A regular feature (with an awful name) wherein I post a few images from the Ghost Rider 2099 comic to show why it’s the greatest thing of all time*. These may not be the best bits in the comic, so you should go and discover the rest for yourselves?
Comedians! Still need some last-minute material for your Edinburgh Festival show? Well, I’ve got some ideas that might just help you get that elusive slot presenting a ‘Funny Internet Videos’ show on E4 this time next year!
Slightly different format to my sporadic Ghost Rider 2099 posts, here. This is an actual modern day comic, and I will be writing a few lines of actual text. “So, strap yourselves in, we’re in for a bumpy ride!!!” as someone on the internet might say when writing about a comic with a fast car in it.
Hiya, Slugs! I try to stop buying ‘floppy’ ‘single’ ‘pamphlets’, but I guess serialised genre fiction appeals to me in a way I cannot deny? Like that time a short while ago, the shelves of my Local Comics Proprietor had three things I fancied. I have bought them and read them, and am going to now write about them. Let’s pretend it’s a few years ago and new comics aren’t out until thursdays in the United Kingdom, and that these ‘reviews’ are timely and relevant.
It was UK Father’s Day on sunday, and I had this post mostly ready, but then was sidetracked by my own outstanding muscles and sleek new bodywork.
Dads, though, eh? If they’re not watching the Top Gear they’re getting confused by simple cleaning equipment while TV’s Mum rolls her eyes! Then they’ll look after one of their kids for an afternoon and be given praise for being SUCH a GREAT father.
LOL! That’s dads!
PUKE, obviously. PUUUUKE (don’t worry, TV’s Mum’ll clean it up!). The media’s heterosexist, cissexist Dad Narrative is an awful one, that actively harms everyone except the worst people, and should not be encouraged.
Comics, though, eh? Look, what I’m going to do is write down the names of as many X-Universe characters I can think of that are dads, or might be dads, or have notable dads? I am not going to use reference materials, so this could all be bullshit, or just anti-mutie propaganda (it’s about ethics in writing about mutant dads*).
*this sort of joke is unlikely to get old anytime soon, unlike dads, who age by the second
I am a slow man! I do not update this site! Today, though, today I bought three comic periodicals, on the day of release, and it has been quite some time since I did such a thing. To commemorate this, I am going to write about them, before most people will have read them, like those people on that website you like!
Look, three comics is a lot, right? That’s the price of one volume of Biomega, or two pints and an Irn Bru, or a cardigan off of Ebay. People that buy, say ten comics a week, how do they justify it?
I don’t know, but I assume they use critical faculties and such, and enjoy or not enjoy the comics, much like myself.
Oh, the following reviews might contain spoilers (not sure, haven’t written them yet), and also, Trigger Warning for discussion of rape.
From the journal of J. P. Malone, 26/05/15
Having received a somewhat intriguing summons from acquaintances long disregarded, I found myself travelling by iron carriage to a fearsome locale I had sworn to avoid since prior events had so offended my learned sensibilities.
Upon arrival, I swiftly shook free of the trifling sub-conversation and primitive “opinions” of those lesser folk who were to be my hosts during this short stay (and who looked curiously familiar, as though some parody of a mirror had been placed before me), and retired to a rather beige chamber, to collect my thoughts and rest my weary head, my constitution unduly affected by the otherwise agreeable journey.
Finding myself unwilling to mingle further with the natives, I chose to satisfy my natural curiosity by exploring my immediate area. Opening a characterless, functional idea of a door, I was confronted by the primitive totems of a simpler, ignorant time – boxes of lead-alloy figurines sculpted into the most grotesque shapes, some daubed in garish and primal hues, images haphardly cobbled from such diabolical sources as the undesirable works of J’ayrar Tuhl-kein and the worst excesses of what dwellers of rather unsavoury areas of the city I have chosen as home would term ‘prog‘. Moving beyond these vulgar relics, I found stacks of forgotten manuscripts, some from as long ago as 1994.
Tattered and neglected, though some had been cack-handedly ‘preserved’ in some form of polymer, they remained legible, if not traditionally readable in any way you or I would understand.