Last week, an early Christmas miracle found its way into the comic book stores and I went home with stack of solid reads. This week — not so much. I came to find out that Diamond Distributors was implementing a “skip week,” and therefore wouldn’t be shipping any products.

What the fuck? Seriously, Diamond, do you need really need to flex your muscles? We all know you are a distribution monopoly, do you have to flaunt it? Oh, what’s that? Oh, I’m sorry — I didn’t realize you needed some time to set up the office party for New Year’s Eve. My bad. Yeah, there’s nothing worse than a New Years Eve celebration that devolves into an ill-prepared mess.

Fortunately, the good folks at DC were kind enough to direct-ship Blackest Night #6. Yes, that’s right — there was literally only one release this week. God damn it. Oh well, I suppose I should just revel in the fact that my wallet momentarily spared a beatdown (at least until the doubling-up of releases next week).

Ok, I’m done bitching and moaning. Blackest Night #6 is pretty rad. Long story short; not only are dead superheroes being transformed into Black Lanterns, but now even those who have been dead at one time or another are susceptible. So basically, every fucking comic book character worth is a damn is in jeopardy of being transformed into a super-undead-mega-villain.

Superman. Barry Allen. Hal Jordan. Superboy. Bart Allen. Wonder Woman. Green Arrow. Et cetera, et cetera, all are now susceptible to the power of the Black Lanterns.

At the same time, we’ve got the spectrum-alliance or whatever the fuck it’s called no longer fighting amongst itself, but trying to figure out how to take down Nekron. Ah yes, I forgot to mention, Nekron is some giant embodiment of Death, and is apparently responsible for the resurrection of deceased DC characters throughout the years. Yeah, I suppose such a villain is necessary.

For an “event-book,” Blackest Night #6 is quite substantial. Writer Geoff Johns, as always, knows how to use catastrophes as a canvas on which to paint the picture of authentic, human relationships. While I definitely enjoy seeing heroes trying to fend off the undead incarnations of former friends, I am more drawn to interactions such as those between Barry Allen and Hal Jordan. Johns has managed to convince me that while the trinity may be DC’s Rock of Gibraltar, its real people of interest are Flashes, Green Lanterns, the JSA, and other such relatable figures.

The book is also quite enjoyable just to look at. I feel like I might even be spoiled, as I’ve almost come to  use Ivan Reis’ pencil-work as a sort of standard for big events. With that being said, a more objective eye would probably describe the art as “truly stunning.” Although arguably cheesy, the final image of this issue is a captivating two-page spread that features six central characters running headfirst into battle. `Tis good shit.

Although still miffed at Diamond’s decision to institute a “skip-week,” Blackest Night #6 helps stave off the overpowering nerd-hunger for paneled pages.

[Every week until Final Fantasy XIII comes out, we’re going to play a game. I post a picture, and we all try and make sense of what’s going on in it.]

Unlike the slow consensual love that Snow makes with me, this picture clearly is rocking some underage buttfuckery. I mean jesus christ, have you ever seen such ill-intent in a creepy mustached dude’s eyes? Just look at this picture. I’m pretty sure that’s 14 year-old Hope in this picture. And that dude who has clearly been carbo-loading for the last nine years has one thing in mind. Rape time, and then a Big Mac. Maybe some chicken nuggets too. Maybe he’s going to try and eat chicken nuggets out of Hope’s innocent hole.

I could be wrong.

I don’t know.

I’m just saying, I’m not a master of Japanese, but I believe the above text translates (roughly) to “Don’t worry, my dungeon has heating.”

Pepsibones and I have had a long line of gaming together. There has been literally thousands of millions of gallons of caffeine consumed and expletives dropped in the twenty-three years we have spent on the Earth together while playing video games. We haven’t played much together since the time I gunned a controller off the wall during some bullshit goal during Super Mario Strikers a couple of years ago. I don’t get why he didn’t want to play with me. I only dented a slab of wood with fury and probably had murderous intent in my eyes. It was a bullshit goal, and he was a cheater.

That said, I bought that buttfucker Super Mario Bros Wii Fantabulous Edition for Christmas. I knew he was too stingy to buy it himself, and if I didn’t snag it during the week when he wasn’t warping childrens’ minds with his thinly-disguised anarchist panderings, we’d never get to play it together. I slapped that shit in a big fat box of shit, let him open it up, and then we were off to the giggle factory. He was drinking dirt water, and I was on my fiftieth Diet Mountain Dew of the day.

This game is fucking fantastic.

Two fucking renegade plumbers rocking out on some hallucinogenic mindfuck. Riding dinosaurs and smashing fish that for some inexplicable reason drop coins. You smash into dudes’ houses and then you take their goods. You plunder little fuckers wearing weird hats so you can go fight Godzilla, who just so happens to be the worst father ever. Meanwhile, a princess is getting assfucked and raped into a coma, covered in lizard slosh. In the middle of one gaming session, I was like…Jesus Christ, the things we take to make sense in a Mario game are insane. I imagined the board room meeting while the game was being pitched, and there was one rational dude, who was like, what the fuck is doing on!

Jesus fucking Christ, Jim, how many times do I have to explain it? This guy in the overalls throws balls of ice that freeze the red cockhead with feet, we call them goombas, and then he picks up the block of ice, throwing it into a wall. Then the guy drops a coin…I just, I just don’t get what is so hard here. Are you trying to be difficult?

It’s pure madness. There’s something elegant about the stripped down gameplay in the game that is refreshing. Listen, I’m all for the insane graphics, pretentious storytelling, overly ornate super blockbuster. I love my ear holes and eyes being fucked by awesomeness. But? But sometimes I just want to pick up a god damn turtle shell, and throw it at my dumb unsuspecting brother. The simple gameplay is doubly good too, since Pepsibones doesn’t have the dexterity to play any game that involves more than three buttons. Though, to be fair he did play and love some Fallout 3 last year. He almost shit himself with glee while fucking around with the character creator:

The gameplay and hanging out with Pepsibones harkens back to a simpler time. When I could shit my pants and not receive such a stern reprimand from my parents. When I could pick boogers and not rip out fourteen nose hairs. Everything from the music to the side-scrolling awesomosity is classic. Unevolved, to an extent. But excellent because of that. Some things aren’t broken, and they have lasted the test of time because of that. Cunnilingus, beer, and Super Mario Bros.

It isn’t without its fucking super awesome new flourishes though. There’s a couple of retarded new power-ups that will get your gaming fluids excreting. I mean, they give Mario a god damn propeller hat. Two dudes strapped in propellers, complete with absurd fart sounding propulsion that has a grown man (me) in his parents basement (I’m a failure) making wet fart sounds with his lips. And then there’s the penguin suit, and you can slide down hills without skinning your tits somehow. It’s fantastic.

The game lets you work together or fuck over one another as much as you want. The hit detection is hilarious, since even when you’re trying to help a brother out, you can inevitably fuck up the other guy you’re playing with. You bump and collide into one another, hopping on dome pieces and inadvertently pushing the other guy off a ledge. At one point dumb fucking Pepsibones accidentally ass-stomped my Luigi. The dude hits the ground with a thump, his neck clearly broken. And then Pepsibones and I laugh as Luigi’s fallen, mush-necked body slides off the screen strapped to some apparent rotating wheel.

What don’t you fucking get Jim? There’s platforms and wheels that rotate, because there’s no fucking ground. It’s simple. Simple.

At some point it always devolves into one of us throwing turtle shells up the ass of the other one. I’m just trying to rock out on Yoshi, when Mario guns a spikey carapace of doom off my little dinosaur. And then the pussy that   he is, Yoshi runs off into some pit of doom. I weep momentarily, and then shake the Wiimote, pick up Mario, and throw his dumb ass into the pit after Yoshi. The two of us die laughing, like it’s 1992 again.

Cunnilingus, beer, and Super Mario Bros. Some things never get old.

About two weeks ago I received my grades for the final classes I would ever take as an undergraduate student. College, at least until I get sucked into grad school, is officially over. While I believed in my ability to finish, I guess I never really thought I’d see the day when I would. After all, maulings are on the rise.

In addition to double-majoring in Literature & Secondary Education, the last four (and a half) years saw me doing all sorts of wacky shit:

I wrote a novella.

I traveled around the country with my best friends.

I went to Orlando with Mrs. Krueger. Twice.

I worked at a coffee shop, afterschool program, emergency room, restaurant, day camp, resource center and a video store.

I scripted a comic book, found an artist to illustrate it, and then lost touch with the artist…twice.

I tried my hand at teaching and have realized that I enjoy it as a “for now” job, but hope to parlay my skills into the collegiate setting.

I finally started a blog with my brother.

Without reservation, I can state that I have changed more during my college years than any other period in my life. And knowing this, I planned my personal graduation celebration accordingly. For nearly two years, I’ve purposely refrained from watching my favorite movie of all time. As an avid-believer in the value of delayed gratification, I knew that waiting until I finished college to watch this flick would help recapture some of the magic that made me fall in love with it in the first place.

So tonight, I’m watching the theatrical cut of Star Wars and sipping on Sam Adams Utopias.

God damn, this feels good.

Oh shit! One week until Bayonetta sensually brushes up onto these shores. Are your genitals engorged? Are they swollen for non-stop climax action? I friggin’ hope so! I have a whole god damn plate of video games I haven’t finished yet, but it doesn’t matter. I want to climax, baby. CLIMAX. They’ll be discarded like the underwear I’m going to cheese with love when I finally slide this in. See what I did there? LOL! Fuck you.

This game has taken on a life of its own over here at Omega Level. I can’t even tell you how many hits we get a day for search terms like:

Bayonetta shits her own leather undies
Bayonetta sex
Bayonetta booty shorts

It’s sort of spiraled into its own bizarre fascination for me, and plus, you know, it gets me cheap hits. A bunch of horny nerds, cocks or clits in hand, ready to rub one out to Mrs. Gunshoes. It’s become a recurring joke born out a general excitement I have for the game. Again, it’s like, Devil May Cry starring a babe with gorgeous cleavage, glasses, and leather. Kamiya is playing on every visceral overtone in our animalistic bones. Well played, sir.

One week. You guys can make it.

[variant covers is a weekly comic book column every tuesday that breaks down the various shit coming out that week the world of capes and lasers]

Blackest Night #6
Ain’t nothing really coming out tomorrow in comic book land. You just had Christmas, so stop expecting presents and whining and shit! With the holidays fucking up release schedules and uh stuff, Diamond Comic Distributors announced way back in April they weren’t moving straight nothing this week. Bollocks and shit!

Marvel and DC are using this bare bones release list to shove their Event Dongs gleefully down every comic book fan’s throat. DC is direct shipping Blackest Night #6 to select comic book retailers. My boy Dean over at my local comic shop said you had to meet all sorts of requirements to be an eligible comic store. There’s quotas and crap. I assume it’s like, the comic book store must have at least four gaudy DC t-shirts hanging up somewhere in the store, and at least three DC character cutout stand-ups. And then the owners have to rip off like three push-ups and identify every Earth-3 character starting with Princess Diana the Carbaholic.

Origins of Siege
Meanwhile Marvel is giving away a “free comic” called Origins of Siege. I’m going to go ahead and assume it’s a text-based informercial catching you up on everything that leads into their next event. Called Siege, duh. I can catch you up without this rag though: The Green Goblin controls the world, and now wants to fuck up Thor and Asgard. There you go. Oh yeah, and Thor is all Billy Batson and has a human form.

I really don’t give a crap about the slow week though. I have a backlog that extends into October. Comic books sitting on my desk, asking me kindly to stop playing that three thousandth round of Modern Warfare 2 and get to capes and lasers like woah. Use this week to begin drinking early for New Year’s Eve, catch up on all the comic books you haven’t read yet, and marry and orangutan.

Oh come all ye faithful. How are your colons? How are your livers? Are your guts sated? Is your wallet mutilated? Did your loved one feel that you established your love for them adequately? I hope all of you are doing wonderful. I had a splendid weekend. I got a crap load of gifts, spent the entirety of Christmas evening on the toilet with gut-clenching diarrhea and then saw Sherlock Holmes on Saturday evening. Let’s do the math! Material possessions that make me warm + warm goop coming out of my ass + Robert Downey Jr. with his shirt off? Yeah dude, I had a fucking great weekend.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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Merry fucking Christmas!

As it is the best day of the entire year, I’m going to keep this brew review short and sweet. Don’t begrudge me — fact of the matter is, most people probably won’t even read this until the 26^th. In fact, if it’s still Christmas and you’re reading OL, just stop. Go find a friend or family member and do something worthwhile.

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Omega Level has been a safe haven for fucked up people who like Bayonetta and want to see her analized for awhile now. Glancing at the Search Engine Terms today, I was horrified/engladened (my word) to see that people are 1) Typing Bayonetta Scat into a search engine, and also that our site is turning up.

Also, props to a dude who is curious about Thunderock. I don’t even know where I typed that, but I apologize anyways.

For the past month or so, Caffeine Powered has been presenting Variant Covers, a weekly feature that previews some of the more notable comic releases of the upcoming Wednesday. Starting this week, I am going to begin offering Images & Words, a complementary post that essentially tells you about my favorite comic of the week.

So to clarify:

Variant Covers — Caffeine Powered tells you which comics to look for.

Images & Words — Pepsibones rants about his favorite release of the week.

Get ready for some magic! (“Illusions, Michael, illusions…”)

Just as Caffeine Powered told you on Tuesday, some big titles have dropped this week. Jonathan Hickman continues his excellent run on Fantastic Four by starting a new arc that centers on Franklin Richards; Geoff Johns and Ed Benes remind us that Hal Jordan and Kyle Rayner aren’t the only worthy ring-bearers of the DCU in   Green Lantern #49; and one-shot Captain America — Who Will Wield the Shield is less of a cash-grab and more of a genuine exploration of the new relationship between Steve Rogers and James Buchanan.

While I don’t feel as though I’ve wasted any cash this week (which is a rare thing in the life of a comic nerd), one collection of images and words stands a step all of the aforementioned titles: Detective Comics #860.

For those of you who haven’t been keeping up, Detective Comics has been helmed by Batwoman since Bruce Wayne bit the dust. Long story short — Batwoman is Kate Kane, a Jewish lesbian with special ops training, a father with connections in the military, and an insanely rich stepmother who ostensibly funds the vigilantism without even knowing it. Yeah, I know that the description makes the character simultaneously seem like a bit of a stretch as well as a disingenuous attempt to insert diversity into comic books. To be honest I don’t have any investment in the idea or concept of Batwoman, but the collaboration between Greg Rucka and J.H. Williams III  has kept  me coming back for more.

Story wise, Greg Rucka has been using Detective Comics to present the compelling mysteries and tales of crime for which he has come to be known. This latest issue, the third part of an arc titled Go, features flashbacks in which the reader sees Kate Kane trying to cut her teeth in the crime-fighting biz. In the process, Kate has to deal with ex-girlfriend/DCU fan-favorite Renee Montoya and eventually come to accept the assistance of her father. The narrative then takes us to present day, in which Kate is trying to deal with the fact that her long-lost twin may actually be a villain named Alice.

Again, as I type this shit out, I realize how terrible and played-out it seems. Maybe it is. But even if you find nothing worthwhile about the story itself, you’d have to be a fool to not recognize the beauty that is J.H. Williams III’s paneled page.

At the very least, any comics reader should respect the way in which Williams structures his panels. On some pages, such as during flashbacks, Williams sticks to the familiar, rectangular panel layouts we’ve all come to know and love. However, the artist really shines when he takes a path less traveled; for example, the panels often compose smaller segments of a Bat-symbol that spreads across the entire page. Something so simple as putting the story within subdivisions of a larger visual whole really pays off.

Also, it’s worth mentioning that Dave Stewart is the colorist for Detective Comics. He’s  the man — if you ever get the chance, check out his phenomenal work on Darwyn Cooke’s The New Frontier.

Detective Comics #860 isn’t a classic single issue and a year from now I’ll probably be completely incapable of telling you what it’s about. But as far this week is concerned, it is an exemplary combination of images and words, visual narrative and solid storytelling. If you cash in your Slurpee cup filled with spare change and it totals four bucks, go splurge on Detective Comics.