Sunday, November 30, 2008

Updated: Comic Fans In Need: Donate to Help Carla and Lance Hoffman

A few weeks ago, the fires in Montecito, California took the home, possessions and nearly the lives of Carla and Lance Hoffman. The couple is currently in critical condition and news reports indicated that theirs were the most serve injuries as result of this particular fire. This story is well known and documented well here and here. On the off chance that you didn't hear about it, please consider donating to the Lance and Carla Fund at this address:

The Lance and Carla Burn Fund

Santa Barbara Bank and Trust

1483 East Valley Road

Montecito, CA 93108-1248

We were able to make our donation last week and even persuaded a coworker at the place that pays the bills and our mother to pony up as well. Every little bit helps.

We had hoped to blog about it a while back, but we have a personal connection here and sometimes it's hard to verbalize when the personal is involved. We know Carla and wish her and her husband Lance speedy recoveries. Although we do not know Lance, we are sure that if Carla chose to spend her life with him that he's a stand-up guy.

Carla is a manager at Metro Entertainment in Santa Barbara, CA, which just happened to be our local comic book shop for 2 years before we headed out to the desert. Metro is the friendliest and most helpful local comic book shop that we've ever encountered. In fact, nearly 2 years later we are still receiving most of our books via mail order from Metro. One of the reasons we like Metro so much was that Carla was ever-helpful, constantly offering suggestions on great books to read. Sometimes we agreed on this storyline or that, and other times we disagreed. But it was always entertaining chatting with Carla. If I recall correctly, we agreed that Cable and Deadpool was best on the pages without Cable. Little things like that add flavor to memories. The last time we saw Carla was about 6 months ago.

We wish a speedy recovery for Carla and Lance and the return of some semblance of normal as soon as possible. We hope you will consider helping them get on their feet. Metro is also accepting donations for the couple if you happen to be in town.

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Saturday, November 29, 2008

Batman Dead?

Yeah, right.

Besides the obviousness of this as a PR stunt, there's no doubt in our mind that the cash cow that is the Bruce Wayne Batman will not be eliminated by cash-strapped DC Comics. A few weeks ago DC "cancelled" Robin, Nightwing, and Birds of Prey (particularly offensive to Mister Fanboy, in addition to jettisoning Manhunter) while at the same time teasing about a new non-Bruce Wayne Batman coming from within the ranks of the Bat-family. Whatever. Lazarus Pit anyone?

But wait, if we may be all MPD about it, isn't that exactly what happened when the Steve Rogers Captain America died and Bucky Barnes took his place as Cap? It worked there, why not here?

We suggest the reason that the Captain America identity switched worked was because Steve Rogers, although an important part of the Captain America mythos, never transcended the actual hero as an individual. The intertwining of Batman and Bruce Wayne on the other hand is so integral to the whole motivation of the character. To take away one, how can the other survive a healthy, long time (in the publishing world, that is)?

But then again, there are many who know, swear and scream that Steve Rogers is not dead. Perhaps he's hanging out with Jean Grey.

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Tuesday, November 11, 2008

UPDATED: And Now For Something Completely Different

UPDATE: The missing #6 term - hot sweet potato tits - has now been added to the story. Where's my Newberry Award?
It’s been a while since I’ve felt all that creative, which accounts for the sheer lack of posting lately. But tonight, I visited Tits List, one of my favorite places to go on the net. From time to time Tits McGee, said sites web madam, sorts through the search terms that led people to her site. The list this go-around was:

1) fucking my mom's tits all night long

2) undead tit photos

3) big christian tits

4) bring it on sex tits

5) my favorite tits
6) hot sweet potato tits

7) pissing fatty

8) vaginal hump day

9) tits in my pants

10) titty parade

I was so inspired by the list (which oddly lacked a #6) that I wrote you a short story with each term in the list, in order. I hope you enjoy it.

As I turned the corner I heard a man in the bar say, "I was fucking my mom's tits all night long." I was stunned. Not so much because someone was fucking their mom's tits all night long -- which is just ewww- but that someone was saying it so matter-of-factly. I mean, if I was fucking my mom's tits all night long, I wouldn't be telling anyone, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

On my left were a table of goths. In high school, goth kids always kind of reminded me of demon mimes – you just can’t take them seriously. The goths were looking at pictures of women’s breasts on one of their I-Pods. One particularly surly one remarked that the pix were nice, if you liked “undead tit photos or big Christian tits."

I hustled away before we moved into necrophilia territory. I’m open-minded, but I do like to sleep at night.

But then again, this club was filled with all kinds of fun and clearly disturbing degenerates. Bondage gear was de rigueur, except for posers like me. Over in one corner I heard raised voices. An oafish man who looked entirely out of place in the bar was bearing down on a small woman in her early thirties. He cursed up a storm. The woman calmly looked at him and snarled that if he didn’t leave her along she would take him out. Angry beyond belief for reasons that were not clear to me, he exclaimed “bring it on sex tits.” Moving with unbelievable speed the woman grabbed a beer bottle, smacked it in half on the table like you see in the movies, and pounced on him in a way that said die motherfucker, die. Note to self: Never call a woman “sex tits.” Thankfully, Security was on them in no time, dragging the bloody and cursing combatants out of the club. Whatever kind of tits are your favorites, my favorite tits do not belong to women wielding weapons, regardless of the provocation. Unless it's a James Bond movie. And with that, I am sure you would totally agree.

As I moved out to the outside deck, which inexplicably had a beach volleyball court that served no purpose other than that of a very large ashtray, I headed to the bar and got a drink. Since I was feeling a bit peckish, I went to a small hole in the wall to order from the kitchen. Not your typical "hole in the wall," but a real wall where a trannie named Tits took your order. "I'll have a hot sweet potato, Tits," I said before I was handed a backed sweet potato oozing with butter. Yes, real butter. I was in heaven.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman of mythical proportions in the corner pushing her body between two potted pants, crouching and clearly peeing. This pissing fatty – a behemoth of a woman dressed like a Valkyrie and showing way too much skin – then fell into the puddle of her own piss. Wow, I thought. This is going to be a fun night or one where I will regret ever leaving the house.

Perhaps it was the sight of her peeing, but I now needed to pee badly. If I could have held it would have. I knew the bathroom would be disgusting and likely a place where, let’s call it shenanigans of various sorts, took place. But I had to pee and I couldn’t pee in the plants, Helga was blocking the way. So into the bathroom I went. Eyes forward, head slightly down and breathing through the mouth, I made it to a urinal. I looked forward and saw “Wednesday is vaginal hump day” etched into the metal sheet covering the wall. What did that mean? All sorts of off ideas popped into my mind. I remembered this commercial from the 70s where it said “Wednesday is spaghetti night.” That random memory made me laugh and brought me back to the task at hand. After finishing my business I went to wash my hands and hurried out the door and back into the club.

While I waited at the bar for another drink, I was next to two older women dressed in full biker gear. But instead of talking about Harleys or drunken bar fights in Sturgis or Hollister, they were talking about their grandchildren. This was just one of those places, were all sorts of people congregate. The night was looking better. But then I was yanked back to reality when one of the women loudly exclaimed that her ass was getting “flabby.” It was like I have “tits in my pants.” Okay, I heard enough. Time to move along.

On the stage, women and men/former men somewhere on what I call the “pre-and post-op continuum,” were lining up while the crowd hooted and hollered. The emcee, a large black man in drag doing his damnedest to channel Pam Grier in Coffey, announced a “titty parade.” At that point, tops came off, except from the drag queens without real fake breasts. The “titty parade” left the stage and soon after a conga line snaked through the bar with more than a few men and women from the bar joining in the festivities. Of course, I was one of them. Nights like tonight are the reasons that you go out at night, just to join the fun and the freaks.

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Monday, November 03, 2008


If you live in the US, don't forget to vote tomorrow. If you don't, you know you're a slacker.