COOL SHIT 1-20-11

G.I. JOE/COBRA #12: How is it possible that this book can get any better? The argument between Tomax and Xamot finally comes to a head, and Xamot’s madness turns out to be surprisingly clever. Meanwhile, Chuckles is still up to his neck in shit as Cobra trains him to become the perfect double agent. I think the next issue is going to be the last, because a major fuckin’ character dies in this one. Next month, Chuckles and Xamot are supposed to fight to the death. I’m excited, folks. This new era of G.I. JOE books gives me a raging hard-on. Get with the program and start reading this one!

LOCKE AND KEY: KEYS TO THE KINGDOM #4: You’re still not reading this book? What the fuck? Writer Joe Hill says that he’s at the halfway mark in this story, so you don’t have a lot of time left. And this is a really good jumping on point. We get a shitload of answers in this issue. What is “Zack Wells” really up to? Got an answer. How can he/she be stopped? Got an answer. Why have a character like Rufus hanging around in the distant background? Got an answer, and it’s a doozy. If G.I. JOE/COBRA gives me a raging hard-on, this book gives me wet dreams. There are only 15 issues remaining. Again, GET WITH THE PROGRAM!

THE BOYS #50: Like I’m not going to talk about the fiftieth issue of THE BOYS. Please. It seems like it was only yesterday that this book was canceled by Wildstorm. I remember being pissed off at the time, but now that Wildstorm has been shut down, I’m grateful. In this issue, we find out that Butcher was inadvertently responsible for Mallory’s granddaughters being murdered by the supes, and as you can guess, it’s turned into a matter of contention between the two. We also find out how the Boys and the supes come to an uneasy stand-still, and also how the Boys lost their funding in the first place. More importantly, we finally find out why Maeve drinks so much, and considering the answer, no one could ever blame her. Oh, and we finally find out what happened to Lamplighter. All I can say is, I approve. Considering the animosity between Butcher and Mallory, I’m starting to wonder if the former murdered the latter for his own political reasons. The rest of the Boys are unaware, I’m sure, but I think that’s the direction Ennis is going in. Do I even have to ask you to get with the program? This book gives me wet dreams with multiple orgasms.


I wish the publishers of these books would read Cool Shit. I would give anything to have my rave review, “This book gives me wet dreams with multiple orgasms,” on the cover of the next issue . . . .

SHIT SHIT 1-13-11

Sorry folks, but nothing interesting came out this week. In fact, it was such a small week, I’m surprised. I can actually afford tonight’s outing at Shark City. Weird.



However, since it’s the new year, I thought I would take this opportunity to mention a few things that are bothering me about the world of comics these days. Grab a helmet and buckle in. I’m kind of angry.


DC, you are my first target. Don’t worry, it’s not about the content of your books. It’s always been bad with very few exceptions. (All right, I’m still pissed off that HITMAN got canceled. It was the best book you put out since the original JONAH HEX. Fuckers.) No, my gripe is with the presentation of your new books. It’s a nice design, and it jumps off the racks, so I guess it does its job. Maybe it’s a bit plain, but that’s just my opinion. The problem, though, is the lack of identification of those who worked on the title. Where are the writer and artist’s names? I will always buy JONAH HEX, even if you send him to the future again. However, the only time I’ll read, say, BATMAN or SUPERMAN is if they are written by people I admire. I followed BATMAN when Ed Brubaker helmed the title. I read Brian Azzarello’s SUPERMAN. I would never have read GREEN ARROW if not for Kevin Smith. When their runs ended, I stopped reading. So if Garth Ennis starts writing TEEN TITANS (for whatever ungodly reason), it will benefit your company to put his name on the cover. I, for one, will buy it.


Next up: alternate takes on the G.I. JOE and/or TRANSFORMERS universe. The main story lines for these books are good enough for me. The occasional mini-series is awesome. But I don’t give a fuck about what’s going on in a parallel universe to these characters. 100% of the time, it’s lame. It’s worse than lame. I hear you say, “If you don’t like them so much, don’t read them.” Fair enough. However, there is always the danger of the alternate world crossing over with the main storyline, and nothing would piss me off more. The TRANSFORMERS ANIMATED books are horrible, by the way. I tried them, and they made me want to jab a heated sewing needle into my asshole. And while we’re at it, can we kill the TRANSFORMERS MOVIE line of books? And if G.I. JOE NOIR comes back for more issues, I will take hostages.

To a lesser extent, I hope the resurrection of the original G.I. JOE Marvel series doesn’t last long. The idea is cool. Get Larry Hama to continue the series that captivated me when I was a kid. But the new Joe books kick the shit out of this relic from the past. In fact, the book kind of comes off as naïve. Let the old continuity die. It soldiered its way through many years in the ‘Eighties and ‘Nineties; it has earned its rest.

One more thing: Nice Stargate, TRANSFORMERS PRIME. Who are you going to rip off next?


Here’s some praise: thank you, Vertigo, for seeing the wisdom in dumping JACK OF FABLES. It was an awesome book for a long time, but the last year or so has sucked a donkey dick. This is a smart move. That is all.

THE SUM OF OUR PARTS

The singing woke him up an hour before his alarm clock usually went off. At first, he thought it was someone outside his bedroom window, so he tried to ignore it and go back to sleep. Then, he realized that the melody came from his head. It reminded him of when he was younger. The fillings in his teeth used to pick up radio transmissions. His pearly whites vibrated in his mouth, so he figured that had to be it.




Wrong. The sensation didn’t go away, and neither did the singing. He could even tell what song it was: “Eleanor Rigby,” a cappella. It didn’t sound like any version the Beatles ever did, though; it might have been a cover by a high school choir.



He put his fingers in his mouth to stop the pulsation, but when he touched his teeth, something seemed out of place. Different.



He rushed to the bathroom and looked at his open mouth in the mirror. Thirty-two pairs of eyes stared back at him, thirty-two dimples opened, and thirty-two voices sang out in perfect harmony.



He ran his fingers over the faces, and they each cried out at his touch. Then, they went back to singing.



His tongue blinked. “Watch your fingers, bub! That’s my dick you just touched!”



When he pulled his hand back, he noticed each fingertip had sprouted tiny faces, just like his teeth. They grinned and said hello.



How could he go to work like this? He answered phones for a living. Without control of his mouth, he’d be fired, and filling out job applications would be impossible with faces on his fingers.



“And you gotta’ quit jerking off,” his left palm said. “I’m tired’a the taste.”



At least his arms seemed normal . . . .



“Hey!” his belly button shouted. “Get this thing off’a me! I can’t see!”



He shrugged out of his undershirt, careful not to hurt his hands. His belly button was wider now, and his nipples were little brown eyes.



“Much better,” his torso said. “Hey, I think my brother has something to say. Careful! He’s got bad breath.”



“Let me out,” his ass said. “It’s dark in here.”



He whipped his boxers off and turned so he could see his ass in the mirror. There were no eyes, and thankfully no nose, but his butthole now had lips.



“Fresh air,” he whispered. “That’s what I need.”



As he scampered for the door, his penis groaned. “Ugh. I shouldn’t have had that last rum and Coke last night. I’m gonna’ . . . .” It opened its mouth and spewed up all over his legs.



He flung the door aside, and his right hand yelled when he touched the knob. His feet were yelping with each step. “Ow!” they said. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”



And then he, himself, cried out when he saw what awaited in his front yard. Faces looked out of the flowers, and the grass swayed back and forth in song. Even the leaves on the trees stared out at him.



It didn’t hurt when his teeth fell out and clattered to the walkway. They chittered with glee as they crawled away. His tongue slithered after them, leaving a trail of saliva behind it. Next came the tips of his fingers, leaving the other two knuckles of each to wave like a gorgon’s snakes around the palm-faces.



And then, he couldn’t think anymore. Pieces of him came away and started blazing their own trails through the world. Even his eyes crept out of their sockets as the worms of his hair dragged his head from his torso.



Last to separate were his dick and ass. “I’ll miss you, buddy,” the former said. “We had so many good times.”



“Yeah,” his ass said. “Hey, don’t be no stranger.”



“Hell, it’s a small world. And it’s just going to get smaller.”



The falling leaves and the slithering grass agreed.

FLEISCHMANN'S: AN AMERICAN TRADITION (a whiskey review)

That’s what it says on the bottle: “an American tradition.” It also says that they’ve been making Fleischmann’s since 1870, which makes it almost as old as the Civil War. Finally, it says that it’s a preferred blended whiskey. “Premium taste throughout the years.”

The first part sounds like the typical hubris that comes with just about every American whiskey on the market, regardless of quality. The second part is undoubtedly true. The last part? Well, that’s the most outlandish claim of them all. It’s not smooth, the smell is atrocious, and the taste makes one wonder where the “premium” is hiding.

But this alcoholic beverage has one thing to recommend it: IT’S CHEAP. One can acquire a handle for $15, generally speaking. There are some places that sell it even cheaper (the bottle in the picture above was purchased for $13). Not only that, but despite its customary 80 proof, it will fuck you up. This whiskey will lead to hook-ups you’ll later regret. It will turn you into the life of the party (at least until you cross the black-out line). People will flock to you, eager to be your friend because you will be the funniest person in the room. It will lead to grand stories that you will tell for the rest of your life.


Don’t let the lack of quality get in your way. Fleischmann’s makes up for this by being your ticket to glory. Hm. Maybe that part about American tradition wasn’t hubris after all . . . .