I'm JUST Sayin…

#6 – Look, up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s a frog?

A frog?

Not bird, nor plane, nor even frog, it’s just another volume of “I’m JUST Sayin…” a glimpse into the mind of King Cobra or as I’m known in France and Canada: “The Great Dark Thing That Ogles Our Women.” As always, I don’t precisely start out knowing what it is that I wish to discuss, distress, dismember, disrobe, and/or discombobulate at any given moment, but sometimes I’m struck by Inspiration. Other times, I’m actually mugged, rolled, and left with knife wounds in a rest stop bathroom outside Castle Rock, Maine by Inspiration, while Inspiration and it’s friends use my debit card to buy porn, booze and switchblades.

Today’s Lecture Topic:


I have been much irritated of late by the Visa Check Card Commercial featuring a host of Marvel superheroes coming to the rescue of some chick in a mall parking lot. Leaving aside the question of WHY the entire roster of the Avengers and the X-Men were wandering around Twin Pines Shopping Centre, or why Captain America is suddenly strong enough to burst through CONCRETE (not that comic fans are anal about such things), but why does Spider-Man sound like a drunken Corey Feldman with a head cold? Sure, he’s young and he’s supposed to be a wise-cracking devil-may-care type, but that voice track is just ANNOYING! He literally sounds like a voice-over that Prisoner and I would have slapped together in ten minutes at KBSH Television in Hays (home of the legendary “SANDWICH OF IVAN JENSEN”). It’s as if they’re trying to make the commercial ridiculous to apologize to those who are too GROWN UP for caped heroes…

I guess I just don’t get it. I’ve read tons and tons of fiction, both adventure/escapist (soooperhero and comic booky) and “Real Literature,” and frankly? I don’t see that much difference. There’s apparently some unwritten line of demarcation that makes the little 24 page paper pamphlets mind-sucking pap, (Doesn’t being 3 bucks a pop make them adult? After all, who but a grown-up has that kind of disposable income?), while virtually the same story told with Russell Crowe in the lead becomes a poignant and tender Oscar nominated must-see film experience.

For the purposes of my BMF list and the subsequent Hall of Fame (currently over in “The Jungle”, he said, hinting broadly), I won’t draw any lines on genre. Children’s program, soap opera, comic book, movie, Tijuana Bible: Everybody gets an even playing field. Mebbe it stems from my pathological need to balance the scales (hey, YOU try being the only BOY child in a family of psychotic Amazon women and see if YOU don’t have a problem with marginalization), but mostly it comes from this truth: Ideas is ideas. The set dressing isn’t nearly as important as what you’re trying to say. If your story is, say, a deep and philosophical look at the world around us, why should it matter than the main character is Wonder Warthog? (Heh. I love Wonder Warthog. “I gave ’em all a TV, and a Cadillac and sent them to Mississippi! They’ll never bother Americans again!!”) Aaaaannnyway, there are tons of television shows on the air where the main characters do thing that are reminiscent of comic book/superhero stories, in a GOOD way. From Gil Grissom’s almost telepathic understanding of a crime scene, to Sydney Bristow’s fighting skills, to the Bruce Wayne fortune of Doctor Carter on E.R., virtually any show has SOMETHING that’s over the top, that’s larger than life, that’s… fuck it, comic booky.

Halle Berry is much criticized in comic book bitching circles for supposedly having been quoted about her casting as Storm: “There were so few good roles for African Americans, that I had to be in some stupid comic book movie.” Does she have a point? Sure. Will the irritation of a dozen (or even a couple THOUSAND) hardcore super-geeks make a damn bit of difference to Halle Berry? Nope. Not a sausage… bugger all. Ms. Berry will continue in her happy, beautiful life with her dune buggies, and her mansions, and her sleeping with her Hispanic chef Joaquin Behindjoo, and there won’t even be the tiniest fiber of her being affected by it. I mean, everybody KNOWS that a REAL actress wouldn’t be in some childish comic book story of her own accord?

To which we retort: THPPPPT! Let us respond to this imaginary Halle Berry by pointing out that not EVERY superhero comes from comics, and not ever COMIC has a superhero in it! There are literally hundreds of comic books that come out every month with nary a caped crusader in ’em. Why tar them all with the same brush? Also frustrating to me is this: For the past 20-odd years, there has been this underlying belief that no concept from comic books is REALLY successful until they “escape!” You’ve got have movies, got to have McDonald’s cups, got to have merchandise. Don’t get me wrong, when you can buy Wonder Warthog Underoos in a XX Large, I’m there, but can anybody tell me how that affects the story? Is the Fantastic Four movie going to improve the Fantastic Four books? Probably not. Is it going to make people more aware of the property? Certainly. Will it make people respect the original material? Not if they’re predisposed to think of it as silly juvenile crap… It’s a Catch-22. The people who don’t read comics because they’re “childish” will never know what has changed, and when a creator does something truly well-done and adult, they’re often chided for working in the medium. Why the heck would anybody who doesn’t already LOVE comic books want to work in the medium?

Witness “Sin City,” a well-done, adult comic. Now that it has a MOVIE, we continue hearing how “lucky” Frank Miller is that he can now go and do “real art.” And when artists from other mediums move INTO comics, somehow their work is considered to be superior, such as novelist Brad Meltzer’s flawed gem “Identity Crisis.” A more adult Justice League, I like, but why does adult always mean conflicted, angry, confused, and/or dead? Aren’t adults allowed to be fun and goofy, too?

Most annoying to me: The condescension has now permeated the comics themselves. I just read the latest issue of “The Ultimates,” from Marvel Comics (mostly on the strength of Bryan Hitch’s ULTRA-sexy portrayal of old-school heroine The Valkyrie. Hey, I’m married, I’m not DEAD!) I alternately love and hate this book (just like my high school girlfriend!) and the latest issue irked the hell out of me. Set in a world where superhumans are just beginning to show up, this issue shows Henry Pym (having been thrown out of The Ultimates for wife-beating) teaming up with a group called “The Defenders.” They’re based on an old comic book series (creatively called The Defenders, another reason why I hate The Ultimates sometimes. It’s all retelling stories with a “fresh creative spin.” And by that, they mean “You may have seen this before, but now, they say FUCK!”) and makes their members seem like putzes. Sure, it’s funny to hear “The Black Knight is stuck in traffic!” and “Isn’t it cool that we finally have a member with superpowers?” and “Next time we have sex, I want you to dress up as Captain America for me!” but it seems disrespectful to the work that they’re adapting. To take a COMIC BOOK about SUPERHEROES and use it as a platform to say how ridiculous a COMIC BOOK about SUPERHEROES is? That’s kind of insulting, isn’t it? It’s just mean, like a swirly for the kid you just beat up and gave a wedgie. It’s just insult to injury…

And besides, Peter Parker wouldn’t sound like Corey Feldman. He’s from Queens! He’d sound like a young Archie Bunker!

I'm JUST Sayin…

#5 – You can’t spell “overrated” without TV.

Hey, look! It’s another volume of “I’m JUST Sayin…”, the opinion column that begs the question: “Wouldn’t you really rather have a Buick?” Has it been two months already??? Well, no, but I admit to fallin’ WAAAAAY behind on this particular project. Hey, I write a daily column over there in the Jungle, and even a man of my stature can only type and whine SO MUCH during one 24 hour period. Having said that, I’ll reiterate what it am I do here. This is the place where I whine and complain about things that bug me; rant and rave incessantly about the things I like; generally foist my opinions as “The Whole Truth,” but still try to leave ya the room to say “That Cobra guy’s bug-@#$@# crazy”, all while spinning plates on both hands, and balancing a soccer ball on the tip of my nose.

Take THAT, PWTorch.com!

In any case, today’s TOPIC is television, the CATEGORY is “Free-Floating Hostility,” and the course level is 202. I’m your instructor, Da Mighty King Cobra, feel free to call me if the homework is too hard… I won’t help, but it’s always nice to vent, and we could mebbe share some pizza rolls or something. Today’s Lecture Topic:


Sure, it’s well-covered ground, but WHY is so much of Reality TV completely devoid of any form of reality? Shouldn’t something CALLED ‘reality entertainment’ contain some of EITHER???

There have been a LOT of complaints about the Reality genre, and any Seinfeld-imitator worth his salt has added the “Survivor” jokes to his “Gilligan’s Island,” “Airline Food,” “Wife On Period,” and “What’s The Deal With Oprah?” arsenal. I doubt that ANYONE would argue that the Reality TV currently being offered is SO FAR REMOVED from reality that the people ACTUALLY HAVE BECOME TWO-DIMENSIONAL CHARACTERS. Actually, more to the point, they’re just canny enough to *become* characters, knowing that that makes for more screen time.

I bring this up after watching “The Surreal Life,” where Chyna and X-Pac argued in the garden for fourteen minutes, and Chyna continuously made the point that he was never like this “except on TV!” Apparently, in the lost biblical tome “The Epistle of X-Pac To The Jabronies,” the best way to make nice with your partner of choice is to wait until she has an audience and a show of her own, then horn in and try and take over the program. Everybody loves the Fonzie, right? Urkel RULED Family Matters, so this HAS to work! Cause nothing proves your love more than a drunken rant in front of fourteen teamsters and a creepy producer girl motioning for you to “Stretch for the break, then you can kiss and make up!”

Let me start by saying, I love Chyna, and would probably eat DIRT if she endorsed it, even though she’s pretty much a certifiable loon with a plastic surgery fetish who may or may not have swallowed more HGH than I have M&M’s… But this was so sad, so pathetic, so very frightening and personal that I had to switch over to Cartoon Network and watch Master Shake abuse that poor dumb hamburger chunk…

What was most depressing wasn’t that it was on television (Hell, the medium has a LONG history of presenting human suffering and emotional torture as entertainment. Remember “Twenty-One?”) It wasn’t that Chyna and X-Pac were apparently only able to have this discussion in front of cameras (after all, they’re both notorious attention hounds who have fallen out of the public spotlight, and the crux of their relationship seems to be a statement of “SCREW YOU ALL, WE ONLY NEED EACH OTHER!!! and booze).

The part that most depressed me was that I found myself wondering… Scratch that. I found myself *almost CARING* what happened next… It was like “Tod Browning’s As The World Turns,” a purple testament to love and life among the circus geeks. Seriously, I had to go and buy another copy of “The Catcher in the Rye,” and re-watch the commentary track of Kevin Smith’s “Dogma” to regain my Indy intellectual street cred. It was horrifying. Why do I hate reality TV? Much like Dave Sim, I can’t say I HATE it. Hate tends to imply a lot more connection than I actually have to the material. I wouldn’t even say I DISLIKE the genre, I just no longer understand more than five minutes of it at a time… much like Dave Sim.

Remember “The Real World?” I used to love that mess. Back in ’91, I thought it was gripping docudrama, where they took kids from different backgrounds, different realities, who had different goals and dreams, and made them interact. Okay, to be honest, FORCED ’em to interact. Sure, there was the ham-handed presence of cameras and sound men, but that was part of the fun! They were clearly visible, just like any documentary show… And in the first season, Southern Belle Julie and Angry African-American Kevin clashed, and the producers realized…

“This crap might sell! Quick, we need another Southern Belle and Angry Young Man!”

Season Two switched it up by making the Southern Belle a boy, and the Angry girl a Muslim named Tami, but they added another twist: Let’s lock them up in a camper for five days and FORCE the conflict!!! That’s brilliant!!! Season three added the twist of Pedro, the brilliant activist and HIV educator (marking the last time anybody on the show seemed to have any goal other than “LOOK AT MEEEE!!!!”), but they smartly balanced his intellectual approach (It won’t play in Peoria, Dan…) with the “Doodoo Kaka, I’m EDGY!! See how edgy I am, I snotted in the peanut butter!!” presence of Puck. To be frank, I blame Puck for the whole goddamn reality TV schmozz, the little cock-rocket…

By season five, it was all buzzwords: Every season had “Activist Gay Kid,” and “Southern Ignorant Kid,” and “Idiot Party Kid,” and especially “Snotty Uppercrust Kid.” It was like the old traveling carnival shows, where the Bearded Lady and the Sword Swallowing Man left the Midway and went out the Waffle House for fries, except in the carnival, the freaks weren’t as extreme. Today’s Reality TV has given us DEEP PHILOSOPHICAL MESSAGES in bite-size format, making a mockery of deep philosophy AND, sadly, of Bite Size. You know you’re screwed when your intellectual level drops below that of the mini-bag of “Almond Joy” at the Dollar General Store. Worst of all, is that these days each new season of “The Real World” consists of idiot teenagers who KNOW what it’s about, who craft their own character in an attempt to get air-time, carefully calculating each move like they’re building an Aurora model, with nearly as clear and obvious a blueprint.

So, what have *I* learned from reality TV?

“American Idol” has taught me that music-types are greedy, stupid, petty, vicious idiots.

“The Apprentice” has taught me that business-types are greedy, stupid, petty, vicious idiots.

“The Surreal Life” has taught me that Media Has-Beens are greedy, stupid, petty, vicious idiots.

“America’s Top Model” has taught me that fashion-industry-types are greedy, stupid, petty, vicious idiots.

“Survivor” has taught me that the average man-on-the-street is a greedy, stupid, petty, vicious idiot.

“Tough Enough” taught me that wrestling-industry-types are greedy, stupid, petty, MACHO, vicious idiots who’ll $#!+ in your handbag.

All told, it’s quite a menu of glamour, illusion, bullshit, and wicked editing to behold… The fact is, this type of programming hasn’t had any edge at all since the first season of “The Joe Schmoe Show.” Interestingly, this was the last time more than fifty people watched anything on Spike TV that didn’t feature creative control by Paul Levesque… Most frightening to me is the fact that certain networks (I’m lookin’ at YOU, Fox… And don’t get so damn cocky, VH-1, you’re in my radar, too!) apparently intend to build their entire schedule on this crap. The more I watch, the more I think that maybe the networks have hit on the perfect show… Maybe the fact that these programs continue to sell, and that “The Bachelor” is now back with another season of crap is a clear and prominent sign…

Maybe they’re telling us that they’ve figured out the lost Holy Grail of Television, hidden for ten years in a jar of Regis Philbin’s ass-cream… Written on parchment made of kidskin, in the language of ancient entertainers, it speaks the one truth of any media that requires an audience, a truth that dates back to William Shakespeare and beyond; to the first caveman who tripped on dinosaur feces in front of a crowd of people, and kinda liked the attention he got:

The Average Viewer is a stupid, petty, vicious, voyeuristic idiot, and somewhere, deep inside us, we really believe that “what happens after the next break is the most SHOCKING moment in television history!”

However, that doesn’t excuse giving Paris Hilton airtime…. Unless she’s co-starring with Shannon Doherty, Jessica Simpson, The Olsen Twins, and Cindy Margolis, and the show is called “Girls You Want To Stuff Head-First Down A Sewage Pipe Just To Hear Their Echoey Screams.”

Hell, *I’d* tune in…

I'm JUST Sayin…

#4 – Pick Yer Poison.

I’m not-quite-watching Monday Night Raw, while perusing the internet comic sites for information on coming attractions, when I fall across this statement, by brilliant and damn-well-experienced-enough-to-make-pronouncements comic creator Steven Grant:

Everyone has ideas.

Followed by this corollary:

Ideas, in and of themselves, mean nothing.

It’s telling that I immediately connected those statements to the television show I’m watching, to the books I’m previewing, and to my life in general. I have m’self a bit of a quandary, you see. I’m at a point in my Back In The Day Cafe where I realize that there IS an end coming. And if I intend to be anything more than Gary Coleman, coasting for decades on “Whatchutalkin’bout, Willis?”, I need to have ANOTHER idea. More honestly, I need to have another GOOD idea.

The same goes for my Monday night wrestling. I can’t remember the last time I sat and *ENJOYED* a two-hour block of Monday night. Scratch that, actually, I can. I was the week after last year’s Royal Rumble (the match where EVERYBODY and their dog goes head to head, and the winner gets to fight the standing champion, for the uninformed), and Chris Benoit jumped from one wrestling show to the other, so he could challenge Triple H. That would have been the time when I felt that GOOD things were going to happen…

Two weeks later, my wife and I were both laid-off, my entire household income disappeared, and we found out that her maternity leave wasn’t going to be paid.

Shows how good MY instincts are.

Wrestling needs a good idea. King Cobra needs a good idea. Y’know who ELSE needs a good idea? The comic book field in general. Marvel Comics has essentially ignored the last 20 years of continuity to create the “Ultimate” comic book line, which, as much as I like some of it, is a transparent attempt to make their characters “Hollywood-ready,” and turn them into movies. DC Comics has returned Hal Jordan to his role as Green Lantern, after unceremoniously dumping him a decade ago for a “new blood” named Kyle who was quite obviously the writer’s wish-fulfillment alter ego.

“This milk is sour. I’ll try again TOMORROW!”

If the idea doesn’t work now, there’s a damn good chance that it’ll still suck tomorrow.

Hal Jordan is back! Everything you know is wrong!

Spider-Man has ORGANIC web-shooters! Everything you know is wrong!

THIS challenger might beat Triple H!! Everything you know is wrong!

The common denominator? An idea that has been tried before. The problem is NOT “jaded audiences,” as WWE might have you believe. It’s not “market fragmentation,” as Marvel seems to think. It’s not the “New Paradigm” that DC is desperately trying to capture…

It’s the ideas, stupid. It’s the ideas that have been done before. If you want to SHOCK me, put the belt on Batista. Then let Batista fight Randy Orton. Let him fight Chris Benoit, let him fight Edge. Keep Triple H away. Keep Shawn Michaels away. Sidetrack The Usual Suspects into their own issues, and show me an idea that isn’t just a new twist on an unworkable concept. Oh, and take all these “bodybuilder” muscular types who can barely bend their bulbous arms, and GIVE THEM A WRESTLING LESSON. There are WORLDS of moves out there beyond clothesline-powerslam-arbitrary finishing maneuver.

Take the Spider-Man that people read every month, and GIVE HIM SOMETHING NEW. Drop the “Mary Jane is pregnant/missing/kidnapped,” drop the “Aunt May has Cancer/Heart Disease/Rickets/The Heartbreak of Psoriasis,” drop the “Jonah Jameson hates Spider-Man” and show me some actual character development. This a 30 year old man who still lives with his de facto Mommy, even though he’s got a really attractive wife, who still works where he did when he was Sixteen, who wears the same clothes he wore as a high school kid. That’s not just lazy writing… It’s creepy.

Take Green Lantern, and stop the madness! Everything I knew CAN’T continue to be wrong, because for the last 15 years, *I HAVEN’T KNOWN A DAMNABLE THING!!!!* You HAVE to stop destroying the status quo, because YOU HAVEN’T GOT ONE ANYMORE!!! There comes a point where you have to admit that something has gone horribly awry, and have a NEW idea. Don’t just transpose one that’s worked before (F’r example, “Kyle Rayner, a 20ish tough guy loner has super powers…”) and don’t think that simply going back to a PREVIOUS iteration of the same themes is going to make a difference (i.e. “Hal Jordan is fearless and honest, and has super powers…”). Yes, the second is a better idea, subjectively, and one with longer legs in terms of story hooks, but really… Haven’t we seen them both ad nauseam?

Show me another Invincible. Idea: Mark Grayson, an interesting and human kid, has this life, and it’s perfectly recognizable to all of us, while being completely fantastic. Oh, and he has superpowers.

Show me another John Cena. Idea: A character whose gimmick grows organically out of the wrestler’s own interests, who can make the crowd like him AND hate him, who can actually move, who can talk, and who (when the Focus Groups leave him the hell alone) is pretty interesting.

Show me another JSA. Idea: 50 years of continuity, and an ENORMOUS cast, used in exciting, entertaining stories, rotated in and out so nobody gets overexposed, nobody gets stale & boring, nobody becomes another Wolverine, appearing 560 times per month in stories that will all be undone in a year or two when we decide that “EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG!!! And this time, WE MEAN IT!”

In short, there are NO truly original ideas. Just give me a spin on one that belongs to YOU. I don’t expect you to NOT have influences, I don’t expect you to NOT reference that which has come before, I don’t expect you to NEVER stumble in your creative efforts… All I REALLY ask is that you TRY to give me something that ONLY you can do in the order you do it, and beware the problem of going back to the same well OVER AND OVER AND OVER.

Tune in Next week for “Journey to The Valley of The Sons of The Bad Motha Fucka Wallet Volume 2: All We Got Left Is Don Knotts and The Guy Who Played Devon on Knight Rider.”

I'm JUST Sayin'

#3: Who’d win?

Set ’em up, and knock ’em down, an’ set ’em up again. As George Carlin once said, “Life… is a series of dogs…”

Doesn’t mean a thing in this context, but what does, really? It’s #3 with a bullet, on the countdown of stuff that may or may not make sense, and this week, I’m going with a discussion I used to have many, many, MANY times, in different contexts, throughout my life.

I’m an old school comic book fan. By that I mean, I actually remember when the X-Men weren’t being published, and I *LIKED* The Disco Dazzler. In either case, in the comic book community, there are several old saws that erupt like pus-filled sores (Ewww.) every time two or more fans enter the room:

Is Doctor Doom scarred horribly, or is he deluded by a small scar to think he’s no longer perfect?

Were Storm and Jean Grey MORE than just roommates?

How exactly DOES Peter Parker stick to walls THROUGH his costume?

Is Dave Sim crazy, or just a perfectly normal man in an insane world?

Most of all, Who’d win, Superman or The Hulk? My answer is short and simple (as most of mine are): “Marvel and DC win.” Alternately, “Put five bucks on the guy with the heat vision…”

In any case, I often wonder what would happen if that sort of Comic Geek knowledge was applied to other venues, and thus do I give you:


Battle One: Girl Spies

Pre-teen battle machine head to head with the charismatic chameleon! Redhead to redhead, mistress of disguise to high-tech headbanger… There’s gonna be flying feet, kung fu chaos, but ABSOLUTELY NO pulling hair.

King Cobra’s Pick: Kim. For three reasons. One, Sydney is, to my mind, more cerebral, and Kim’s impulsiveness gives her the edge. Two, Kim wears pants when she’s “working”, giving her the edge in not falling off her sky-high heels in a micro-miniskirt. Three, Kim’s support team includes a naked mole rat. When in doubt, ALWAYS bet on the naked mole rat.

Battle Two: Science Fiction Icons

Ooh. The inevitable line drawing. The Trekkies versus the… what? Warsies? War-Mongers? Warriors? WAARRRriiiiioorrrRRS!!! Come out and PLAAAAYYYY!!! Mostly because I can, I’m going to make a ruling: This is going to be “Jedi” era Luke Skywalker versus Season Two Original Series Kirk. Two men in their mid-thirties, just on the edge of greatness. One the first harbinger of the (excuse the expression) Return of the Jedi, the other a man of action, in the flagship of his fleet, exploring Space: The Final Frontier.

King Cobra’s Pick: DRAW. This is NOT a copout. Truly, it would be an awesome spectacle, Skywalker’s physicality and mental powers versus Kirk’s strong will. It has been PROVEN that a human of sufficient willpower can shake or elude Jedi mind tricks, and Luke isn’t likely to go all Cuisinart on a man who quite obviously ISN’T evil (just a bit of a ham). With the resources of the Enterprise behind him, Kirk would obviously run about the landscape of the desert planet before getting his shirt ripped and improvising his own lightsabre out of the phaser crystals, some plant matter, and the spine of a jungle cat. Once Luke realizes that Kirk is just lost in time (obviously, since he’s from the 23rd Century, and Luke is from ‘long, long ago’), he’d help them rebuild the warp core and slingshot out of the system. NOT, however, before Spock and The Emperor have a battle on the psychic plane that destroys all memory of Jar Jar Binks and most of the prequels.

Battle Three: Cartoon Caretakers

Here’s a more obvious pick. Brock is really a latter day Race, with the sole exceptions being that Race is intelligent, capable, grown-up, and pretty damned cool. Oh, I guess I should mention that Race’s cartoon was actually entertaining.

King Cobra’s Pick: Two hits. Race hits Brock. Brock hits pavement. (As for Venture Brothers fans, remember my rule: One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Corollary: When in doubt, I’m right.).

Battle Four: Goofy Guys Trapped In A World They Never Made.

Two genial losers, two red windbreakers, two ridiculous combatants. Neither is any good in a fight, but both are equally deluded about that.

King Cobra’s Pick: Eric, through the power of ganja. After Eric does his “Bruce Lee” moves and Fry threatens to open “a box of Whuppas O Roni, The REAL San Francisco Treat,” they end up breaking out Eric’s weed stash and watching “Happy Days” reruns together, as Bender and Hyde trade barbs in the background.

Final Battle: British Spy Masters.

The central symbol of MI5 versus the ultimate outsider. Imagine James waking up in The Village, his usefulness to crown and country finished. Imagine Six’s paranoia firing up when someone who is actually his equal, perhaps superior, in cleverness and resourcefulness appears out of the blue. Is it a trap? Could this be another endless recursive loop of prison?

King Cobra’s Pick: Number Six. But not at first. James outsmarts him, outfights him, perhaps even outgimmicks him, but NOBODY outmaneuvers the man in the cricket blazer. Six allows James to seemingly defeat him, then follow the same path Number Six himself followed, discovering the secrets of the Village, searching for answers. When Bond and Six next meet, then James agrees to join Number Six’s quest for Number One. And heaven help anyone who tries to deter them…

That doesn’t even touch on crossovers like Fox Mulder/J’Onn J’Onnz…

Or Gil Grissom and Velma Dinkley…

Or perhaps even Popinjay/Nightcrawler…

Pop! ~teleports Nightcrawler away~
BAMF! ~Nightcrawler teleports back~


I'm JUST Sayin'…

Or: The Point Is Having A Point!

There are things known… and things unknown. And in between are The Doors. And some windows. A little bit of conduit for the electrical work, and some various and sundry pipework. Welcome to another record-breaking installment of I’m JUST Sayin’, the column that dares to ask “Is that a Maidenform bra?”

This week, we’re wadin’ into column Number Two (“Who is Number One? You are Number Six! I am not a number! I am a free man!”) and I find myself adrift in a world of uncertainty and recollection… So far, 2005 has been an enormous cluster of annoyances, like climbing through a blackberry bush, but I have consulted with Elvis and Thoth-Mercury, and they’re hoping to make things a little more tolerable with a few well-placed lightning bolts… I’m down with that.

In any case, let’s kick off the NEW AND IMPROVED 2005 with my new mission statement:

“I, The Lizard King, a.k.a The Mighty King Cobra do solemnly swear to treat every day as a new treasure, and to always take my 11 month old daughter Molly’s perspective on life: ‘It may be the same damn Wiggles episode we’ve seen fifty times, but dammit, we always clap for the pirate.’ Also, her correlary: ‘Wherever I am is the most exciting and amazing place on earth.'”

With that in mind, we get to the heart of this week’s missive: CLARITY. I started this column not knowing what the hell I wanted to say, and so, decided to say something about having something to say. (Follow THAT, Freud!)

Okay, I admit it. I write exactly the same way I talk. The previous paragraph is a good example of my style, in all its naked glory: Circumlocutive sentences, long drifting points, pop-culture detours, intrusive side-thoughts, and the occasional complete loss of point. When this happens, I like to use the most invaluable resource any of us has: My ability to read. I go back and READ it aloud in my head. If it doesn’t parse to *ME*, then I rip the sentence apart, and try to figure out what the hell I MEANT to say, or more importantly, what I NEEDED to say at that point.

In an internet-type forum, there tends to be a wide variance in writing skill and usage. That’s to be expected, and isn’t really that much of an issue. You can usually figure out the basics of what’s being said, and when you CAN’T, you can usually ask and get a response much more quickly than with a print-based medium.

Spelling in and of itself is not always an issue. There are hundreds of spell-check systems out there, there’s dictionary.com, there’s even books for those of us still working in the 20th Century. There’s even the old saw that proves that it doesn’t matter what order the letters of a word are in, so long as the first and last are correct you can dope it out… Smeotmies teshe rleus cnoisst of msolty blusliht.

So, when we take away the vicissitudes of spelling, and ignore the issue of style, we get to the point of clarity. It’s not necessary to say anything NEW about a topic, nor anything revolutionary. It’s not necessary to even be original. And I’ll stand by the point I tried to make with Mr. Walrus regarding the visionary status of the Wachowski Brothers in breaking genres with “The Matrix”: It’s not even necessary to be original, as long as you have SOMETHING to say.

Something to say can be as simple as “I like girls,” if you can convince somebody to give a place to SAY it, and you do it in an entertaining manner. Or it can be as complex as saying “These are the fifteen sub-categories of female personality, cross-referenced by culture, height, IQ, and shoe size, and are listed in descending order of HOW attractive I find them.” Again, doesn’t matter HOW you convey your point, so long as you can convey it.

Questions of tone, of form, of medium, of skill, of craft, all are moot points if no one can dope out what the hell you’re trying to say. While I sometimes take the scenic route to get there, I try to be able to simplify and break any given composition down to its point, thusly:

“Romeo And Juliet”  Boy meets girl. Boy’s family hates girl’s family. All hell breaks loose. Exeunt.

“The Matrix”  Everything you know is wrong. Bill S. Preston still can’t act. Exeunt.

“The Fantastic Four”  Everybody has family, and they’re all fuckin’ crazy, yet you still love them. Exeunt.

“The Bible”  There was light, and it was good. Wackiness ensued. Many people misunderstood, got beheaded, and probably went into the afterlife. Those that remained didn’t get it. Exeunt.

“Friends”  Unlikely allies make the best relationships. Phoebe is stupid. Exeunt.

It’s not about HOW well you write, what tools you use, or where it’s going to be read. It’s a question of playing fair with the eventual readers. Even if you’re just writing erotic stories for the spank bank, you need to make it as clear as possible what you mean by “throbbing manroot” and “flowerpetaled center of her being.”

Start at the beginning. End at the end. Try to remember where you’re going in the middle. Once you’re done, go back and reread, rewrite, rework as necessary. Even a simple four line posting to the Media Rebellion/BP message boards should be as clear as possible. That doesn’t mean short and to the point, it doesn’t mean edited to the point of pain, it doesn’t mean written like your favorite author, or in a false persona… It doesn’t mean you need to agonize over every syllable, though some do. It doesn’t mean you need to bend over backwards to use your entire vocabulary, or to try and make people agree, or even prove how cool you are.

Most of all, it doesn’t mean it has written like King Cobra wants it to be… You have a voice, you have a keyboard. Go nuts.

I'm JUST Sayin…


Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends… Wait, I used that one already. Crud. Ah, well, nevermind.

What we got us here is the first ever installment of ‘I’m JUST Sayin,’ your in-depth look into the mind of King Cobra, a.k.a The Lizard King. Though I don’t expect to have a THEME or TOPIC, per se, but I promise I’ll try and be entertaining, make some sense, tell you some neat stories and not make you think too hard. Expect pop culture, dime-store philosophy, brazen arrogance, and the occasional obvious pass made at the closest hot young lady.

For our first installment, I thought I’d share a few things with you that makes sense to me. They’re not rules, in that they may not be universal. They’re not advice, since I’m just a goon, and have no real right to give anyone advice.

But they’re true things, sometimes. And they may help understand the general tone of the things I’m gonna throw at you come Tuesday evenings…


1. The existence of a lane does not imply the right to pass.

2. Everyone’s job sucks. I just try to keep the suffering to myself.

3. Personal expression is a wonderful thing. That said, keep your ‘Peeing Calvins’ to yourself. 🙂

4. 90% of everything is bullshit. All opinions about things that suck, including this one, are part of everything.

5. A true conviction is defined by what it is, not what it isn’t. Saying ‘I’m Anti-fill-in-the-blank’ isn’t a conviction, it’s an indictment of character. Your own.

6. By the same token, question any decision that was made by asking yourself what X person/religion/authority figure/relative would do and then doing the opposite.

7. How a person looks isn’t worth insulting. Fashion is just a group delusion, actions are what matters.

8. In that vein, be careful when indicting the actions of others, ’cause we’ve all done something stupid and indefensible. Probably earlier today…

9. Play by the rules. If you don’t like the rules, try to get them changed. If they won’t change them, there’s other games. If you don’t like the game, sometimes you can make up your own. But sadly, there will come days when you’re playing billiards with a cricket bat. Try not to get killed.

10. No matter what it is that you believe, any group that advocates the destruction/eradication of all those that oppose it may in fact be evil… Choose wisely.

11. If a person is old, you gotta think they’ve learned a thing or two about what’s going on around them. Doesn’t mean they’re RIGHT, and it doesn’t mean their ideas will work for you.

12. Likewise, the man who wrote the self-help book may actually want to help, or he may want a lot of money from writing a self-help book in a world where any hints are sorely needed.

13. While it is good advice to not believe everything you hear, it’s equally important not to hear everything you believe. If you only truly believe what you’ve been TOLD, you’ll never add anything new to the equation. The ability to make your own decisions and create your own paradigms is critical.

14. Respect the differences between human beings… They are what perpetuates the species. (It is not wise to marry your siblings).

15. The Wonder Twins had the right idea. I defy you to think of any crisis situation that would not be vastly improved by the presence of a gorilla with a bucket of water.

16. Be honest about your weaknesses, if only with yourself.

17. Your credentials mean less to me than the viability of your ideas. Some of our best thinkers were untutored.

18. Qui-Gon Jinn knew his biology. There IS always a bigger fish.

19. The service sector is filled with people who don’t want to be there. Be as nice to them as possible.

20. Your right to swing your fist ENDS at the bridge of my nose. Any RIGHT bears with it an equal amount of responsibility. If you can’t handle the responsibility, you need to be careful how you exercise your rights. If you go looking for a fight, you’ll always find one.

21. To a great portion of humanity, being secretly gay isn’t a scandal and probably never should have been. To that portion of society that does think that being gay is a scandal: I respect your opinion, and refer you to #14.

22. We cannot control what makes us angry, or happy, or sad, or horny. We’re all in denial, but not all of us need to be ‘snapped out of it.’

23. Often times, unpleasant news is best delivered by someone close to the target. It isn’t always your business to ‘educate’ them, no matter how much you want to.

24. No matter how much it may hurt, s/he can’t help the fact that s/he doesn’t love you right now. It’s not a personal slight, and there’s no use is figuring out ‘what s/he’s got that I don’t.’ It’s not a bank transaction.

25. Competition isn’t always a good thing, nor is it a goal unto itself. Conversely, when used properly, it can be a good motivator. Use its powers only for good.

26. Possession or non-possession of a y-chromosome doesn’t make you a separate species. Mars? Venus? Bullshit. We all act the way we do because of what we’ve seen. Gender can color that, but it doesn’t define it.

27. BUT WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN? Maybe the children don’t need nearly as much protection as we want to give them… Could be all they need protecting from is us.

28. Every one of us is unique. Every one of us does the same stupid shit, every day. We’re perfectly alike, yet completely different. When you figure out how that works, you’ll understand humanity.

29. Any list of this nature should be designed so you can pick and choose, tossing what doesn’t work. It should end with ‘although I could be wrong.’

30. I could be wrong.

Back in the Day Cafe #4

bad mother fucker walletSometimes, when you wake up in the morning, you have a wise-ass idea, one that makes you think “What the HELL was *I* smoking?”

That, dear friends, is my life. Welcome to another tour of the mind of the Mighty King Cobra, a.k.a. The Lizard King, and this time, it might be vaguely educational, too!

As always, our premise: One of the minor plot points of the movie Pulp Fiction, is that the wallet carried by Jules Winnfield is adorned with three powerful words. Bad. Motha. Fucka. And Your Lizard King has taken it upon himself to ask:

Who Else is Qualified to Carry the Bad Mothafucka Wallet?

Without further ado, we bring you, The Lizard King’s BAD MOTHAFUCKA #97:

Bad Mothafucka #97: Ernest Hemingway

bad mother fucker walletHere’s where we detour, remaining, as always, vulgar, course, rude, and pretty fuckin’ funny, but keeping in mind: This shit actually happened!

“Papa” Hemingway is remembered for a lot things: His avid pursuit of hunting, bullfighting, pugilism and the “manly” arts; his body of work; the (possibly apocryphal) stories of his childhood; and the ongoing “revelations” regarding his sexuality.

But, as our first real-live Bad Motha Fucka, Ernie gets the nod on these strengths:

#1: The Style

After Ernest graduated from High School, his father wanted him to go to college… but Ernest had very different ideas. Hemingway wanted to join the forces or learn to write. By October 1917, he was working in newspapers, for the Kansas City Star. He was trained ‘on the job’ by studying a style manual which declared good writing meant short sentences, and positive writing.

Any of us who’ve ever read his works are familiar with “The Style.” Short, terse prose. None of that flowery bullshit. His writing, like so many other facets of his life, is straight-shooting, and to the damn point. Hemingway himself said he “distrusted adjectives,” giving his writing a simple, yet effective voice. Sort of like John Wayne, with a quill pen.

And that applied to more than just his writing. Early in 1918, Hemingway was working for the Star, when he found himself at Union Station. On the stone floor lay a man on a stretcher, bundled in blankets. The crowd had formed a circle around him at a respectful distance, for his face was broken out in ugly sores. There seemed to be no one attending him. He was moaning a little.

“What’s the trouble here?” Hemingway demanded.

“He’s got a contagious disease,” someone in the crowd piped up. “No one dares touch him. Some one sent for an ambulance.”

“Why is he left alone like this? Isn’t anyone in charge of him?”

“Two men took him off the train and brought him here. Then they went back on the train. I suppose the man’s a pauper and couldn’t afford to pay anyone to take care of him.”

“How long since they sent for an ambulance?”

“About half an hour.”

Hemingway swore, “Why, I wouldn’t treat a dog like that. What’s the matter with you people? Why didn’t some of you carry him out on the stretcher and put him in a taxi and send him to the General Hospital? The man’s got smallpox and will die if not given care immediately. I know what smallpox is because I’m a doctor’s son and recognize the symptoms. Who’ll help me get him out of here?”

At the word smallpox, the crowd retreated. No one offered to help.

Hemingway became angry. “What’s the matter with you yellow bunch anyway? Are you going to stand there and let a man die?”

When still no one made a move, he himself picked up the man in his arms and carried him out of the station. Then he ordered a taxi and took him personally to the hospital, charging the expense to The Star.

Sometimes… a man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do.

#2: Running Of The Bulls

Hemingway’s childhood gave him an insight into all aspects of life and, being such an inquisitive person, he wanted to try everything and be exceptional at everything he did. He found it very frustrating when his health or poor eye sight kept him from fulfilling his goals. He wanted to join the forces, but was unable to. His crappy eyesight meant he could only join the ambulance corps. That might be enough for some people, but not our Papa. He wanted to excel, to be thought of as the best. Exhibit A:

bad mother fucker wallet

He’s the one in white pants, irritating the angry half-ton of beef. When it came to excitement, Hemingway went FAR beyond the call… Sort of like the first extreme sportsman. (Fuck you, Tony Hawk. But can he do a half-twist Fakey Ollie Grind?)

#3: His Wives

bad mother fucker walletHemingway married four times. Four freakin’ times! Does this prove that he was hard to live with? Well, probably, yeah. But it also shows him as a man of his passions, a man who reacts with his heart (and, to be fair and frank, with his balls as well), a man who DID WHAT HE WANTED TO DO, and consequences be damned. It’s admirable, in a fearsome way. I have to admire someone with the cojones to live the way he wanted to.

That said, the same passions that drove him to each new woman, each new bullfight, each new book, each new conquest, certainly drove him to his death. In a way, it seems ironic that the same courage that impelled him to live, impelled him to kill himself. Under no circumstances will I defend, from a moral, legal, or even a psychological point of view, the act itself. That’s WAAY beyond the scope of a flippant Internet countdown.

I’ll sign off with the words of Papa himself:

“I always try to write on the principal of the iceberg. There is seven-eighths of it under water for every part that shows. Anything that shows, you can eliminate, and it only strengthens your iceberg. It is the part that DOESN’T show…”

(Next Time: No wound they gave was ever anything but fatal…)

All characters, images, and names are copyright their respective owners. No infringement is intended.

Back in the Day Cafe #3

bad mother fucker walletEach of us is driven by one dream… one drive… one ongoing overarching imperative. Mine seems to be accumulating pop culture barnacles the way Roseanne collects chili dogs.

As always, our premise: One of the minor plot points of the movie Pulp Fiction, is that the wallet carried by Jules Winnfield is adorned with three powerful words. Bad. Motha. Fucka. Only The Lizard King would ever think to ask:

Who Else is Qualified to Carry the Bad Mothafucka Wallet?

Without further ado, we bring you, The Lizard King’s BAD MOTHAFUCKA #98:

Bad Mothafucka #98: Inigo Montoya

bad mother fucker wallet“I do nut thing thet means what joo thenk it means…”

In this case, I might have to edit it to “Ye Olde Badde Mutterfuckere”. Inigo, aside from spawning one of the most quoted movie lines since “Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn,” stands tall among the greatest swordsmen of… where the hell ever, and chronologically speaking, may have actually invented the mullet! High praise indeed. So, what brings our errant Spaniard to the dance?

#1: Stick-To-Itiveness

Inigo spent over TWENTY YEARS searching for the sumbitch that killed his papa, foregoing any and all of the things that young men normally get involved in: sex, sports, sex, work, sex, money, sex, horseback riding, and sports. This is especially impressive in present company, where most of us have the attention span of a… um… whaddaya call that thing? That comes in herds across the plains of wherever? Boy, an eggroll would be good. Hey, did you read She-Hulk this… What? Oh, right. Inigo has FOCUS.

And the moment when he finally finds Count Rugen, after 20 years of fruitless pursuit… Bringing him to his knees, with the six-fingered man offering money, offering power, offering “anything he wants…”

“I want my father back, you son of a bitch.”

If that didn’t get you, then you’re dead, and should report for cremation right freakin’ now.

#2: He got SKILLZ, biotch!

Inigo fights a poetic ballet of blades and acrobatics, as much a dance as combat, as ever with the slight smirk on his face.

bad mother fucker wallet

Inigo Montoya: You are wonderful.

Man in Black: Thank you; I’ve worked hard to become so.

Inigo Montoya: I admit it, you are better than I am.

Man in Black: Then why are you smiling?

Inigo Montoya: Because I know something you don’t know.

Man in Black: And what is that?

Inigo Montoya: I… am not left-handed.

[Moves his sword to his right hand and gains an advantage]

Man in Black: You are amazing.

Inigo Montoya: I ought to be, after 20 years.

Man in Black: Oh, there’s something I ought to tell you.

Inigo Montoya: Tell me.

Man in Black: I’m not left-handed either.

The man redefined sword combat WITH HIS OFF HAND. I can’t even jerk off with my left.

#3: Sidekicks

bad mother fucker walletAs Mishi Kato once told Paul Reid “THIS is a sidekick!”
I am your partner!

Inigo has as his Boy Wonder (smile when you say THAT), Fezzik the giant, ably and touchingly played by the late Andre Rousimoff. Fezzik was many things, but above all he was a gentle soul who would not be best friends with just any schmuck with a grudge and a customized six-fingered blade. The loyalty of a man like that is a badge that puts Inigo Montoya above and beyond your garden variety mercenary. RIP, Andre.

(Next Time: To have or have not?)

Back in the Day Cafe #2

bad mother fucker walletOne of the minor plot points of the movie Pulp Fiction, is that the wallet carried by Jules Winnfield is adorned with three powerful words…

Bad. Motha. Fucka.

In an ongoing attempt to fill the world with meaningless, yet ever so cool, drivel… I put before you the question:

Who Else is Qualified to Carry the Bad Mothafucka Wallet?

Without further ado, we bring you, The Lizard King’s BAD MOTHAFUCKA #99:

Bad Mothafucka #99: Croyd Crenson.

bad mother fucker walletI hear a voice from the gallery… “WHO?”

To which I respond, “I never said this was gonna be mainstream, biotch!”

The Wild Cards novels were a shared universe experiment that grew out of a role-playing round. Superheroes as imagined by some of the finest Sci Fi minds around. And the powers were as bizarre as you might expect. Witness… The Sleeper.

Croyd Crenson was 8 years old the day the Takisian gene bomb went off… Jetboy had failed, and young Croyd’s world was about to change forever.

They call him The Sleeper, so named due to the nature of his power; whenever he falls asleep, his body changes into a new form. Usually, he sleeps for several weeks, and then awakens, sometimes staying continuously awake for several weeks.

The Sleeper has a new body each time he wakes, sometimes a monstrous “joker” form, othertimes superhuman powers, in the novel’s idiom, an ace. Due to the nature of his powers, the Sleeper fears sleep. He is terrified of eventually waking up in a hideous joker body that will either die before he sleeps again, or that won’t need to sleep at all. He pops pills constantly, and will usually turn into a ravening, paranoid maniac before crashing at the end of his waking period. What makes our Croyd Wallet-Worthy?

bad mother fucker wallet

#1: Moral Ambiguity

Like Jules himself, Croyd trafficks on both sides of the law, equally. In his many appearances (Indeed, Croyd’s most impressive power is the ability to ALWAYS be where the action is, throughout the Wild Cards novels…), Croyd has shown that he is, at best, unpredictable. At worst, he’s a danger to life, limb, and the pursuit of loose women.

And like as not, he’ll end up fighting AGAINST the other characters, in a speed-induced haze.

#2: Algebra

One of Croyd most humanizing and endearing traits is his own self-knowledge. Though quite streetwise, he is not an intellectual. He knows this, and regrets. Often times, as he slides into a amphetamine-fueled haze, Croyd begins lamenting how he never learned Algebra, and how he wishes he had finished school…

This touch makes a bad mothafucka a real person, as well

#3: SPEEEED!!!

Abolics, Amyl nitrite, Alpha-ET, Amidone, AMT, Fentanyl, Reds, Yellowjackets, Black Beuties, Barbies, Methcathinone, Batu, Bazooka, Mescaline, Dexmyl Spansules, Benzadrine, Black And Whites, Bombers, Blackbirds, Mollies, Blue Bullets, BOLIVIAN MARCHING POWDER, Brain ticklers, Hydrobromide, Brownies, Bumblebees, Dimethyltriptamine, Peyote, Cacti Joints, Cadillac Express, Cannabinol, Crystal Meth, PSILOCYBIN (WOOOO!), Chalk, Chicago Black, Chiefs, China Girl, Chinese Dragons, Chocolate Escobars, Christina, Isobutyl Nitrate, Coast To Coasts, Benzocaine, Crank, Mannitol, the Criddy, Crisco, Crisscross, Dimethyltriptamine, Double Cross, Ebombs, Eightballs, El DIABLOOOOOO, Embalming fluid, Fire Ups, Fives, Fizzies, Flat Chunks, 45 Minute Psychosis, French Blues, Fry Daddies, GHB, Methcathinone, Geezin a bit of dee gee, Glass guns, Grimmies, G SPOT TORNADO Half moons, Hearts, Hop hops, Horse heads, Ice, Idiot Pills, Inbetweens, INSTANT ZEN (OOOMMMMM.), Jackpots, Jam Cecils, Jellies, Jefferson Airplane, Jelly bean, Jelly baby, JET FUEL, Joy juice, Juan Valdez, Jugs, Ketamine, Kaleidascope, Kibbles And Bits, Knuckle Sammiches, LA Glass, Lidflippers, Lightning, Alpha-Ethyltyptamine, MDMA, Marathons, Mary and Johnny, Modams, Monkey Tranks, MOOON, Morotgara, Murder 9, SHROOOOOMS, New Jack Swing, Nitro, Nix, Oranges, Owsley’s Acid, P-Funk, Pakalolo, Paki Black, Pangondalot, Peaches, Peanut, Pearly Gates, Pee Wee, PHAT RAILS, Piedras, Proviron,

PURPLE (urpleurpleurple)

MICRODOTS (adotsadotsadotsa),

Pure love, Quads, Quicksilver, Quinolone, Racehorse charlie, Ragweed, Red Devils, Reeksticks, Regular P, Road Dope, rocket Caps, Rocket Fuel, Roples, Ruffles, Russian Sickles, Sative, Scuffle, Seggy, Sernyl, Seven Up, Shaman, Shighty, THE MIGHTY MIGHTY LEMUR, Shotguns, Sightballs, Skids, Skeeball, SLICK SUPERSPEED Smack, Smoochywoochypoochy, Smoked Oysters, Snop, Snappers, Snowballs, Snow White, Speedboats, Special K, Spider Blue, Square Time Bob, Stat, Strawberry Fields, Takkouri, T-Buzz, Teardrops, Teddy Bears, Thai Stick, THC, Thrusters, Tic Tacs, Toncho, Torpedoes, TR-6’s, Turnabout, Twistums, Uzi, V, Valley Dolls, Viper’s Weed, Speedballs, Waffles, Wedding Bells, Wake Ups, Whack, White Cloud, White Cross, Wildcats, Wiches, Winstrol, WONDER STAR, yellow bam, MDMA, Yellow Sunshine, Yen Pop, Yen Shee Suey, Zacatecas PURRRPLE, Zambi, Zen, Zeroes, Zoomers, Neutron Bombs.


Drugs’re bad, mmmkay?

Ladies and gentlemen… I give you…. Bad MothaFucka #99.

(Next Time: You keep saying that… I do not think that word means what you think it means… )

Back in the Day Cafe #1

One of the minor plot points of the movie Pulp Fiction, is that the wallet carried by Jules Winnfield is adorned with three powerful words…

Bad. Motha. Fucka.

When Jules first mentions this to the Tim Roth character, he seems to think it’s a joke. When prompted, he finds the wallet, and seems a bit bemused by the fact that this man, THIS MAN, carries with him something that looks like an eighth grade summer camp project… Then he remembers the gun pointed at his balls.

In any case, I’ve wondered for several years now…

Who Else is Qualified to Carry the Bad Mothafucka Wallet?

bad mother fucker walletWell, I’m glad you asked, bitches… Sit your asses down, and don’t spam my damn topic or I shall be forced to revoke your L.A. priveleges.

Mind if I borrow some of your frosty beverage?


Do they speak English in What?


Sorry… Sidetracked. Bygones… Counting backward on my incredibly overambitious idea, all the way to Number One!

Bad Mothafucka #100: Prickle the Dinosaur

bad mother fucker walletI know what you’re thinking. And you’re right. It IS true what they say about men with big… dorsal fins. Prickle is most notorious for being a cohort of Gumby, the Clay Boy, and Pokey the Big Ass Former Italian Pornographic Star Horse. His place within the Gumby Pantheon is that of the God Mars, The War Bringer.

While surrounded by silly morphing clay children, Prickle brings 3 things to the table…

#1: Voice characterization.

While every other Gumby character sounds like a ten year old sucking helium, Prickle sounds like Archie Bunker after a bad day at the plant. He’s got no time for bullshit, and isn’t afraid to say it. Prickle cuts to the point.

bad mother fucker wallet

#2: He ain’t cuddly

Them spines is Razor bleedin’ sharp. In a world made of goop, he’s the blade of truth and liberty.

#3: This exchange:

Pokey, Gumby, and Prickle are in the big city, amazed by the diversity and strangeness of it all. They’re on an elevator, alone, unable to call for help.

A menacing stranger enters, with a large vicious looking cur on a leash. The dog growls, the stranger approches… Gumby and Pokey shrink to the back of the elevator car.

Prickle… steps… forward… smoke rolling from his mighty nostrils. He quickly lets fly a bolt of pure hellfire from his flaming snout.

Prickle – “Call off your dog, Mister… BEFORE I FRY HIM!”

Bad. Motha. Fucka.

Daaaaaaamn Right.

(Next Time: Sleeper speeding, People Bleeding.)