The hulking black hole at the center of our galaxy hungers. Why? ‘Cause Galactus hangs out there. Or not. Yet it needs to be feed. Pretty soon it’s going to get a glorious gas cloud to mow on.

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(It’s been a fruitful fucking year for us here at OL. There’s been ups and downs, but one of the most fistfully-forceful awesome happenings was a swelling of the contributors. We decided what a better way to celebrate this than to get all of us to spout off our favorite things  of the year.)

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Alan Moore spat some knowledge recently at last week’s  Nine Lessons and Carols for Godless People. It’s a bit fucking insane, and definitely doesn’t seem to hinge on anything other than his fairly mind-blowing brain-piece. Worth the watch, plus he’s wearing a shirt in the Superman font that says Sperm. A man of my own heart.

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(It’s been a fruitful fucking year for us here at OL. There’s been ups and downs, but one of the most fistfully-forceful awesome happenings was a swelling of the contributors. We decided what a better way to celebrate this than to get all of us to spout off our favorite things  of the year.)

Keep Reading »

(It’s been a fruitful fucking year for us here at OL. There’s been ups and downs, but one of the most fistfully-forceful awesome happenings was a swelling of the contributors. We decided what a better way to celebrate this than to get all of us to spout off our favorite things of the year.)

Keep Reading »

(It’s been a fruitful fucking year for us here at OL. There’s been ups and downs, but one of the most fistfully-forceful awesome happenings was a swelling of the contributors. We decided what a better way to celebrate this than to get all of us to spout off our favorite things of the year.)

Keep Reading »

It’s the end of the year. News is slow. Leisure has temporarily supplanted effort for a majority of people within the comfy confines of the Western world. By the time the gift certificates have been burned and the clothes returned and the sales capitalized upon, we realized it’s no longer Christmas but it is almost assuredly New Year’s Eve. So since everything is but a trickle out of the Echo Chamber’s anus for the past week, I figured it’d be worth mentioning the most notable thing that happened upon my writhing gaming ass in 2011. This was the year spectacle gaming died for me.

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(It’s been a fruitful fucking year for us here at OL. There’s been ups and downs, but one of the most fistfully-forceful awesome happenings was a swelling of the contributors. We decided what a better way to celebrate this than to get all of us to spout off our favorite things  of the year.)

Keep Reading »

As we finish another orbit around the sun, it’s natural to peek over our shoulders and assess the voyage thus far. What’ve we done that we’re proud of? What improvements do we need to make? How closely do our realities resemble our dreams?

All questions worth asking, no doubt.

But if you’re daring, and I mean truly willing to look down the barrel of embarrassment, you’ll take this end-of-the-year opportunity to ask some better questions. Y’know, inquiries into love and hate and sex and death and everything else that makes life both horrifying and beautiful. Ask yourself just one of these types of questions, answer it honestly, and then revel in the ensuing revelations.

So what’s my question? Well, here it is: When did I fall in love with beer?

When I first started drinking, my libations of choice pretty much included anything other than beer. Hard liquor. Zima. Complicated cocktails. All of `em went down the hatch, tasted great, and made me feel good. But for some reason, I just couldn’t understand the appeal of beer. I’d drink it if it were around (show me a picky college student and I’ll show you a coddled miscreant), but it was never my go-to. I was a fool.

But I wouldn’t be foolish forever.

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Never doubt the intrepitude of lawyers. Apparently there’s some sort of financial high-five that can be acquired through action figures if they’re of non-humans. Thus, they’re arguing that mutants aren’t human, promoting Charles Xavier to telepathically wank them with flog-objects.

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