirate! YAARRRGH!

Rescue Me Bonus: Son of the Annihilator

I'd like to start out with a belated tip of the cap to Sleestak for suggesting yesterday's post! Thanks, pal! Now, let's get down to business.

The main story in "Action Comics" #356 (November 1967) starts out on a bizarre note, as the Annihilator, a doughy Eurotrash doofus in an absurd costume, orders Superman to leave the Earth within forty-eight hours... and Superman agrees! Because the Annihilator is a dangerous individual. And he's obviously, unpredictably bat-shit crazy... a man who would willingly dress like that is capable of anything!

But the proceedings take an even freakier turn when the Annihilator decides to do what any publicly-loathed celebrity does to improve his image: adopt a kid who can show up in a few newspaper photos before he's handed over to the nanny for the rest of his natural life! His new son? A smart-mouthed teenage delinquent. Because, really, isn't that the obvious choice? Let's take a look at the irrepressible little scamp, starting with the cover.

What's wrong with this picture? (And no, the Annihilator's "Nostril Libre" mask doesn't count.) Here's a hint: it was published in 19-freaking-67. And yet the Son of the Annihilator is dressed like Marlon Brando in "The Wild One" (a film from 1953!). It's yet more proof of how DC was getting thoroughly drubbed in the Coolness Wars by Marvel Comics. Sure, Stan Lee was a middle-aged crypto-fascist conservative, but at least he could pretend to get his grooviness on! DC wore their John Birchian squareness right on their covers where every hippie could see it. But wait! It gets worse! Thanks to the cover artist (I'm guessing Neal Adams?) the Son of the Annihilator appears to be a darkly handsome "bad boy" whom any teenage girl (and more than a few teenage boys) would swoon for. So far, not bad. But let's see how interior artist (Wayne Boring, I think) depicts him!

Yipes. Kinda homely. (And he stole all his insults from old "Dead End Kids" films.) Well, maybe he looks better when he smiles.

Gah! He's hideous! Who's his biological father? The Prankster? Criminy! I can forgive a lot in a guy (evidenced by my continuing relationship with Weight Wizard) but a deficient personality and an ugly mug? Good night male nurse!

All that aside, I must say that "Action Comics" #356 had an intriguing undercurrent. Leather-loving outsider "caught... with the meat in his mouth" approached by a brawny, elaborately-moustachioed older gentleman who wants to be called "Dad"? (Haw! Your father's mustache, Pocketbook Pete!) I dunno. It just really resonates with me for some unknown reason.

Anyway, like a lot of father-son relationships, Annihilator and Son hit a rocky patch when hijo ingests some contraband substances.

"All right, son! I'm glad to share my super-power with you." Which of course the Annihilator is going to say, since his own super-power has worn off, and the smirking little shit he calls "son" would punch his goofy noggin off his fat neck if he so much as looked at him funny. ("Daddy-o." Aw, for chrissakes, DC Comics of 1967--!) You know what I would have liked to have seen in "Infinite Crisis"? Son of the Annihilator and Superboy Prime going all "Rock'em Sock'em Robots" on each other. Just get rid of both of those annoying dillweeds at the same time.

So. The Son of the Annihilator is a lot of things, but one thing he's not is cool. He needs one of my patented Blockade Boy makeovers, pronto!

Ah, that's better. The Son of the Annihilator... wait, he needs a name that's not so clunky... I believe I'll dub him "Kid Annihilator" or KA for short... anyway, Kid Annihilator has a shagadelic rawk 'n' roll haircut now, complete with muttonchops. He doesn't bother to cover up his facial hair with a mask like the Annihilator does because he doesn't care about protecting a secret identity. He has the Annihilator's logo on his chest, but it's bordered by three orange shapes that hark back to the radioactivity symbol. That relates to the glow of his powerful fists. His boots are fringed because it's current and groovy and youthful (for 1967) and also because I like the contrast between supercostumes and street clothing. (When it's not overpowering or overdone, I should add. Like trenchcoats... ugh!) In my sketches he had a fringed vest to match, but I decided it covered up too much of my design. And the color scheme is all secondary colors because it compliments the Annihilator's primary scheme and it's more far-out, maaaannnn! Now this guy would look at home battling the Teen Titans... who are as hip, sadly, as 1967 DC ever would get. In my head I can see a dynamic Nick Cardy cover with Kid Annihilator smashing his way through the Titans in front of the words "Make War, Not Love!"

What else do I see in my head? Oh, you don't wanna know. You couldn't handle it! What? You're sure? Okay, I'll share one more thing: I can see Weight Wizard's face after I disrobed in the Conjugal Visit Pod at the addiction treatment center. I take it he'd never seen a robotic dingus before. And he'd especially never seen one with my self-designed Robot Hand with Pimp-Slapping Action attachment! Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sharing too much. Suffice it to say Weight Wizard learned his lesson. For now! And inbetween visits, he can think of me while he tries to scub off the huge motor oil stain I left on his back. Er, I'm sharing too much again, aren't I? See you next Monday!

Me Am Here!

HI! HI! HI! Me am BLOCKADE TOT! Me am awesome super-baby living on moon! Me am three years old! Me not especially good with personal pronouns! Me am from many many years in PAST! Funny man in purple robe SNATCH me from day-care on moon-colony! Him plop me down here on planet Earth in front of future-self's computer to see what me do because he am avid reader of future-self's blog and him think it BORING right now! Me not know where future-self is but me think me am SWELL REPLACEMENT!

What can me tell you 'bout me? Me like: macaroni and space cheese, rainbows (though me never actually see one), horsies, rubbing mommy's feet. Me hate: moon rover sickness, Winath sprouts, daddy's "friend" Justine. Me have super-power! Me can turn into three-foot by three-foot steel wall! Mommy use me as PET GATE sometimes so old limping half-blind space-terrier Spaat not get into trouble! Me have to stand at top of stairs for HOURS! Sometimes mommy and mommy's friends am in next room playing Cosmic Mah-Jong and drinking Orando Slings until they DRUNK and mommy FORGET about Blockade Tot! Then it morning again and she want feet rubbed and she holler "WHERE AM that damn kid?" And me say "Here mommy! Here!" Then she say "Oops!" and she apologize but me not sure she really mean it! Me think she am kind of SCREWED UP! Me still love her though!

Other name is "Phyl Staad" but that am lame! So me INSIST mommy and daddy and day-care lady and other kids call me Blockade Tot! If mommy and daddy and day-care lady forget well there not much me can do 'bout it! (Mommy say Daddy forget WHOLE BUNCH OF THINGS sometimes! Like where him live and who him married to!) But if KIDS forget then me punch them on arm REAL REAL HARD or me push them down or me grab kids' feet and drag them 'cross gravelly part of playground! Them all learn by now! All except best friend Weight Novice!

Weight Novice am shrimpy kid! Other kids all pick on Weight Novice except him am always hanging around me! That am because me am MUCH BIGGER than other kids! Because me am only kid on whole moon-colony from planet Amadus! That am also why me only kid in day-care with hairy legs!

Weight Novice like to TEASE ME and TEASE ME! Him call me "Phyl" and "Phylbert" and "Phyl-ly Cheese Steak" and "Cum On Phyl the Noize" (which am Amadus planetary anthem) and him NEVER call me "Blockade Tot" and me get SUPER-ANGRY! So me shove him on ground and me just lay on top of him for real long time yelling "Say name! Say name!" until him CRYING! And then me roll off him. And me and him get giggle fit! Ha, ha!

One time Weight Novice make himself super-weightless and him start to float away but me grab Weight Novice's foot with big hairy hand and then me just carry him 'round all day like him am HELIUM BALLOON! That pretty funny too! Weight Novice no longer wear red or yellow or blue no more because me sat him down and TOLD him he not look good in primary colors! So now him only wear purple and orange! Just like me! Me also responsible for Weight Novice getting more flattering haircut! Mommy and Daddy think me spend WAY TOO MUCH TIME over at Weight Novice's house! ME think Mommy and Daddy spend way too much time over by liquor cabinet! Ha, ha!

Funny man in purple robe say this am enough already! Him say me am kind of DOWNER so him am sending me back in time again and also to moon-colony! Me want to STAY and read some of future-self's blog! Like ALREADY me see that someday me have a ROBOTIC DINGUS which me am pretty sure am kind of wild doggie from Australia! So THAT am cool! When me all growed up, me ride robotic dingus every day! Oops! Funny man in purple robe am just shaking head! Him say "Time's up!" This am it! BYE-BYE EVERYBODY! BYE-BYE!

Bonus Post: My New Swim Trunks are No Merry Marvel

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

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

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

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

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

You heard me.

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

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

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

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

Next Tuesday: Gender Reassignment Challenge: Mantis!