...And Cinemax is Born!

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

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.

Like "Frogger", But HOT!

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!

Love in the Time of Ball Cancer

So it turns out, "Glub's" name is really "Klup." Also, I now suspect Flev may be suffering from severe nasal congestion. (Think about it.)

I had just enough time after my shift to change clothes, splash on some Hi-Tri-Jitsu cologne, and dash to the theater so I could meet Klup. He was a vision in this figure-hugging spandex number that hinted at every single piercing below his neckline. Plus, there was a peek-a-boo cut-out at his waist to show off just a hint of pubes. I growled appreciatively, and proceeded to eye-rape the bejeezus out of him. It was a good start to the evening.

The management had installed metal detectors, due to the Solstice Season unrest. Klup and his bazillion piercings almost didn't make it inside the building. But a stern look from me (and an individually wrapped slice of space-cheddah) smoothed things over with the security guard. "Sweet Chariot" itself was very enjoyable -- one of the better productions I've seen of this show. I particularly applaud the casting of Android Gerard Butler as Judah Ben-Hur. What a looker! (Fear not, music fans; they'd implanted him with Android Thomas Hampson's baritone voice box.) Klup had never seen the show before, but I could tell he was utterly enchanted by the spectacular musical numbers, like "If My Slaves Could See Me Now" and "It's a Leprous Face."

The famous chariot race was just beginning (finally, a good reason for theater-in-the-round) when one of Lallor's famed Spontaneous Riots spilled into the theater, through the atomic blast exits. So basically, all hell broke loose and the show came to an immediate halt. It was chaos. Nearly everybody -- rioters, security guards, androids, and theater patrons -- broke into a Western-style donnybrook. The security guards didn't even use their phaser pistols! What the hell? Nope, they were just hitting and kicking folks like everybody else. I was holding my own in that brawl, but I quickly noticed that Klup was getting piled on. He wasn't even hitting anybody! He was just defending himself with his arms. And crying. So I had to wade in there and scoop his ass up. With Klup cradled in my arms like a freaking baby, I punched my way out of that scrap. Once I made it to the sidewalk, I sprinted several blocks, and got us just out of range of the shock wave from when the theater blew up.

Klup told me he was worried about making it home, what with all the Solstice crazies on the streets. So I did the gallant thing and accompanied him back to his studio. On the way, I entertained him with a recounting of the remainder of "Sweet Chariot". I even gave him my rendition of the hit song, "I Love To Cry At Crucifixions."

I gotta say, Klup lives in a pretty bad neighborhood, what with all the graffiti, and the burned-out husks of rocket-cars, and the gangs of feral toddlers, and the sky mutants abducting people up into their glowing clouds. No wonder he had six different force-fields on his door! "I know, I know," he said, as he disabled each one. "But the rent's a dream! And it's just so much more 'real', don't you agree?"

Klup showed me around his workshop, and I swear, I still couldn't make heads or tails of anything. All I could see were big, curving plates of metal stacked up everywhere; the odd spool of industrial-strength inertron cable; and some odd metal spheroids, bigger than my head (which is already kind of hefty). Everything was covered in soot. By way of accomodations, Klup had a compact refrigerator, a king-sized velour mattress (no bedframe), some throw pillows, and a ginormous armoire. Klup cracked open a bottle of space-wine, and we talked about the vagaries of Art. I wanted to bring up my life as a costume designer, but since my real identity is doubly-concealed right now, I had to play dumb. (Damn it.)

Then Klup asked me if I could do a favor for him. He was worried about getting testicular cancer after getting caught in a recent fallout storm without his lead codpiece, and he wanted me to check him for lumps. Then he emitted a startled little squeal, because he realized that one of my fur-bearing mitts had already slipped into his peek-a-boo cut-out and was groping his balls. "Way ahead of you, kid," I purred to him. Then I told him how he could do a favor for me.

The sex wasn't as professional or as thorough as I'm used to, and sure, the neighbor's pit-maw was howling at us the entire time (how it even got into Klup's apartment in the first place, I'll never know)... but it was genuine, and I hadn't felt anything as sweetly sincere as that since Weight Wizard passed away.

Afterwards, Klup seemed energized. He said that I "inspired" him, and that he wanted me to pose for a new installation he was working on for the First Planetary Bank of Lallor! The artwork is supposed to be in honor of some long-dead Lallorian hero -- so long-dead that nobody even knows what he looks like, anymore. So in this case, Klup wants to use my handsome face! Sweet! Klup had me wear a replica Sugyn helmet he'd picked up at a pod bay sale, and then he started sketching me. I struck a ton of sexful poses. I vaguely recall Klup telling me that I didn't have to bother because he was only drawing my head and that I sure as hell didn't have to be nude, but I was workin' that helmet (and everything else) so fiercely, I barely noticed he was even there.

Much too soon, I had to return to the mall for my next shift. With one last passionate kiss, I left sweet Klup for the harsh Lallorian streets.

Klup's a nice guy. I wouldn't mind seeing him again. If only he wasn't such a little pussy, though--! Ah, well. We're just having fun. It's not like I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him. And besides, he's going to put a huge image of my likeness in the lobby of a bank! That'll rock! ...Hang on. I'm getting a visi-phone call. From Klup!

...Klup says the new project is going really well, and he should have it completed sometime this week! He says he's "really captured my essence!" (Yes, repeatedly. Haw!) But seriously! This is awesome! I'll be sure to take a picture of it for you all. *happily whistles "Rich Man's Shurg" from "Sweet Chariot"*

D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land: The Mole, Part Three

At last, Maxwell House brings you a coffee so rich, so flavorful, that it's evolved into a sentient organism with the capacity for speech. Disclaimer: brace yourself for its shrill, screaming "WHYYYYYYYY?!!!" as you pee it back out. (It's a bit of a diva.)

So, who is this lovely woman, and why does the Mole have it in for her? Let's ask the Mole Man himself!

What th'--?! He's takin' a dump! Aw, HELL no. Damn it, Mole--! You can't just treat the sewer like your own personal... toilet... okay, I guess you can. But couldn't you rig up some kind of partition out of a cardboard box, or... hey! What about a nice Japanese screen? Certainly, somebody must have thrown an exquisitely-painted Japanese screen down there. Or maybe you could just cover yourself with a blanket.

Wait a minute...! Chemical plant in Gotham... grotesque villain... hackneyed writing...! I think I can see where this is headed. Although why Gene Colan decided to dedicate the foreground of that second panel to two rats about to "get it on" is still a mystery.

But yeah, the Mole started out as a guy who habitually tunneled into banks and out of jails, until he wound up in the wrong sewer pipe at the wrong time.

"Somehow" it changed him -- near-instantaneously, mind you -- into a monster that resembled the animal he was already nicknamed after. This is a convenience for the Mole's friends, who won't have to update their greeting card lists.

The Mole resolves to tunnel into Wayne Manor from below. But wait! That's where-- oh, I smell a wacky complication!

This is when Batman still had his headquarters under that skyscraper with the big tree inside, and hadn't moved all his tacky, Vegas-y crap back into the gaping hole beneath his mansion. But the Old School Batcave still had a smooth, level floor, and scads of pendant lights, and even some big, expensive looking (for 1981) computer equipment. And yet, the Mole seems terribly blasé about the whole thing. Y'see, he's been around. After a guy's tunneled into Hef's Grotto on Funnel Cake Night (don't ask) it takes more than a mysterious cavern to grab his attention.

That night, the Mole sneaks back in, and cuts the electricity.

Are you troubled by Restless Bosom Syndrome? Poor gal... her left breast is afraid of the dark, but she's the one who has to get out of bed and do something about it. Oh, and Sandra? Haley Mills called. She wants her hair back.

By the way, I sleep in a similar fashion (albeit on a huge slab of granite): nude, except for a lightning beast hide arranged over my lower body so that it almost completely conceals my junk, and moaning suggestively. I figure, if some loser (okay, Storm Boy) is peeping at me, I might as well give him a little thrill. Because I firmly believe that charity begins at my junk.

How does the Mole's scheme turn out? Not so great...

And then Batman floods the Batcave -- because he can do that, apparently -- and the Mole is literally flushed out of the story. Congratulations, Batman! You stopped the Mole after he only killed two people! That's actually a fantastic improvement over your dealings with the Joker! ...Except you never took the Mole into custody and you have no idea if he's still out there. Which doesn't stop you from kicking Sandra's ass out of your mansion. Huh. Never mind, then.

Still to come: a werewolf; a tree monster; a paper monster -- which, I'm sad to report, is not a processed version of the tree monster; and The Perfect Fighting Machine (in a pink muscle shirt, yet)!

MTV Cribs: The Mighty Samson

Some happy day I'll create a holovision channel devoted exclusively to the faux-fur-wearing barbarian and the faux-fur-wearing barbarian lifestyle. And my first subject will be "the Mighty Samson."

Oh yeah. That's a totally fake pelt he's sporting. He tells everybody he skinned it off a "liobear" but I know for a scientific fact those things ain't magenta and their fur is impervious to dye. My guess: "the Mighty Samson" salvaged his "skins" from the floors, walls and ceiling of an old van. (It wasn't a-rockin', so "the Mighty Samson" came a-knockin'.)

Show us around your pad, "the Mighty Samson!"

And it doubles as a toilet!

Say--! What's that on the wall? How quaint, a flat-screen plasma TV! What're you watchin'? The History Channel or some-- oh.

Dang, we are a "modern stone-age fam-i-ly", aren't we? Boring! Please, tell me you at least hiding a jewelry safe or a peephole into your bath area or a cage containing the trussed and gagged body of the real "the Mighty Samson" behind that thing.

Hang on, the Mad Thinker's even lamer cousin wants to show off. Preach it, Poindexter!

Christ. He says the word "cannons" and his eyes automatically land on her chest. Which wouldn't be half as creepy if he wasn't her father.

And honey? Could you stop thrusting? Seriously. Just turn that shit off for half-a-minute. And the next time you buy a sweater, consider going a size up. Also, we need to sit down sometime and have a nice long talk about the way you've been eating popsicles and corndogs.

Well, at least the positively asexual "the Mighty Samson" isn't suckered in by such obvious ploys! Isn't that right, "the Mighty Samson?"

"...Because I just happen to own a 'French maid' costume..." *thrust, jiggle*

TURN IT OFF, I said!

(See? Auto seats! I told you he raided a van!)

Name That Tune

• "Every Breath You Take" (the Police)
• "One Way or Another" (Blondie)
• "Hungry Like the Wolf" (Duran Duran)
• "Obsession" (Animotion)
• "You Belong to Me" (Carly Simon)
• "Close to You" (the Carpenters)
• "Private Eyes" (Hall & Oates)
• "I Touch Myself" (the Divinyls)
• "I Wanna F*** You (Snoop Dog)

It's Fun to Stay at the J-A-I-L

As a former inmate there myself (from my travels in the DC Universe's Ye Olde Weste) I'm proud to give you a tour of the Red Gulch City Gaol (or "Jail" as you 21st Century people spell it nowadays back then). Here is their one jail cell... and that's about it. The sheriff and his deputy don't even have desks. All they get is a single chair and they have to play rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets to sit down. The cell, however, has all the amenities a fashion-conscious felon would ever want. There are pegs on the wall so you can hang up your chapeau, stubble razors (remember them?) only since it's Ye Olde Weste they're powered by steam, a goodly selection of hair pomades and alcohol rubs and boot polishes, a little iron so you can press your kerchief, and a complete manicure/pedicure set. I loved that little cell! Too much, actually! It got to where I couldn't pass by the Red Gulch Citibank without at least trying to rob it, just so I could get sent to the "pokey"!

And what's this dumb shmoe in for, you ask?

Voyeurism.

Double D for "Danger!"

Since Marvel's "Agents of Atlas' miniseries just wrapped up, I thought it was a good time to interview a personality who knew many of the protagonists intimately: the breasts of Suyan, granddaughter of the man known by certain white racists as "The Yellow Claw." Suyan's breasts were limited mainly to non-speaking parts, but Roy Thomas gave them their own thought balloon in "What If?" #9 (June 1978). Suyan's breasts retired from the world of shadowy intrigue in 1985, whereupon they immediately moved south. They now reside in The Shadow's Nose Memorial Home for Detective Story Body Parts in Boca Raton, Florida. I spoke with Suyan's breasts over tea on her graciously appointed lanai.

Blockade Boy: Thank you again for agreeing to this interview, Suyan's breasts. And might I say, you both look gorgeous. You've obviously been taking good care of yourselves.

Suyan's breasts: Oh! Well, thank you, young man! And we're sure that you're only saying that to be polite. As a gay man, you probably never looked at a pair of breasts in your life.

BB: It helps if they're not attached to anything. Now, I'm sure my readers are eager to know... how did you get along with your "co-star" Suyan?

SB: Suyan was a great gal. We've know so many breasts in my life whose companions smothered them under layers of polyester or cashmere. Suyan almost always wore silk, which was very comfortable for us, and she often wore dresses with a "keyhole" cut-out that allowed us to see what was going on.

BB: What led the three of you to part ways?

SB: It was just time, y'know? We'd kept her company since she was twelve years old. And once she hit her fifties, it just became impractical for her to be lugging us around all the time. We think she felt that we were getting in her way. She was always fiddling with us, moving us around like we were bothering her. If you ask us, the problem was that she was starting to put on some weight. Those silk dresses began to get awfully constricting. we could tell it was time for us to part when she put on her first muumuu. Don't get us wrong -- it was nice to be able to breathe again, but we'd always sworn we wouldn't be caught dead in one of those things. Plus? We couldn't see a damn thing! We sat her down for a heart-to-heart talk and we agreed that it would be best if we went our own ways.

BB: What's your life like now?

SB: It's not as exciting as when we were dodging ray gun fire or bobbing atop exotic seas, but we try to stay active. We volunteer at the local suicide hotline, we sign autographs at comic book conventions, and... what else? Oh! Every Thursday we play Mahjong with Nancy Drew's hair, Sue Dibny's brain, and Pussy Galore's clitoris. Oh, hey! Here's a fun fact: according to Pussy Galore's clitoris, James Bond was actually a total gentleman. He never once laid a hand on it.

BB: Speaking of romance, would you care to comment on any of your old boyfriends?

SB: Goodness, you don't hold back, do you? I suppose enough time has passed it couldn't do any harm. The great loves of our lives were Jimmy Woo's hands. They were so sensitive and warm. If we were sad, those hands could make us sit up and say "Wow! It's a great day!"

BB: It's been rumored you had a fling with Marvel Boy's left hand. Is that true?

SB: Not exactly. I was just his thumb and his index finger.

BB: Any others you'd like to mention?

SB: Gosh... I suppose Gorilla-Man's muttonchops... and his tongue. President Eisenhower's forehead. Oh, and we had a platonic thing going on with the Great Video's eyeballs. Boy, I haven't thought about those times in forever! Golly. I-- I don't think I can continue right now. I'm feeling very emotional.

BB: So I see! In that case, I'll let you off the hook, Suyan's breasts. I've had a great time talking with you. On behalf of my readers, thank you very much.

SB: Thank you.

When Knighthood Was in Teeny Satin Jogging Shorts

"Doctor Strange" #69 (February 1985) begins with Dane Cook -- sorry, that's actually Dane Whitman -- exercising on the deck of a luxury liner. There he is, trotting proudly along like a prize stallion in his immodest jogging togs, shaking his hot cross buns and showing everyone his Whitman sampler. And of course, Doctor Strange is right behind him, invisibly ogling his ass. (Not that I blame him. Dude is hot.)

"Don't hope too hard! I'd have sworn he was talking to himself! About his 'cabaret act' at the 'Barracuda' in Chelsea!"

You gotta love how the shorts are threatening to split wide open and show his ass to the world, and yet his socks practically go up to his thighs. (Dane has calf issues.) Hell, why doesn't he just do his jogging dressed only in a thick wool muffler, one of those plaid hunting caps with the ear flaps on it, and a thong? Oh, right. Calf issues. Also, the wooden deck would tear up his bare feet something awful. Better add some cowboy boots to that ensemble.

Okay... I think you've cock-teased all the desperate young women on the entire boat, Dane. Enough already! Get your barely-covered ass back to your cabin and dress for dinner.

Oh, for--! You call that a Windsor knot?! And where's that nice tie-tack I bought you? Come here. Come here. And hand over the plastic helmet and the toy sword and my gardening gloves. You heard me! We are not going to dinner when you're dressed like that.

Honestly, I can't take you anywhere.

That One Time I Got Carjacked By Hulk Girl By Lenny Grist, Profeshunnal Henchman

So Im sitting here in my cell downing the last of my speshal eggnogg which I make myself out of rubbing alcahol and half-and-half and Im thinking "This is the worst Christmas yet I mean ever since Gladys up and left me for that crumb-bum lawyer of mine Larry Larkspur I been really down in the dumps and of course she dont send me no mackaroons no more which is insult on top of in jury." And then like a Christmas meericle who shood mateerialize in my cell but Blockade Boy hisself although I have to say he dont look too good on account of his hairs all white like he seen a ghost I guess it must a been quite a scare. But he says his readers been clammering for more of my stories and he gives me a pen and paper and so here goes.

This story is from the time I was on the lam after that time I was working as a teachers assistent for the Taskmaster and we were oporating out of a CIRCUS TENT if you can beleeve that shit and anyways the whole thing fell apart but I managed to aktuwally EXCAPE for once and Im just trying to lay low and mind my own bizness and keep my nose clean but I gotta keep moving of course and so finally I wind up in CALIFORNIA. And anyhows Im working in this burger joint and these two guys who are reguler custamers "Slim" and "Whiskers" they called themselves on account Slim is really skinny and Whiskers has whiskers we kind of strike up a friendship we seem to have a lot of the same interists like watching TV and drinking beer and ogling at ladies with big tits so its like we been best pals FOREVER oh and also they gave ME a nickname "Jeff" on account I kinda look like that actor guy Jeff Daniels appearantly. And its after my shift and they ask me if I want to have a little fun so of course I say "Yes" and I hop in theyre car and I guess they want to go to the dogtrack or something and I say I aint got no dough on account I work in a burger joint. And they look at eachother with this kind of knowing look and I probbly shood have gotten out of the car right then and there. But I dont and they stop at this gas station and we walk inside and Whiskers says "We can take care of your money troubels here" and I say "What are you high this aint no bank" and Whiskers says "The hell it aint!" and then he pulls out a gun. And I wish I cood say I was shocked but to be honest I been a crimminul for so long I just kinda shifted into ottopilot and I helped them rob the place. And as were making a break for it we pass this huge green lady in a ripped dress and I guess I shood of been more alarmed but hey it was CALIFORNIA.

And then Slim and Whiskers deside to totally FUCK ME UP THE ASS by taking off in the getaway car WITHOUT ME. So of course I have to take the next availabul veehicul which had the gas nozzul still stuck in it even but frankly I was in no mood to worry about particyoolers.

And Im thinking if I ever see those two slimeballs again Im going to clean theyre clocks BUT GOOD and so with revenge on my brain I of course am taken COMPLETELY BY SOOPRISE when the huge green lady leaps OVER THE CAR STOPS ME AND RIPS THE DOOR OPEN. And then I rembember where I seen her before which was on the news and they called her the Rampaging Hulk Girl I think and anyway I love me some hot curvasyhush ladies dont get me wrong but somehow when theyre seven foot tall and green and pissed off it stops being sexy and moves into the relm of TERRIFYING. And Im thinking shes just gonna pull my sorry ass outta the car and haul me off to the cops but NO.

She shoves me over into the passenjer seat and hops behind the wheel HERSELF and she takes off after Whiskers and Slim just like I was gonna do and I mean she FLOORS it. And I know it werent too manly of me but Im screaming my head off like a goddamn SISSYMARY but she dont pay no mind to me at ALL.

So were running stoplights and knocking over falaful venders and those guys with the maps of the stars homes and a anti-nucular power protestor or two and theres drag queens getting throwed to theyre asses left and right and I can hear SIRENS but Hulk Girl dont give two shits she just keeps driving. And its no sooprise to me that she catches up to Slim and Whiskers and then guess what. NO GUESS.

SHE LEAPS OUTTA THE GODDAMN CAR! And she was driving! And I get like a A-1 perfect view of her ass and she aint wearing no panties niether but hey Im a profeshunnal I still manage to grab the wheel and I slow down and get behind Slims and Whiskers car because I know some REAL BAD SHIT is about to go down.

So Hulk Girl climbs on top of the other car and shes stradduling it like shes gonna RAPE the damn thing and then she rips out the hole engine block! And Im thinking its a good thing I aint near the car no more cause that cood do me some real damage thats for goddamn sure and so of course...

...she throws it BEHIND her and now a engine block is bounsing down the assphalt right TWOARD ME and I know you aint gonna buy this for a minute but I swear as God is my witness the sound it made was "SKANK."

No kidding engine block. No kidding.