Who wouldn't buy a comic book that declares, "Sex...and the Scarecrow!"
Before I move on to a new box of old comic books and a special side comic book project which I'll alternate with other titles, I have this last misfit comic book from the stack. It's a misfit because I purchased it after reading the seven issues I already owned. I was planning on maybe finishing the entire run but then I realized to do that, I'd have to spend more money. And I was tired of spending money on comic books. They really haven't been worth the cover price since sometime in the early nineties. I almost didn't do a "review" of this issue because it doesn't fit the scope of my "project." But then I also thought, "What the fuck else am I going to do?!" Can't argue with that logic!
Or can I? Because after I finished that paragraph, I wandered away from the computer to try to hook up my Xbox 360 headset (the best headset I've ever used) to my Xbox One and failed. Then I remembered I needed to write my review of We Learn Nothing by Tim Kreider. Then I also did a poo. And I rebuilt my cat Gravy's castle after she destroyed it chasing a moth. So there's actually a lot of other things I can do! Like maybe I'm going to go for a walk right now! Be right back!
I'm back! I also ate breakfast and watched the episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where we're introduce to Jean-Luc McBorg.
This issue begins with The Scarecrow murdering two guys he does not have sex with. To say I'm disappointed would be redundant because I'm always disappointed by everything. Is there an efficient way to get total amnesia so I can experience everything for the first time again? Maybe I should have waited until my forties to do all that LSD.
At least the scene after The Scarecrow's prudish murders starts to get titillating.
Or can I? Because after I finished that paragraph, I wandered away from the computer to try to hook up my Xbox 360 headset (the best headset I've ever used) to my Xbox One and failed. Then I remembered I needed to write my review of We Learn Nothing by Tim Kreider. Then I also did a poo. And I rebuilt my cat Gravy's castle after she destroyed it chasing a moth. So there's actually a lot of other things I can do! Like maybe I'm going to go for a walk right now! Be right back!
I'm back! I also ate breakfast and watched the episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where we're introduce to Jean-Luc McBorg.
This issue begins with The Scarecrow murdering two guys he does not have sex with. To say I'm disappointed would be redundant because I'm always disappointed by everything. Is there an efficient way to get total amnesia so I can experience everything for the first time again? Maybe I should have waited until my forties to do all that LSD.
At least the scene after The Scarecrow's prudish murders starts to get titillating.
The next line, I'm guessing: "Oh no! I'm picking up the phone and my pants just fell down!"
Oh, it turns out The Scarecrow didn't kill those guys. He was just messing with them. It also turns out that nobody gets a phone shoved up their butt. So many fucking disappointments at every turn! What else is fucking new?!
The team sit around headquarters for half the comic book talking about fucking Bonfire and working for the government. I mean, some of them talk about fucking Bonfire and some of the other ones talk about working for the government. They weren't all boning Bonfire and most of them probably don't want to work for the government. I probably should lump them all into one pronoun, ignoring the fact that they're all individuals with different goals and beliefs and ways to fuck Bonfire.
Bonfire, of course, knows the sexiest way to fuck Bonfire. I'm not imagining it now nor am I realizing some things in life don't disappoint.
Although I, myself, am probably a huge disappointment to my parents, writing online how I'm sexually attracted to fictional characters. Maybe if my dad read this, he'd be relieved that I'm expressing attraction to a female fictional character. But then he hasn't yet gotten to the paragraph where I go on about how I'd like to get my tongue stuck to Frostbite's butthole.
Halfway through the comic book, the Young Heroes in Love (their official super hero group name, I think?) encounter The Scarecrow.
The team sit around headquarters for half the comic book talking about fucking Bonfire and working for the government. I mean, some of them talk about fucking Bonfire and some of the other ones talk about working for the government. They weren't all boning Bonfire and most of them probably don't want to work for the government. I probably should lump them all into one pronoun, ignoring the fact that they're all individuals with different goals and beliefs and ways to fuck Bonfire.
Bonfire, of course, knows the sexiest way to fuck Bonfire. I'm not imagining it now nor am I realizing some things in life don't disappoint.
Although I, myself, am probably a huge disappointment to my parents, writing online how I'm sexually attracted to fictional characters. Maybe if my dad read this, he'd be relieved that I'm expressing attraction to a female fictional character. But then he hasn't yet gotten to the paragraph where I go on about how I'd like to get my tongue stuck to Frostbite's butthole.
Halfway through the comic book, the Young Heroes in Love (their official super hero group name, I think?) encounter The Scarecrow.
The way The Scarecrow is holding that fear gas canister is something I can't comment on because I just learned I have young readers.
Imagine me thinking, for years, that I only had adult readers! What fucking adult would be entertained by this bullshit?!
Every single one of the Young Heroes (in Love!) collapses in fear. That's me reading a few pages of a bunch of them experiencing nightmares, shrugging my shoulders, and saying out loud to the cat, "That was probably all of them! Not one of them wasn't affected! I suppose I could double check to see which one might have held their breath but why bother? I'm sure that was all of them. It was definitely a lot of them. Look, cat. See that one? That's Bonfire and that's almost her butthole. What a skimpy costume, right?!"
Every single one of the Young Heroes (in Love!) collapses in fear. That's me reading a few pages of a bunch of them experiencing nightmares, shrugging my shoulders, and saying out loud to the cat, "That was probably all of them! Not one of them wasn't affected! I suppose I could double check to see which one might have held their breath but why bother? I'm sure that was all of them. It was definitely a lot of them. Look, cat. See that one? That's Bonfire and that's almost her butthole. What a skimpy costume, right?!"
Oh yeah. That's the one I forgot about. The leader, What's-His-Name.
Some of you are thinking, "How could you forget the most important character? You know, the muscular blonde white heterosexual guy?" Or some of you would be thinking that if I hadn't alienated you years ago with my total soy boy cuck ethos. Weird that that's what it's called nowadays. I remember when it used to be described as compassionate, thoughtful, and inclusive. But what do I care? I'm not the gigantic asshole (which is what you abrasive, selfish dickholes were called then and what you're called now and what you will be called forevermore).
The issue ends with another member of the team trying to fuck Bonfire. This time it's Icicle or whatever his name is. They kiss and nothing blows up or melts (at least nothing that can be shown in an unrated comic book).
Young Heroes in Love #8 Rating: B+. I really love the art. And that's saying something because I normally ignore the art. My criticism isn't art criticism. It's word criticism. I criticize words. And the words in this issue were all the correct words in all the correct places. So thumbs up, I guess?
The issue ends with another member of the team trying to fuck Bonfire. This time it's Icicle or whatever his name is. They kiss and nothing blows up or melts (at least nothing that can be shown in an unrated comic book).
Young Heroes in Love #8 Rating: B+. I really love the art. And that's saying something because I normally ignore the art. My criticism isn't art criticism. It's word criticism. I criticize words. And the words in this issue were all the correct words in all the correct places. So thumbs up, I guess?
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