Sometimes, leaving the intro until last is to my benefit. Well, yours too really, as I’m now able to provide you with ample warning. I think I’ve talked about butts quite frequently, and roughly 50% of the whole piece is just completely made up. So, in advance, sorry about all that.

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Hey you! Yeah, the turkey holdin’ the comic book! Why don’t you c’mon in? Oh, you’re not hungry? Well that doesn’t matter – you’re goin’ to want to check this place out. Of all the dining halls on Spaceship OL, this holodeckin’ eat-a-torium is most guaranteed to satiate your fanboy-cravings.

This is, after all, the Comic Book Café.

Now, I feel obligated to offer a word of warning. In spite of the innumerable perks that come with eating in a livin’ and breathin’ paneled-page, there’re some definite drawbacks. The lunchladies are cranky. The pizza’ll burn the roof of your mouth. And the cliques are unbearably divided.

By the Coca-Cola machine sits the Marvel crew – Peter Parker and Joe Quesada are trading yogurts, Betty Banner is smashing a watermelon with her fists, and Tony Stark is sneaking rips of gin out of a Gatorade bottle. At the top of the café is the DC posse – Wonder Woman is givin’ catty glares as Clark Kent sucks on Lois Lane’s bottom lip, Dan DiDio is nose-vomitin’ milk while he guffaws at Plastic Man, and Swamp Thing is tryin’ to extol the virtues of using a canteen instead of Styrofoam cups. And if you look between these two, you can see the IMAGE gang hanging by fire exit – Brandon Graham and Jonathan Hickman are hackin’ away at sketchbooks, some nutjob wearin’ headgear is claiming to be a prophet, and baby Hazel is cryin’ for milk.

It’s quite the scene.

But it’s not the whole scene. Sure, these three tables are the most jam-packed and rambunctious, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re the most exciting. If you’re lookin’ for a bit of adventure, why not take your tray to one of the other tables? What’s that? You thought that those three cliques were the only patrons of the Comic Book Café? Way wrong, bro!

Hey, take a seat at that small table next to the Art Club sign-ups. Yeah, the table with the dudes that don’t really look like anyone else in the cafeteria. This squad goes by the name of 215 INK, and they pride themselves in their independence from the other three. Once you get situated, you should strike up a conversation with the dude rockin’ the beautiful beard.

His name is Mauricio Pommella and he’s the illustrator of TRANSMEET, a comic about trying to grow love in the depleted soil that is our inevitable dystopia.

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Mother Nature is at it again here in New England. Though She can be a dependable source of sunshine and sustenance in many parts of the world, She tends to be fickle in my neck of the woods. One moment she is warm, hospitable; the next She is cold and treacherous–out to get you if you even try to go out. It’s all part of the plan, really. She likes to keep us on our toes, never allowing anyone to be too comfortable with how things are, and I like that about Mother Nature, honestly. I welcome this aura of irregularity because inconsistent states (be they nature-based or otherwise) can be conducive to creativity and productivity: you have to deal with all the contending elements, make the best of what’s at your disposal, and hopefully something interesting comes out of it. And when this great, big storm finally hits the ground and piles up all the snow and logistical problems that come with it, we can plow and pack and shape that snow into salutatory snowmen, serene snow angels, and epic snow forts. We can sled and ski our way to freedom in a winter wonderland. And if you choose to stay inside, you can finally do all those things that you’ve been meaning to accomplish (read that book everyone’s talking about, watch a classic movie, do some writing, etc.). Once the snow is given by good ol’ Mother Nature, it’s ours for the taking. So go ahead and make good on this, just like these fine examples of snowman fecundity.

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Hayyy! I’m totally Team Ben Affleck Is Talented, and this news still makes my skin crawl. The Dark Lords that Be at Warner Bros. didn’t just want Ben Affleck to direct the Justice League flick. Oh no. They also wanted him to play Batman. You can be surprised at the miscasting, or you can remember that these fucking mongoloids thought Ryan Reynolds would be a great Green Lantern. The choice is yours.

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It’s a spectacular time to be a Star Wars fan.

George Lucas, perhaps after being visited by some benevolent omnidimensional sojourner, has sold his most beloved franchise. The moment that fans realized Lucas was finally out of the picture, we began to dream. To wonder. To flirt with the idea that the piss-taste that’s been lurking in our mouths since 2005 may very well be washed away. New Star Wars films could be treated with the respect they deserve.

So, what’ve we been promised thus far? A new trilogy. Kasdan and Kinberg. J.J. Abrams. Cameos from members of the original cast. The interest of Hollywood’s finest actors and directors and other personnel. Spin-off, stand-alone movies.

In short, we finally have a newer hope.

Yesterday’s confirmation of the stand-alone flicks was the final nail in the coffin for my cautious optimism. I am now, for the first time in years, reveling in full-on nerdlust at the thought of new Star Wars. And while I have quite a bit of faith that a new trilogy could be beyond excellent, I’ve always loved the idea of free-standing movies taking place within the galaxy that Uncle George introduced back in `77!

Join me as I take a moment to geek-out about the prospect of new Star Wars movies! I’m going to fanboy my way through some of the premises I’d like to see materialize, no doubt getting so excited that my retainer spills onto the keyboard and my Diet Shasta bubbles over. After you check out my ideas, hit up the comments section and describe what you’d like to see during our next voyages to a galaxy far, far away…

Punch it, Chewie!

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This must be the new thing. Celebrities who clearly have creative directors themselves are getting named as the “creative director” for really shitty products. This time it is J-Timberchucklehead being named the creative director of Budweiser Piss Swill Uranium or something.

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Fuck yeah! The new Butcher Billy jam is here, and this time he is taking his talents to anarchy. The pop-cultural remixing maestro has exorcised the glimmer of the Mushroom Kingdom from Mario’s soul, replacing the sheen with a gritty Sid & Nancy vibe. The winners? All of us.

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I want some dance scenes in my Justice League movie. You know, just Barry Allen and Hal Jordan looking deep into one another’s eyes. Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne skulks in the corner, trying to simultaneously figure out how Jordan gets abs so taut, and also how to break all their bones with his martini glass. So I say “fuck you, and good riddance” to any script Warner Bros. cancels that doesn’t contain such dreams of mine.

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The darkness is eroding, leaving us with one last gasp of righteousness. That’s right, Community returns this evening. Even though it is probably the last thing I will watch before the Great Blizzard of 20+13 strikes tomorrow, I will die knowing that I got to return to Greendale one last time.

Now I know how you can make Fallout: Obsidian Sucks palatable to me. Mash it up with Hotline Miami in some banging pixel art.

Hit the jump for the full thing.

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