Tuesday, January 29, 2013


Hollywood never gets war right. I should know. Back in WWII, I served on a destroyer in the Pacific. I know how it was in real life.

Eh, their hearts are in the right place, I guess. They want to depict the glory and honor with beautiful people who never get too dirty, or too bloody.

But it’s all bullshit. Let me tell you how it really was.

Think about this: a bunch of guys on a ship at sea. No women. And no one wants the others to think he’s queer or something, not in those John Wayne days. But they’ve got a lot of spunk built up. How are they going to get rid of it? And not cumming, by the way, is off the table.

That’s right. A lot of midnight palm parties. Except the bunks were so close that there was the very real possibility of accidentally blowing your load on another man. Me? I was real courteous, like. Always shot off under my blanket. Sure, it led to crusty sheets, but fuck it.

You always wanted the top bunk. That way, if anyone’s getting jizzed on, it’s the fellas under you. That wasn’t a sure thing, though. Some guys were all distance. Vic the Vag could fire a cum bullet and nail a yawner right in the mouth at twenty feet.

I can’t count the times I caught another guy’s cock grease by way of happenstance, but I never got used to that.

You think Henry Fonda ever got squirted by dick jelly?

But never mind that. That’s not what I wanted to tell you about. The thing I really wanted to say was how I survived September 12, 1943. None of us expected to be attacked that day, let me tell you. Intel from the front told us the Japs weren’t anywhere near us. Most of us were watching a stag flick at the time. The fellas who had already seen it were drinking, smoking, or playing cards, maybe even all three.

Me? I was supposed to keep an eye out for the enemy, but I wasn’t too concerned due to the intel. In fact, I had to take a shit something fierce. Nobody’d spot me, so I just left my post.

Can you imagine Randolph Scott needing to shit so bad he had to abandon his duties?

In the latrine, there were no stalls, just a line of toilets where everyone can see everyone else’s business . . . if you cared to look, ya’ nancy. Flushers didn’t work too well, either, so the place never smelled fresh. At the front were sinks and at the back, shower nozzles.

This day I’m talking about, I went into the head and saw two other guys. Lt. Tim Jordan stood in the back, soaping up his scummy body. Somehow he always smelled like bacon and unwiped butt hole. He was handsome enough, I guess, but he had some kind of dick rot going on. I didn’t know who he’d gotten it from, but I prayed never to meet her.

The other guy was Pvt. Philip “Fill ‘Er Up” Peters. He sat on one of the toilets, face red, veins sticking out of his forehead. A low whine came from the back of his throat.

I ignored them both and tried to find a useable toilet. Three were clogged up, one of them containing a turd the size of a Yule log. Two others had been pissed on. I had no choice but to take the one next to Peters.

Before I sat down, I perused the reading material. A dog-eared copy of Ooh-La-La!, a pristine Saturday Evening Post, and a week-old newspaper. I took the Ooh-La-La! and dropped my pants, preparing for what would undoubtedly be a room-crushing dump.

The turd was halfway out my ass when it happened. Something thudded loudly against the destroyer, and we could feel the heavy vibrations through the floor and the toilet seats.

“What the fuck was that?” Jordan asked. He blindly reached for a towel to wipe soap out of his eyes.

I didn’t feel too good about this, so I tried to push the rest of my brown tail out. Before I could begin to strain, the sound came again, and this time the ship shuddered so hard it threw me and Peters off our porcelain thrones. I skidded against the linoleum so hard it burned my skin. When I stopped, I could feel something soft but firm resting on the backs of my legs.

My turd.

Do you think this kind of thing would have ever happened to Bob Mitchum?

“Jesus, Philly! Wipe your ass!”

I looked up to see Jordan had braced himself against the wall. Peters, on the other hand, crouched on all fours, his diarrhea-spattered ass in the air.

The destroyer shook again, and it startled me so much I pushed the rest of my shit out. It rolled toward a wall and squatted there like a disapproving neighbor.

“We gotta’ get outta’ here,” Jordan said. He toweled himself off and went in search of his clothes.

I tried to stand so I could clean myself up, but it happened again. This time, the ship shook so hard the floor tilted. All three of us slipped across the room and hit the wall in a pile.

“Fuck!” Jordan pushed at me. “Get up!”

Him being a superior officer and all, I tried. The destroyer rocked again, and we all slid across the latrine until we hit the opposite wall. This time, I could see Peters and his bare, beshitted ass coming at me. I tried to move out of the way, but there was no time. He slammed up against me, and a jet of diarrhea shot out and nailed me in the face. It got in my nose, my mouth, up under my eyelids. Fetid, rotten shit juice overpowered my senses, and I puked all over Peters.

“Holy Jesus!” Jordan cried. “What the fuck?!”

I could still taste and smell shit, so I retched again, only this time I did it while sliding across the floor a third time as the destroyer rocked again. I left a trail of vomit as I went.

Peters hit a toilet on the way by, but instead of giving him something to hold onto, it broke like the cheap shit it was. He skittered on the floor, clutching the toilet and a bowl full of clogged shit, which spilled out over the edges as it moved. When he hit the wall, the shitter broke open and spat more crap at us.

I dry retched, but Jordan puked out a very colorful lunch all over my head. Blinded by other peoples’ bodily fluids, I tried puking again. Nothing.

The floor tilted so far this time we didn’t slide, we fell. It was like dropping two stories. Something in my knees broke. Later, I was told my knee caps had shattered. At the time, the puke, shit, and now, blood, had all my attention.

At this angle, all the toilets gave up their contents, covering us in lumps of shit and soiled toilet paper. It slicked over us like a second skin. Like layers of cancer.

I don’t imagine Jimmy Stewart ever put up with this.

We didn’t have time to gather our wits. Another explosion, this one bad enough to make all the toilets explode, showering us with brown prizes and shards of porcelain. I don’t know how many ounces of shit and piss I swallowed, but I’m sure my packed mouth resembled those clogged toilets from earlier.

Once again, we flew across the latrine and smacked up against the opposite wall. Peters caught enough shrapnel in his right eye that he later lost it. Also, at some point, all my front teeth got busted out. Maybe I didn’t notice because broken teeth look a lot like shattered toilet pebbles. I don’t know.

Jordan grabbed a showerhead and held on for dear life. I would have done the same thing, but blood and shit got into my eyes, and I spent three seconds of freedom trying to clear my sight.

Another explosion. My world started to tilt again, and I jumped up, reaching desperately for a showerhead. I grabbed something, but it wasn’t strong enough to hold me. I fell and hit the other wall. The world spun like I’d just downed a fifth of whiskey in one sitting. I backhanded filth from my eyes, and then I saw what I’d grabbed. I couldn’t figure out what the cylindrical object in my palm was at first because of all the sores and rashes.

Then, I suddenly knew.

It was Jordan’s disease-ridden cock.

Think that ever happened to Humphrey Bogart?

I had enough time to look up and see Jordan hanging above us, a rivulet of blood splattering down, feet dangling loosely, before the destroyer rocked again.

I hit the wall with my head this time, real direct, like, and mercifully, I passed out. Pants around my ankles, covered in human effluvia, mouth ruined and skull cracked, I lost consciousness.

When I woke up a week later, I was stateside in a hospital, on the mend. Good news: my busted knees would keep me from the Fight, at least for a while. Thanks to that eye, Peters would be keeping me company.

Jordan? They couldn’t put his dick back on, not that he should have wanted that rotten and used up thing. After a month, they sent him back to the Front. He killed a lot of Japs, so many that they eventually gave him a Section Eight. I hear he committed suicide in ’47.

Peters died in ’83. Heart attack. I’m the last of ‘em, and I’m here to tell you, you won’t get the truth about war from James Cagney and his fellow actors.

Nope. War is hell, sure, but more so, it’s a dirty business. Hollywood will never get it right. Take it from me. I was there.

Monday, January 28, 2013


Considering his lifestyle and the stories told about him, comedian Jim Jefferies should have been dead a long time ago. His stand-up is incredible, and his sensibilities are, while not exactly condoned by society, spot-on. What with all the booze and drugs he’s done, he should have certainly gone the route of Bill Hicks and died at an early age.

Nope. Now that he’s got a kid, he’s cleaned himself up, and now that he has a TV show on FX, it’s probably a good idea for him to keep his shit together. But just because he’s clean doesn’t mean LEGIT is a wishy-washy, pale imitation of his stand-up material. In fact, the premier episode kicks things off with one of his most questionable jokes.

If you haven’t heard his album, ALCOHOLOCAUST, you should do so before watching the show. At the conclusion of this one, he tells a story about taking his dying, wheelchair-bound friend to an Australian whorehouse so he doesn’t die a virgin. It’s a very detailed story, very offensive, and very, very funny. This is the subject of the first episode of LEGIT. The friend, Billy, played with mischievous glee by D.J. Qualls, is brought to Vegas instead (since the setting for the show is America), along with his brother Steve (played with a neurotic frenzy by Dan Bakkedahl), make for great awkward situations, especially since their parents are involved. Jim Jefferies, playing himself, staggers through the episode in a drunken stupor, and every single thing he says is either incredibly offensive, harshly abrasive, or just fucking dirty as all hell. One way or the other (or the other), it’s all funny as shit.

In the second episode, Jim decides to break Billy out of the hospital where he’s waiting to die. Inadvertently, they take along a guy with Down’s Syndrome, an uncanny ability to bowl a perfect game on Wii, and an unhealthy obsession with the Donald. The authorities think he’s kidnapped the poor guy, but when they send a nurse to pick up Rodney, she hangs out and gets drunk and/or high with them, instead. No subject is considered taboo on this show. Jefferies, who once told a joke on stage about a guy getting killed in a war zone, even goes as far as to joke with a suicidal Billy later on in the second episode.

If you like your humor in nasty, offensive packages, you need to start watching this show religiously. If you don’t think laughing at dying people in wheelchairs is funny, well, go fuck yourself. It’s all in how you look at it. Besides, even in the throes of the ugliest humor you can imagine, Jefferies does it from a place of love and good intentions. Billy is his friend, and he wants to help him enjoy the rest of his all-too-short life here on earth.

LEGIT is on FX on Thursdays at 9:30 pm Central Time. And don’t forget that Jefferies has an awesome backlog of stand-up comedy. Get on this shit, just in case he relapses and dies of a drug overdose. Then you can say you were a fan before he became posthumously famous.

Monday, January 21, 2013

HAIL SATAN! A review of Jim Beam Devil's Cut

When you see it on the shelf at your local liquor store, it looks like one of the deadliest whiskeys available. The label looks like it was half-burned off the bottle, and anytime you see the word “devil” on a bottle of booze, you should probably think twice before dancing in the pale moonlight.

Jim Beam isn’t the greatest of bourbons. In fact, it’s safe to say it’s the best of the cheap booze. It tastes just good enough, it kicks just enough ass, and it saves you just enough money to keep coming back for more. Sadly, a while ago they abandoned their original 86-proof recipe in favor of a standard 80. They recently brought it back with their black label, but now they’re creeping up into harder territory with a 90-proof bourbon.

If Kid Rock was half the man he seems to think he is, he would have endorsed this product, not that Red Stag bullshit. Pour that first drink and take a whiff. It smells quite a bit like Jim Beam, but as if someone had run it through a George Dickel White Label filter first.

Considering all of this information, there is no way this isn’t going to burn on its way down your gullet. Surprise! While the Devil is a vicious brute, he’s a smooth bastard who would talk the panties off of a saint. Wow, this goes down easy, and there is no afterburn. The taste does exactly what you need it to, and the 90-proof alcohol goes straight to work. And when it hits your stomach, it ignites with the perfect warmth. There is a bit more of an oaky flavor, but that’s no surprise, considering its story: “As bourbon ages, the angel’s share is lost to evaporation. The Devil’s Cut is trapped in the barrel wood—until now. Jim Beam’s Devil’s Cut is a distinctly bold bourbon with rich flavor unlocked from deep inside the barrel.”

Their black label is pretty damned good, and so is Booker’s, from the master distiller’s private stock, but Devil’s Cut is the best Beam booze to hit the market. Get on top of this shit right away, before it gets on top of you.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

COOL SHIT 1-17-13

G.I. JOE #21:  In today’s issue of G.I. JOE, the role of Hawk will be played by Bruce Willis.  Seriously, this one could have been an ‘Eighties action movie.  Hawk has retired and is living out in the woods when he is suddenly beset by the forces of Cobra, intent on kidnapping him and extracting intelligence from him.  They don’t count on him remembering his training, and they certainly didn’t expect him to be living with Timber, Snake-Eyes’s wolf.  One man against a team of terrorists?  Yeah, that’s some John McClane shit right there.  Oh yeah, and apparently Cobra has iPads with the Cobra insignia on it instead of the usual Apple.  That definitely makes sense.  The only problem is, the cover shows Flint, not Hawk.  Or maybe it’s the movie version of Hawk as portrayed by Dennis Quaid, but that makes no sense, as the worlds aren’t connected.  Am I nitpicking here?  Yeah.  Fuck it.  On to the next one . . . .

STITCHED #11:  Let’s face it, when Garth Ennis stopped writing this book and Mike Wolfer took over, things haven’t been going so well.  Not that Wolfer is a bad writer (although he is a much better artist than he is a writer), but he just didn’t have the same quality as Ennis did.  However, in this issue, we finally find out what caused the Stitched to exist, and it’s a pretty interesting tale.  Hint:  ancient, black devil cum is responsible in some way.  That’s definitely something Ennis would have done.  Hats off, Mr. Wolfer.

CROSSED:  BADLANDS #21:  Speaking of books Ennis used to write . . . .  Unlike Wolfer, David Lapham is an intense motherfucker and constantly tries to one-up Ennis.  Sometimes he succeeds.  This is one of those instances.  Remember Amanda from the “Psychopath” storyline?  The one with Lorre?  Well, she’s back, and it seems that her encounter with Lorre messed her the fuck up.  She’s batshit crazy now, seeing Lorre in every stranger she meets.  And yes, she’s willing to kill all of the suspected Lorres in the world.  Now she might have gone completely off the deep end, though, especially now that Danger Montana is in her life.  He looks suspiciously of a guy who is very familiar with lost arks, temples of doom, last crusades, and crystal skulls.  In fact, he claims that those movies are based on his life.  Even stranger than that is the company he keeps.  In my opinion, there’s no way that this is actually happening.  Amanda is probably already dead, and this is a goofy afterlife or something.  Then again, Lapham is a rabid beast.  He could do anything, so I’m definitely along on this ride.

Remember a while ago when I brought you news of IDW’s newest bullshit crossover?  And you all called me crazy, that it had to be a hoax, that no one would ever go ahead with such an awful idea?  Behold!  IDW has revealed the proof!  This month will be consumed by their MARS ATTACKS crossover!  Now, MARS ATTACKS is pretty cool, but the other series they’re going to cross it over with?  Uh . . . it’s so bad, it’s sickening.

Shit, I know I’m kind of late with this one.  It just slipped under my radar.  Apparently, three of these books are already out.  First up:  Popeye.  Yes, Popeye.  The guy with the giant forearms and the spinach habit.  Second up?  KISS.  Yeah, no kidding.  The aliens actually go up against fucking KISS.  This week, it was Ghostbusters, but that was just to be expected.  The one that’s going to hurt the most for me is next week’s, which involves the Transformers.  The final one is supposed to be something called Zombies vs. Robots, so I don’t really give much of a fuck.  As if this wasn’t bad enough, they have incentive covers for comic shops.  Though they’re not really actual storylines, the fact that someone thought this shit up disgusts me.  One of them features Opus, from Bloom County.  Or Outland, if you’re too young to remember that.  Or how about a Judge Dredd crossover?  Maybe you’d like to try out Chew and Madman, or how about Spike, from the Buffy universe?  Or . . . fuck it.  I can’t go on.

I told you so.  That’s all I’m trying to say.

Monday, January 14, 2013

A WHISKEY THAT LIVES UP TO ITS NAME: A review of Woodford Reserve

Before you even open the bottle to get a good whiff, you can tell that this is some serious, fancy-pants booze you’re holding. The bottle is slim, almost like a flounder, and the cork (yes, cork, not spin-top) even has the company’s logo emblazoned on it. There is a label on the bottom telling you which bottle number this is, from which batch. Granted, a lot of whiskies are doing that these days in order to give the impression (sometimes falsely) that their booze has a longstanding tradition and is well worth the over-inflated money you’re about to pay them.

How does Woodford Reserve measure up? At 90.4 proof, you know this stuff is capable of kicking your ass, but the smoothness is what will truly convince you. There is practically no burn, just a little heat with the aftertaste. Hence, you can probably drink this all day and be fucked up long before you realize it.

There is an oddness to its flavor though. It’s thick and very earthy, kind of like sucking on a twig. Yes, Woodford Reserve tastes kind of like, well, wood. This could actually put it on par with the Scottish Ardbeg, which tastes like you’re drinking a campfire.

No matter how you look at it, Woodford Reserve is strong, and it’s good stuff, well worth the $35 and change you’ll pay for a fifth.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

COOL SHIT 1-10-13

THE SECRET SERVICE #5:  Mark Millar continues to kick ass with the penultimate installment of the sister book to WANTED.  (Let’s face it, it’s WANTED but for good guys.)  As with all of his books, this one isn’t even finished, and already the movie is in preproduction.  And as always, it certainly deserves it, especially when we finally learn why the villain is trying to kidnap Hollywood celebrities.  This issue comes with a cameo from Ridley Scott.  Even better:  check out how this issue ends.  Holy fuck, right?  That’s pretty intense work, and I can’t wait to see how it all ends!

THE DARK TOWER:  SHEEMIE’S TALE #1:  For the most part, when this book covers material that Stephen King already covered in the DT books, it’s been kind of lame.  Very beautiful, but I’ve read it all before.  I want something new, like when Marvel first started adapting the series.  Finally, we get something different:  Sheemie’s story and how he wound up at the Devar-toi.  We get our first look of the Taheen, and we get to meet the Breakers, including Ted Brautigan, a major character from HEARTS IN ATLANTIS.  Artist Richard Isanove is a genius.  Check out some of the scenes where Sheemie works on breaking the Beams.  It’s some of the most beautiful artwork to appear in a comic book.

THE TRANSFORMERS:  ROBOTS IN DISGUISE #13:  More Starscream action as he talks with Megatron’s supposedly unconscious form.  Once again, it’s very interesting to get into Starscream’s head as he talks about how he’s manipulated everything so that the Decepticons would win Cybertron without ever firing a single shot.  Being that he’s a coward, he has to rely on a bloodless coup, and it’s amazing to see him practically begging Megatron to just let him finish with his plan.  Naturally, Megatron has other ideas.  So do Prowl and Arcee, for that matter.  It looks like things are heating up to a conclusion for this amazing political story.

THE WALKING DEAD #106:  Rick has been going crazy with Carl gone, but now that he knows where Negan is, he can only assume that the new villain has absconded with his son.  He’s gotten together with Andrea, Michonne, and Jesus to find this place and, wait.  He’s going to calmly ask for Carl back?!  Right, because Rick is still trying to lull Negan into a false sense of security with a bunch of submissive moves.  Too bad Negan is on his way to bring Carl back . . . and with a final panel like the one in this issue, I’m sure #107 is going to be pretty fucking harsh.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013



As it turned out, tricking the newcomers into entering the wash bay was unnecessary; the group of them, led by Mplifsy, were on their way down to inspect it for possible use in their project. Yet Rico, Pamela, and Winter stood in the corridor, wearing nothing, holding only flashlights.

“Jesus Christ,” Pamela said, shivering. “Why’d we have to do this naked?”

“We had to show off the goods,” Winter said. She, too, felt the cold, but she didn’t want to show it, so she playfully tweaked a nipple.

Rico watched this with a smile. If they weren’t in so much danger, this would have been sexy.

Winter giggled and pointed. “Looks like Rico’s not effected by the chilly air.”

Pamela looked. “God, Rico. You’re getting a hard-on now?”

“I’m here with two hot, naked chicks. Wouldn’t you, in my place?”

“Sh!” Winter said. “Here they come.”

The group of five stepped around the corner. None of them wore their helmets, so each face stood out clearly. As soon as they saw the naked people, they paused, watching.

“Uh . . . ,” Pamela said. She picked the one in front. “Hey there, handsome.” She felt stupid as she grabbed her breasts and shook them in what she hoped was an enticing manner.

Rico looked at the ladies. “Wow, these chicks are lookers. You guys wanna’ ride this?” He pointed his dick at them.

Winter sighed. “You guys are lame.”

Mplifsy lifted his rifle. “Don’t move.”

“Shit!” Rico whipped around and started running.

Winter and Pamela quickly followed. “This was a shitty plan, Winter!”

“How was I to know? I’m really a blonde!”

“Shut up!” Rico said. “They’re following us!”

The three of them burst into the wash bay, and the women ran to cover behind Janna, who stood holding the pressure gun like a warrior. Rico dove to the side, covering his face with his hands.

When the five aliens entered, Janna didn’t give them an opportunity to realize they had stepped into a trap. She pulled the trigger and sent a powerful spray into their faces. To make sure she got all of them, she waved the gun back and forth, making it impossible to miss.

All five cried out in surprise, only to have their mouths filled with gallons of the cheapest whiskey earth had to offer. By the time they tried to cover their faces, it was too late. Booze was already coursing through their veins and saturating their hair and dripping from their noses. Their eyes burned with the stuff.

One of them retched, but nothing came out. By then, the gun was losing juice, so Janna turned it off and watched as the five bodies writhed and slipped in the puddle of alcohol.

Finally, one of them started sobbing. Another said, “Thank you! Thank you for saving us! Jesus, my eyes! But thanks!”

Rico stood from where he’d been crouching in the corner. His skin shone with liquor, but he’d kept the important parts covered; as a result, he felt no pain. “Holy shit, guys. It worked. Janna, you rock!”

Janna grinned, a little embarrassed that Rico—-the real Rico—-had just genuinely complimented her. She put the gun down so she could wipe droplets from her glasses. “It was your plan, Rico.”

The air throbbed, and Janna’s chest disappeared in a gory haze. She didn’t even scream as her fried insides plopped out and her blood ran for the drain. Her eyes offered a dazed, confused look before she collapsed, breaking her glasses beneath her body.

Pamela shrieked, and Winter rushed to Janna’s side, to no avail. Nobody could do anything for her now.

Ben stood in the doorway, waving his pulse rifle at everyone in the room. “Calm down. Do not move. We need your bodies, but I will not hesitate to shoot anyone who resists.”

Rico, who stood behind Ben, realized the alien hadn’t seen him. As quietly as he could, he stepped across the wet floor in his bare feet, approaching Ben’s back.


Deep down inside, the real Ben looked forlornly through the eyeholes above him. He never really cared much for Janna, but she was still one of his crewmates. One of three his body had recently killed, and it wasn’t getting easier on his heart.

In a flash, he saw two arms cross his field of vision, and when the world tilted, he knew someone had finally gotten the drop on Aladnadine.


Even though Rico now had Ben in a headlock, the alien refused to drop his weapon. He fired wildly, and a hunk of the wall was blasted to pieces.

“Winter!” Rico yelled. “The pressure gun! Get it!”

Aladnadine fired again, this time singeing the hair of a newcomer. He watched helplessly as Winter picked up the pressure gun, aimed it at his head, and pulled the trigger.

It spat out a weak spray, no stronger than a stream of piss.

“Shit!” Winter cried.

Aladnadine tried to shoot her, but his arm wavered too much, growing weak from resisting Rico’s hold. The blast went into a newcomer’s head—-one of the women—-sending chunks of her skull showering around her companions.

Rico now knew there was only one ending to this. “Sorry, bro. I’m really, really sorry.”


The real Ben sighed. “I know. It’s cool.”


Rico shifted his weight, grabbing both sides of Ben’s head. Then, putting all of his body into it, he twisted as hard as he could. Ben’s neck broke with a sound like celery snapping, and his head turned almost all the way around.

In that last moment, recognition came into Ben’s eyes, and Rico knew he was really looking at his best friend. His eyes burned, and he wanted to apologize again, but grief clogged his throat.

Ben’s eyes went blank, and his body slumped to the floor.


Drake couldn’t take it anymore. The pulse rifle sang out its presence to him, inviting him to pick it up and use it on Snichlo. And it wouldn’t be too difficult; the alien kept turning his back to look out into space, at the planet in the making. Outside, a ship from the project approached, full of reinforcements per a recent order from the alien, since the Duke turned out to be bigger than Snichlo had expected. Was this lack of attention to his prisoner a ruse to see if Drake would go for the gun? Or could his guard really be down?

And if the captain failed, so what? Snichlo had already said that Drake was doomed. What did the difference between sooner or later matter?

It had to be now. Drake felt too sober, and who knew how much longer he had before an alien possessed him? He watched Snichlo from his periphery, pretending to still be a bit sozzled. Then, as Snichlo touched the window, standing so close to it that his breath fogged the glass, Drake dove for the gun.

Just as Snichlo expected him to do. With the grace of a gymnast, he pushed Jason’s body forward in a leap, and when he came back down, he held the rifle, pointing it at Drake. “A fine attempt, Captain. But don’t worry. You’re almost out of time.”

“Just shoot me and get it over with, you prick,” Drake said.

Snichlo shouldered the rifle. “It’s not so bad, being trapped forever. You’ll get used to it.”

Drake grunted. “Sure. That’s why you’re chomping at the bit to get some bodies.”

Snichlo recoiled, as if hurt, but then an easy smile slipped across his face. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Captain. His name is Holtov. You can’t see him, but he’s floating around your head like a halo.”

Drake cast his eyes upward, but all he saw was the ceiling.

“He’s waiting, Captain. Waiting to become you.”

A shudder gripped Drake’s nerves, and he felt kind of stupid, like a teenager who has been startled during a campfire ghost story.

Something cracked behind them, and the sound echoed through the bridge, causing them both to jerk. Drake whirled around to see the door being cranked open by Rico. Behind him, four people with pulse rifles stood, aiming around the guard’s body and at Snichlo.

The alien, anxious, gazed at the newcomers. At first, his eyes shone with recognition, but then, they narrowed and dimmed.

The door opened the rest of the way, and Rico took up his own weapon, kneeling in front of the others. He aimed at Snichlo. “Put it down, asshole.”

The alien laughed. The hollow racket bounced off the walls. “Desist, or I’ll shoot your captain.”

“You won’t,” Rico said. “You need his body.”

“And you won’t shoot me,” Snichlo said. “I wear your friend’s body.”

“Don’t be too sure. I just killed Ben, and he was one of my closest bros. I hardly knew FNG. What do you think? Because this shit’s gone far enough, yo.”

Uncertainty crept onto Snichlo’s face, and his rifle wavered. Not enough for Drake to make a go of it, but enough to be noticeable.

“Don’t try me, motherfucker,” Rico said. “Too many of my friends died today. Just give it up. Go back to your ghost planet and leave us alone.”

Drake saw the tears in Rico’s eyes, gathering at the lower lids, about to brim over. The light-brown skin of his face turned red, and though his jaw shivered, his rifle did not. The captain thought Snichlo’s prospects were nil. Maybe Jason’s, too.

Snichlo’s eyes went blank, and for a moment, Drake thought he’d decided to listen to Rico. Yet, he still seemed aware, and the gun was still pointed at the captain. The room went quiet as everyone held their breath, waiting. Drake hazarded a glance out the window to see the other ship was still approaching. It would probably be here in a half-hour. Something had to happen. Now.

Snichlo blinked. “Fine. I know when I’m beaten. Not that it happens all that often. But I’ll be damned if I let you monkeys win anything more than a pyrrhic victory.”

He yanked the gun aside and fired into the hull.

Drake wondered what the fuck Snichlo was doing. Pulse guns couldn’t blast through anything made of steel, which was why they had them on board. What kind of moron was this?

Snichlo’s eyes went wide when he noticed that his attack had been futile. He pulled the trigger again, and the gun beeped. A red light flashed.

Drake knew he only had three seconds before the gun recharged; he lurched forward. The alien saw him coming, and he put the rifle up as a shield. Too late. The captain bowled him over, and they flopped to the floor, tangled in one another. Snichlo flailed about as Drake tried to nail him in the face.

Rico and the others approached, training their weapons on the fight, but mostly they watched, cheering the captain on.

Finally, Drake pushed Snichlo’s head away and managed to get a punch up under the alien’s chin. Something snapped in his skull, and a couple of teeth skittered away from his mouth, leaving a tiny, thin trail of blood.

Drake dragged himself to his feet, panting. Snichlo didn’t move.

“Way to go, Cap!” Rico said. They bumped fists.

Pamela and Winter, who had been hiding outside the room, rushed in and headed for Drake. Then, they noticed each other, and they came up short. Between them, the daggers from their eyes clashed silently; then, Pamela said, as sweetly as she could, “You were great, Philbin.”

“That was the shit,” Winter said, equally as sweet.

Drake glanced at them both, knowing better than to say anything. “Uh . . . can someone get Jason a drink? So we can get that fuck-nub out of him?”

“Sorry, skipper,” Rico said. “We’re out. We used it all on these guys.” He hooked a thumb to the four newcomers.

“Shit. I don’t suppose any of you are mechanics? Engineers?”

Two of them sheepishly raised their hands. But one added, “We’ve never worked on a vessel like this, though. I don’t know if we can get your engines going again.”

Drake looked out the window. The ship was larger. “You’re going to have to give it a try. Rico, there’s got to be a user’s manual around here somewhere. Help these guys find it.”


“Winter, Pamela, get some zip-ties before this guy wakes up.”

“Why?” Winter asked. “What’s he going to do? He’s your bitch now.”

“He’s got some, I don’t know, weird ability. He can shut down the engines just by touching the controls. I don’t want him to be able to touch shit.”

Pamela smirked at Winter. “Aye-aye, Philbin.”

As she walked away, ass twitching back and forth, Drake said, “Hey! When you’re on the bridge, you should call me Captain!”

The two remaining newcomers stared at him as if he were a savage beast. Then, he realized that he thought of them as newcomers because they really were newcomers; therefore, they didn’t know about the group dynamic.

“Sorry,” he said. “You gotta’ know us to get us.”

One of them coughed. “Thanks for rescuing us. And sorry about your friends.”

And then, Drake remembered Everson, and he had to sit down. Because he didn’t want these new people to see his tears, he turned away from them and pretended to be fixing his hair.


After about twenty minutes, Snichlo opened his eyes and saw Captain Philbin Drake sitting in the pilot’s chair, leisurely laying back and watching the space in front of him. Next, Snichlo noticed that he couldn’t move. Something bound his hands behind his back and his ankles together. Lastly, he saw that the lights were on, and the engines hummed beneath the floor.

“Smell that?” Drake asked. “That, you scumbag piece of shit, is the smell of clean, recycled air. I hope you enjoy it. It’s the last time you’ll experience it.”

Snichlo glared at him. Though his mouth was not gagged, he said nothing. All the curse words he knew jammed in the bottleneck of his throat.

Drake returned the look. “You killed some of my closest friends. Everson, Ben, Dirk, Janna. You mind-raped Winter and Rico. And you tried to kill the rest of us. If I could kill you, I would. But maybe this is for the best, that you return to the cosmic dust. I’m going to have this sector quarantined. As long as us humans exist, you will never get another body.”

Snichlo choked. “You monkeys are a drop in the bucket! We are forever.”

“Yeah, and something tells me you’re starting to curse that fact, fucko. Take a look outside.” He pointed to the window, which had returned to the digital view.

Snichlo continued to stare at Drake.

The captain shrugged. “Your crew is falling behind. And there . . . that’s the boundary of your ghost planet. Pretty soon, you’ll be hanging out with your boys again. Just floating around, doing nothing. Shit, you won’t even be able to waste time jerking off.”

Snichlo finally looked and saw that the phantom glow of his home had faded. He felt his entire body give in, and his eyes slumped to the floor.

Drake leaned over the chair’s arm so his face was mere inches from Snichlo’s. “Eat a dick, shiteyes.”

Snichlo felt something tugging at his insides like a hand rooting around in his guts. He wished he could say one final scathing thing to Drake—-if only to savor the ability to use a mouth one last time—-but he was too tired. Why fight oblivion?

Drake heard a moan escape from Snichlo’s throat, and he watched the body shudder, then spasm. The eyes went wide, and when they narrowed again, the alien was gone.

Jason looked about the bridge-room, and when he saw Drake, he closed his eyes and wept.


The door hissed open, and Pamela stepped onto the bridge. Drake sat at Everson’s old chair, keeping an eye on the controls that covered his lap. She stepped forward until she was in front of him, obscuring his view of the window.

“What’s up, babe?” Drake asked.

“FNG’s finally talking.”

Drake nodded. It had been a month since they escaped from the ghost planet.

“Remember how Snichlo shot the wall, trying to blast through the hull and kill us?” she asked.


“FNG says he put that idea into Snichlo’s head. Lucky for us, right?”

“He’s a good kid. I’m glad he’s aboard. And he’s not the new guy anymore, so let’s start calling him Jason.”

Pamela paused. “Doesn’t it bother you that we left those other people behind? The ones who chased us in their ship?”

“Nope. Why? Are the new folks asking questions?”

“No. But shouldn’t we have done something?”

“Do I look like a hero to you?” Drake asked. “I’m an asshole. I drink too much. I can’t keep my dick in my pants. Hell, I couldn’t even keep my dick in your pants.”

“But we—-“

“No. We barely made it out of there alive. We’ve got corpses in our freezer. Bodies that used to be people who are near and dear to us. The first thing I did was send a message home. The military is going to deal with that quagmire. Let them do their job.”

Once again, she hesitated. Her teeth worked at her lower lip, and one finger twirled a loose strand of hair. “About us.”


“I’m sorry. Maybe there was too much miscommunication. I should have been more open-minded. Do you, you know . . . want to try again?”

Drake’s breath caught in his throat. “Um . . . .”

“Maybe tonight?” she asked.

“Well, I . . . sure.”

Pamela leaned over the controls and gently touched her lips to his. Her tongue slipped quietly into his mouth.

“I’ll see you in my quarters,” he whispered against her kiss. “Nine tonight?”

Pamela pulled back, grinning. “See you then.”

She walked away, and Drake stared at her ripe peach of an ass. As she exited and the door closed behind her, he shuddered for a few seconds. When he was done, he pulled back and Winter crawled out from under the control board. She wiped her mouth, and he closed his pants.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” she said.

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, honey, but I can’t fuck you because my dick’s too busy in Winter’s mouth?’ That would have gone over real well.”

She giggled. “I kinda’ like what just happened. It was hot.”

“I thought I saw some rose in your cheeks.”

“I also like the idea of you fucking Pammie with my juices still on you. What do you think of that?”

“I think one of you is going to kill me long before we get back to earth.”

“Maybe we both will.”

Drake grunted. “Probably.”

Winter blew him a kiss. “Later, Philly.” And she followed Pamela out.

Drake put up his feet on the control panel and his hands behind his head. Then, he thought that the lack of alcohol would probably kill him long before the women did. He still had his private stock—-two bottles of whiskey remained—-but there was still a month to go before they made it home. The whiskey would be gone by the end of the week. How was he going to last the rest of the time?

Then he laughed, remembering that they still had plenty of beer in the commissary. He preferred the hard stuff, but he was certain that a few brews would get the job done . . . .


Monday, January 7, 2013


Everyone is familiar with Jack Nicholson as a brilliant actor, but how many people knew he tried his hand at directing very early in his career? Not many, and it’s probably for the best. When it comes to creating something, his thoughts are disorganized, and he lacks the discipline to pull everything together. That’s not to say that DRIVE, HE SAID is a bad movie. In fact, there are a few scenes that might actually be pure genius, but as a whole, the film just can’t overcome its own clunkiness and sadly, it is nothing more than a product of its time.

Part of its inability to make a cohesive statement is that it’s really two movies. One features actor William Tepper as Hector, a horny smalltime basketball player who doesn’t want to get involved in the world; he just wants to play the game. Oh yeah, and he also wants to fuck his professor’s wife Olive, played by a shockingly young and beautiful Karen Black. The other movie is about Gabriel, played by Michael Margotta, who is a fucking lunatic and a hippie and a protestor. Hector and Gabriel are friends despite their clash in philosophy, possibly because they share a love of pussy and weed.

That’s actually a part of the problem with this film. There are extended scenes involving both of these characters’ lives, but they are so large and clunky that they weigh down the movie. If you cut out all of the scenes of drawn-out basketball games and hippie hangouts, this would be a much more streamlined experience, and though it would be considerably shorter, it would stick together a lot better than it does now.

Nicholson is also very heavy-handed with his symbolism, the biggest perpetration of which is his parallel between the basketball draft, in which Hector is trying to go pro, and the Vietnam draft, which Gabriel is desperately and insanely protesting against. It’s a shame that this film is so dated. You can have movies about the army that aren’t dated. Take a look at STRIPES, for example. But this one is too entrenched in the early ‘Seventies, when you could smoke in grocery stores, and there were no scanners at the checkout lanes. Take a look at Hector’s naked body. He’s got back hair crawling all the way up to his neck. No Hollywood star would do that today. (It doesn’t help that Tepper looks like the incestuous son of Robert DeNiro and Sasha Baron Cohen.)

But while DRIVE, HE SAID is definitely a product of its time, Nicholson tries to break it out with a few stylistic things that no one was doing back then. This movie was controversial when it came out because of one scene portraying Tepper and Black fucking in a car. There is no nudity. Everything is suggested. However, Tepper very clearly has an orgasm. Unheard of, back then. Today? It would have been a joke on TWO-AND-A-HALF MEN on primetime TV. Also, there is a lot of full-frontal male nudity, which isn’t even popular today, being that it’s one of the great Hollywood double-standards and will probably continue to be so until the end of time. Not only that, but when the basketball players are hanging out, they speak frankly of sex in a very IN THE COMPANY OF MEN kind of way, which, while it happened in real life back then and continues to happen, was never portrayed on film up to that moment. It should also be noted that black and white players hang out as friends, and race is never even mentioned as an issue, which was a rarity back then.

It’s too bad that Nicholson never brings it all together to make a real point. There are great moments, like the opening scene, in which Gabriel and his friends stage a protest about the subversive element at one of Hector’s basketball games. In fact, a lot of the greatest scenes come from Margotta’s portrayal of Gabriel. He has to take a lot of risks, and he does it unquestionably. There is a scene where he flips out at a recruiting office and winds up attacking a shrink and a bunch of MP’s. He screams at a doctor for trying to give him a rectal examination, and he starts jerking off at one point. He’s such a maniac in this scene (and others) that one wonders if he’s acting. In another scene, he unleashes a bunch of caged birds on Olive just before he attempts to rape her. In the craziest scene of all, Gabriel runs naked through a university’s grounds before he breaks into their laboratory and starts setting free all of the test animals, snakes, lizards, turtles, frogs, insects, everything. At one point, his naked dick is right next to a freed rattlesnake; this would make any guy watching it cringe. He also tries to stare down a giant lizard, and when he tries to touch it, it freaks out and could quite possibly have fucked up Margotta’s face with its claws, had it chosen to do so.

Another standout performance comes from Bruce Dern as Coach Bullion. He’s just so convincing that it’s hard to imagine that he’s never coached basketball before, even as he says the line that no one could get away with today to his players: “Don’t play like fags.”

But all the greatness in the movie simply cannot come together and make this movie become great. The only explanation is that Nicholson found himself in an existential quandary at the time, and he was trying to figure out what path he should take. Anyone who saw him in the movies he’d made before then, chiefly among them EASY RIDER, could tell that he was not happy with the way the world was turning out back then, that he had a strong streak of rebellion in him. There is a lot of Gabriel in his heart, but at the same time, he wanted to pursue his acting career, so much so that all he wanted to do was hone his craft and fuck the world, just like Hector with basketball. (And basketball is one of Nicholson’s joys in life, so that was an obvious choice for the film.) When it came right down to it, he saw how things turned out for both of these characters who are opposite halves of his own personality, and he decided to walk Hector’s path. It’s a good thing, too. Even though he’s mostly become a parody of himself these days, he acted wonderfully in a lot of amazing movies. What if he’d chosen Gabriel’s path instead? We would have never had THE KING OF MARVIN GARDENS, CHINATOWN, or any number of awesome movies.

If this is indeed the case, thank you, Mr. Nicholson, for making a mediocre movie like this to help you make up your mind. Like Indy at the end of THE LAST CRUSADE, you chose wisely.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

COOL SHIT 1-3-13

G.I. JOE:  COBRA #20:  With all the attention I pay to THE TRANSFORMERS here, one would think I’d bring up G.I. JOE a bit more often.  The thing is, all three books have been lagging, ever since they did that stupid Hunt for Snake-Eyes thing.  Let’s face it, the only way that story arc could have worked out in an awesome, unexpected way was if Snake-Eyes really did turn out to be a traitor, and he died in a very obvious, very gruesome fashion.  Now that the bullshit is out of the way, we can get back to the grown-up G.I. JOE kind of action IDW has been getting us hooked on ever since they picked up the series.  Flint and Lady Jaye are in serious trouble as they infiltrate a Red Oktober installation on a mission that doesn’t even exist on paper.  Now that they’ve been captured by a crew of thugs and murderers who have no regard for human life, it falls on Joe HQ to sort things out behind the scenes.  The problem:  the only person who seems capable of doing that is Tomax Paolo, who has been a prisoner of the Joes for . . . how long now?  Coming soon, they’re going to discontinue the three series in favor of three new series.  Personally, I think we’d be better served with one series, considering how for the past couple of years, we’ve been treated to one long story broken up over three monthlies.  Might as well just consolidate the whole thing.  I can understand having one main JOE book and then having a SPECIAL MISSIONS book, just like back in the ‘Eighties and ‘Nineties, but come on.  I have faith in the storytelling, but do we really need three JOE books?  That's kind of like breaking up an adaptation of THE HOBBIT into three movies--oh, wait.
AMERICAN VAMPIRE #34:  Now that we’ve been through several decades worth of story, we’ve finally reached the mid-point, according to writer Scott Snyder.  At first glance, it’s a sedate issue, but when you think more about it, it’s a harbinger of things to come, and is thus a very important issue.  With a bit of quick exposition, we learn the fate of Will Bunting, the first chronicler of Skinner Sweet’s life, and who has replaced Bunting at the VMS.  We also get to see Abilena Book in her old age as she denies having been granted visions by being bitten by Sweet years earlier.  We get to meet the new enemy of the series, and we get a massive slap to the face in regards to how things are going to go for the rest of the series.  Here’s the problem:  THEY’RE GOING ON HIATUS.  Snyder says the next story is written, but he also says that they’re taking some time off to recharge their batteries (and to give the artist more time to illustrate the series, as he doesn't want to take any more breaks).  I can only hope that Vertigo will actually still be around when they do come back.  Many of you are familiar with my ranting and raving in regards to HELLBLAZER’s cancellation, and how I believe that Vertigo will be gone by the end of 2013.  I love FABLES and all the related titles, but I’m pretty sure they could survive in the DCU and make everyone a lot of money there.  Right now, AMERICAN VAMPIRE is the only book that has me hoping that Vertigo will survive.  They’ve done a lot of great work over the years, including my two favorite books of all time (PREACHER and TRANSMETROPOLITAN, even though the latter did, indeed, start out at the short-lived Helix).  HELLBLAZER, the Lansdale JONAH HEX, THE SANDMAN, 100 BULLETS, I could go on forever about all the wonderful books they’ve done.  Maybe Shelly Bond can do great things now that she’s in charge (and I know she’s edited many good books that I’ve enjoyed over the years), but considering all the really, really, really, really, really bad decisions DC has made recently, Vertigo is a dog with rabies.  It’s only a matter of time before someone puts it down.  I hope AMERICAN VAMPIRE gets finished before that happens.