Jesus Christ, 2016...

Hell of year.

The Empire's in power again, and building another big stupid war machine. Seems like we only just blew up the last one, but I guess you just can't keep a bad idea down. Speaking of which, The Enterprise crashed and burned. I hear they lost Chekhov. Normally this would the time to call in the superheros, but they're all too busy beating each other up.

Wait, Superman's dead? Somebody call Starman! He's dead too? That leaves Godzilla, but it looks like he's a bad guy again. What? The ID4 aliens are back? This is nuts! Who the hell is in charge here?!

Biff Tannen...? That explains a lot.

Strange times.

Dinosaurs are Better than Dragons

I saw some people discussing whether dragons were cooler than dinosaurs, and I had one of those moments when you realize just how far your finger is from the pulse of the zeitgeist. Folks, this ain't even a contest. Dragons are cool, don't get me wrong, but dinosaurs are clearly superior.

For starters, dinosaurs had the benefit of actually existing. That's an advantage, I find.

Really, the fact that they existed is what makes them cool. Go to a museum with a mounted T-rex skeleton, and you can be assured that those same bones were inside a living, breathing animal at some point 66 million years ago. Think about that for a second. I know it’s something we all know, but really think about it. There was a time on this planet-the same planet you and I are currently on-where there were T. rexes just walking around. Holy shit!

Now, this will usually be the point where someone suggests that a dragon could beat a T. rex in a fight.

Well, OK, but that’s a bit like saying that Goku could beat Muhammad Ali in a fight. I mean, yes, if Goku were real, he would win... But he’s not real, and he does things that are blatantly impossible in real life. You might as well say that Cthulhu could beat Muhammad Ali in a fight.

Dinosaurs, being real animals, were (like every other real thing) bound by the laws of physics. Everything cool about them (sickle claws, banana-sized teeth, frills, crests, horns and so on) evolved naturally and requires no hand-waving to explain.

T. rex’s bite force was re-evaluated recently. This is normally the part where the reality behind the legend rears its ugly head and makes it much less cool, but no; Turns they had actually underestimated it’s bite force. It actually had the strongest bite force of any land animal ever. It also had better eyesight than humans, a stupidly powerful sense of smell, could move faster than previously believed, and had a behemoth dick.

It was, scientifically speaking, the baddest motherfucker on the planet.

Compare that to dragons, which require a mountain of bullshit to work properly. They’re too big to use the wings, breathing fire doesn’t make any goddamn sense, no lineage of reptiles has six limbs... Their creators have to rely on magic, or, if they’re trying to bring some verisimilitude to the proceedings, rreeeaaaaaaally questionable biology.

Like, remember that “Fantasy Made Real” TV special on Animal Planet several years back? Remember their “realistic” dragon? How stupid was that thing? It had a big sack of flammable gas in its gut to stay airborne and breath fire, and super hollowed-out bones, and a slender, fragile neck, and loads of other anatomical features that scream “PLEASE KILL ME WITH YOUR BANANA-SIZED TEETH, T. REX!”

T. rex didn't need wings, flame breath, or even functional arms to kill things; it would literally just run at it's prey, opening and closing it's mouth until they were dead. And the prey in question was sometimes Triceratops! How hardcore is that? That's like a guy with no arms charging a guy with knives taped to his face and biting him to death.

In closing, T. rex was the coolest animal ever, and anyone who disagrees is a big fat poopyhead.

SUPERMAN'S DICK HURR DURR

Frank Miller is not well. Can we all agree on that? I mean, I haven't found any 100% confirmation of that, but compare a photo of him from 2005 to one from within the last year and I think it's pretty obvious. He's 58 years old; he looks 80. He has very little hair. He's skinny as hell and shockingly pale. He has weird bruises and bandages all over. He walks with a cane or is pushed in a wheelchair. When he gets prestigious awards, someone has to accept them on his behalf.

Incidentally, if you were to chart his public downfall, it lines up pretty good with his apparent illness. That he is only the co-writer on Dark Knight III should speak volumes; the man is sick.

The comic book fandom has apparently been struck with collective amnesia, because it's spent the last few weeks lining up to jeer and mock a sick person for daring to be creative through their illness.

This is the person who wrote Dark Knight Returns, Year One, Born Again, Martha Washington, Ronin, Sin City, Man Without Fear, and many others, and he's being mocked relentlessly for not being able to display the skill or finesse he once did.

I get it, he said some really stupid shit about Occupy Wall Street, and yes, Holy Terror was problematic as all hell. No one is denying that, and I'm not suggesting his illness excuses it. You wanna critique him for sexism or Islamophobia, that's perfectly legitimate; I'll be right there with you.

Don't you pretend for one second that's what this is about. This is juvenile, mean-spirited raspberry-blowing. This is a bunch of so-called fans of the genre lining up to mock the efforts of one of its pioneers at his lowest.

Ask yourselves: If he (knock on wood) doesn't get better, will this still be funny? Will your cute little Superdick jokes be worth it? Will you be OK with your Scans_Daily snark being the last thing you say about a legend? I hope so, for your sake.

A scientific drawing of my innermost thoughts

Pretty standard for my generation, I think. ADD + isolation + an internet connection = some thoughts that are really interesting if you're high but kinda stupid at any other time. Ever wonder what would happen if Christopher Hitchens did the DVD commentary for the Power Rangers movie? Didn't think so. Actually, on second thought, that sounds pretty cool. Fuck, someone get on that.

... I've just remembered that Christopher Hitchens is dead, so we can't do this. I mean, we probably couldn't have made this happen even if he was still alive, but I think you'll agree that our chances of success would have been slightly higher.

I wonder if, at some point in the future, technology will progress to the point where you could just write an AI programmed with a voice based on audio recordings of Christopher Hitchens, and then direct said AI to provide commentary as the Power Ranger movie played. That would be hilarious. Although really, you'd hope that with technology that advanced, medical science would advance to the point where they* could just revive him from the dead like in that one issue of Alan Moore's run on Miracleman (SEE? COMIC BOOKS!) and then have him do it.

Then again, this presents the same problem we would have had if he were hypothetically still alive, which is that he'd probably be unwilling to provide commentary to the Power Rangers movie. In that case, maybe the AI solution would be best, though that raises the question of whether or not Hitchens would own the copyright on an AI based on and sounding like himself. I guess whether or not the AI were sentient would be the deciding factor, but I don't feel like contemplating that scenario, because it sounds like a really bad episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

The point is: The movie goes "I AM LORD ZEDD, SWORN ENEMY OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND DECENT" and Hitchens be like "Rather like the mullahs in Iran, I think."

... Shit, I would need to be high for this to be funny. Never mind.



*- "They" are presumably the weird futuristic cult who base their entire worldview upon this blog and the asinine ideas contained therein.

Power Fucking Rangers

I give up.
For those of you who've pondered the question "What would happen if you made the most deliberately terrible, painfully obvious satire in the history of the planet?" you now have your answer: brain-dead fanboys slobber all over it without a trace of irony.

Mirror

This one's pretty unpleasant, folks.




She slid the lipstick across her lower lip, rotating the plastic just slightly between her finger and thumb and noting with some satisfaction that she was getting good at this.

At last, pink was overtaken by red. She looked-really looked-at her reflection for the first time as she pressed her lips together. The bitch in the mirror looked her over with indifferent eyes and something less than a sneer. Really, sweetie?

Allison looked the bitch in the eyes like a bull ready to charge and blew the most “fuck you” kiss ever blown. Her expression stared back, satisfied at a job well done. Allison abandoned her one-legged perch on the chair, taking a few backwards strides.

The woman in the mirror (the bitch had gone) stood with a bent knee and a hand on her hip. She was trying a little too hard to be sassy, but she’d been so right to go with blue cocktail dress. Taking her eyes from the mirror for a moment, Allison dared a glance down at herself, and was satisfied. She looked better in heels than she’d expected.

Her gaze moved back to the mirror, and her reflection’s breasts. She giggled a little-they were bundled up like a Christmas present. Too cute. She’d moved the hemline up and down all night, covering and uncovering her cleavage. She’d resolved to leave it alone earlier, and saw now she’d been right. Everything looked perfect.

Allison’s adam’s apple bounced up and down like a plucked string, then, flickering in the corner of her eye and then dancing slowly into the center of her vision. The girl in the mirror swallowed, sending the little lump of flesh soaring into her jawline and then crashing back down to her throat. Allison tilted her head so the woman’s neck wasn’t visible and ignored the beads of cold sweat needling into the center of her back.

Thinking of cleavage had been too much for the thing between her legs, which stiffened, uncoiling itself from its prison. Allison pretended not to notice as she looked over her shoes, questioning aloud whether they were too tight as the thing between her legs rubbed against her inner thighs, pulling its sweaty cargo along through the tightened skin. She adjusted her stance and played with the strap on her left shoulder. The thing’s shaft pulled back like a gun being loaded, drawing upward as the skin stretched.

Allison pulled her thighs together hard, slapping the thing, but the irritation seemed to spur it further. It climbed, slowly and inevitably, up the fabric of her panties. The stimulation from the fabric drew it out, and out and out and out, and no matter how Allison stood, the erection made her pretty blue dress look like a circus tent.

The harder her hands pushed against it, the more her penis fought to stay visible, sliding entirely out of her panties and stamping the interior of her dress with a damp little bead of sweat. It left a stain that would be unnoticeable to anyone but her, but one was enough. As she struggled with it, her hard-on was joined by the little lump in her throat, which bobbed up and down.
The tranny in the mirror was out of a three stooges routine as she pushed down on the lever of meat in her pants with one hand and reached for a scarf with the other. The tranny nearly lost its balance, its legs waving stupidly as the heels tried and failed to carry their awkward weight. The tranny fell once, twice, and then the heel of its right shoe broke. “Fuck!” it yelled in a deep voice.

Allison looked to the mirror. There was a thing in a dress with a hard-on sticking out of its underwear and a lump in its throat that darted around like a fly on a turd. The thing was lurching around in one shoe (the other kicked off and away), every alternate footfall thumping against the floor like a pirate with a wooden leg. Its make-up was smeared by two little streams of water dripping from it’s eyes. It looked like a clown.

She dropped to one knee to unstrap the other shoe, and the tip of her dick jostled lose from its pinned position and jammed against the floor. Her voice growled a second, louder “Fuck!” and then, without meaning to, her eyes turned back to the infernal piece of glass resting against the wall. This thing in the mirror swung a well-toned arm, swatting the shoe away like King Kong swinging at diving bi-planes. As the creature’s carefully applied makeup ran down a face that now seemed Easter Island-like in its proportions, its uncooperative dick drooped over to the left, slapping against a leg that recoiled in disgust.

Looking away from the horror in the mirror, Allison put her hands to her knees and pushed herself up. Her ass was in the air as she got to her feet. Don’t look at it, she thought. Don’t look at it.

Looking didn’t matter; the Frankenstein’s Monster in the mirror made noises, now. A low, bubbling crack of a fart wetted her ass cheeks with filth. The stomachache she thought she’d done away with had returned, apparently, its fumes smelling of male sweat and liquid shit. She turned back to the monster in the mirror who’d sent her this latest insult and saw the scowl on its face and the bulge in its dress and the broadness of its apelike shoulders. It was disgusting.

David pulled off his wig and threw it across the room. The dress was in the garbage an hour later.

Valhalla Sucks

He couldn’t help but feel that death should never be this easy. His last conscious memories were of red rain and flying limbs, of swords shaking in hands no longer attached to bodies. He’d waded over a mountain of corpses to reach the iron doors of the keep, and even with 15 arrows in him, he kept walking and screaming and killing into the approaching blackness at all sides of his vision.

It hadn’t occurred to him while he lived that his shade would wear an imitation of his mortal form’s dying moments. He might’ve been more careful. He might’ve decided against head-butting the man in the spiked helmet, at any rate.

Then again, there were worse things than bathing in a flowing stream while naked shield maidens treated his wounds. He knew these women were too impossibly beautiful to be human, but for the moment he decided to accept the illusion. As if to reward his good judgement, the redhead laying across his chest put her hand over the messy crack in his skull and pinched, running her clasped fingers the length of the injury and erasing the mace’s damage as if it had been a line in the sand washed away by waves.

They’d performed this magic all over his body, turning backwards the ravages of time and war. For the first time since he was a boy, he saw clearly from both eyes, the ugly gash made by a wolf’s claw undone by a blonde with the biggest tits he’d ever seen.

It would have been erotic if not for his intestines being scooped back into his shredded guts; a hard-on would have to wait. He was glad for it when he noticed the bearded man approaching from the bank.

“Enjoying the angels’ healing touch, friend?”

He despised small talk, but was in little position to refuse. “I’m enjoying having two lungs again,” he said, making a point of not meeting the bearded man’s gaze.

“Aye! They’ll have you as unscarred as the day your Mother birthed you before long.”

Like Hel they would. “I’ll be healed enough to swing a sword,” he said to the Valkyries as much as the bearded man, “Nothing more.” What good had there been in living if all reminder of it were wiped away after death?

“Why pollute our mead hall with your Earthly filth when you could glow like the gods?”

A man capable of uttering that sentence bore looking at, if only while deciding which limb to disfigure first. Now that he could see the arrogant bastard, he noticed how unnatural the man’s skin looked-it was unscarred by blade and age alike. The man’s proportions were too perfect, his beard too well-groomed, his armor too shiny. This was the hero of a child’s fable.

He’d hated those fables, even as a boy.
Sensing the tension, the maidens slowly drew themselves against his body and began pulling ever so slightly downward. The gaping wound in his chest had been sealed, and he admitted a satisfaction in the loss of the pain. He closed his eyes and reached an arm around the nearest warm body. It was relaxing to finally touch something without intending to kill it.

“Not a talkative sort, are you? Very well.”

A thousand different kinds of violence danced behind his eyelids as his peace was interrupted again. He lifted his torso, straining only slightly against the weight of the women. Something smooth and warm came around the shaft of his penis, then, and he realized one of them has taken it in her hand. As the others began to embrace him more fully, he decided that he could get used to this, irritating bearded men or no...

And get used to it he did, for several days. The valkyries were better at sex than any Earthly woman and had stamina enough to climb a mountain in one breath. He could fuck them for days until boredom or exhaustion put a temporary stop to it. He saw little enough of his fellow honored dead, which suited him; they did little besides boasting and posing.

He’d enjoy the food occasionally, when the sun had gone down and mead hall was close to empty. There were cows the size of longhouses roasting over flames that never died, yielding meat that never ran out. There was a flock’s worth of pheasants hanging from a ceiling beam, already featherless. There were never-ending baskets of perfectly ripe fruit, and vegetables bigger than men, and barrels with more wine than the ocean had water.

When he tired of food, drink, and sex, he’d sleep, and dream of rusty, blunted blades smashing ineffectively against dented armor while water filled his boots and froze his feet. There was panic as his body rushed to follow his mind’s commands to raise the shield in time to block the coming blow. Despite the cold, the impact shook loose a mail of sweat from his skin, and the released heat would boil up from his armor’s openings as steam. Ignoring the pain, he rushed forward, his comrade's bumping him from behind and his enemies raining down panicked, imprecise sword-swings in front. The weather was shit, and the plunder would just barely be worth it.

Then he’d wake up in endless perfection, where everything was provided.

The other warriors had learned quickly to avoid him after he’d just woken up; it meant he’d be looking for a fight. There weren’t supposed to be fights in the afterlife. Battles, yes-in great abundance. This was a mythical, realer-than-real realm, where wounds closed more quickly than they could be opened and warriors stood as mighty as gods. In Valhalla, men could know the joy of endless battle, where every blow struck was struck in the name of honor and glory. Its newest soul just liked to fight.


So fight he did, whenever the fancy struck him. He’d wait for one of their little smirks or sneers and then dive into them like an animal. The first several had been waged with weapon-in-hand, but he quickly graduated to leaping into the fray bare-handed. There would be no epic songs written about these. They were bloody, slobbering, stupid things that began and ended on the ground; wine-fueled and proudly ignoble.

At first, he’d anticipate fighting the way a virgin anticipates his first fuck, but soon even he tired of the flying teeth and crunching noses. The knuckles he went to such lengths to open closed within seconds, and every blow landed on every repulsively beautiful face was gone in the next instant. He felt no exhaustion, no fear of losing.

No victory. Without that, what was the point?

Soon he became so disgusted with the mead-hall that he abandoned it in favor of the outer wilderness, but even in this he was denied; the forest was little more than an overgrown garden. The animals were huge and noble, proudly staring forth like soldiers witnessing their king’s passing, even as he loosed the arrow that would kill them.

Even the wolves were domesticated. They didn’t drool or shit or anything; it was an ordeal just to get them growling, and as ever, there was nothing real about them.

He was frustrated enough to fuck, but the thought of the impossibly smooth, perfectly-proportioned statues that this place had the audacity to call women was almost nauseating. He needed a crooked-toothed whore. He needed someone who’d be a challenge to satisfy. He needed to fumble around in the dark of a stable, pouring wine down his throat while a woman twice his age rode him long and hard.

He needed all of this, and the only thing around was a knothole in the nearest tree.

Suddenly he was a boy again, on the cusp of manhood and perpetually hard, and within seconds, his pecker was jammed into the rough circle of bark. He giggled like an idiot as he wrapped his arms around the trunk, and pictured his first lay. She was fat, drunk and covered with as much filth as he was. Her pussy was rough and hairy. Her lips her wine-stained and sticky.

She asked him if he wanted her, and he told her he did. It had only been farm animals or his hands up to that point; a real woman was something new. They slobbered all over each other for nearly an hour before he came into her.

“Don’t worry” she told him later, “A horse kicked me in the crotch when I was four. I can’t grow nothing in here.”

His memories broke long enough to picture himself, in the afterlife, fucking this tree, and the stupidity made him laugh. He should have known that would be the signal the world needed to screw with him some more, because at that moment, the rough bark moistened, and softened, and pulled itself around him as the trunk heaved and pulsated with sudden life. The tree seemed to shimmer for a moment, and then he found himself embracing another perfect, impossible shield maiden.

He screamed, then pulled himself out of her and threw her away. Not “her,” he was reminded, “It.” It. IT IT IT IT IT. Always and forever. Perfect women and perfect food and no chase forever and ever. No fight. No chase. No hunt. No fun. Always always always, and no way out. Ever.

All through the endless forest of the afterworld, a naked man was seen running and screaming. Game was found the next morning, torn apart as if by hand, bloody footprints in their wake. Trees had chunks missing by what appeared to be bite marks. Even the Valkyries, impossible to know and seemingly emotionless, were badly unnerved by whatever had gone on the night before.

No one ever saw the crazy one again. The damage dealt the night before, including the muddy footprints near the edge of the waterfall, healed quickly and were then forgotten. On the rare occasion that he was discussed, it was said that he’d found a way to commit some final, permanent suicide. No one cared to know for sure.

That was a long time ago.

Today, there’s a club in New York that still has proper punk bands. The music is loud and the crowd is wild. The decoration is DIY and the owners are straight-edge.

They’ll tell you about the old days, “when Punk was capital-fucking-P.” They’ll tell you about the bands, and the mosh pits, and all the crazy shit that used to happen. A favorite story of theirs is the time the skinheads showed up during a Spleen-Kicker show. The lead singer was a black lesbian. You do the math.

They were big, and there were a lot of them, so they made short work of the kids in the crowd. They made it about halfway to the stage, and things were looking bad. Then, some guy drilled the leader like an NFL linebacker tackling a scarecrow. He was a big guy, but not in a body-builder way. He had long hair and eyes like a shark, and he seemed to enjoy taking the skinheads apart.

“You should’ve seen the guy, darling,” they’ll tell you, “He looked like Conan the Barbarian or something. And do you know? He got right back in the pit after!”

It wasn’t a castle siege, but it was life, and that was enough.