Encyclopantia Bobtannica

June 26th, 2009

Pantcyclopedia Bumtannica? Buttannica? Whatever. I’m thirty-one years of age you know.

Haven’t done a pant update for what seems like ages, but that’s not to say the world has saned-up and stopped selling them. Quite the reverse – the tide of new superpants is faster and stronger than ever before. Keeping track of them on-blog has partly* been a way of tracking the way the high street and concomitant fashion/cultural mores have responded to the superhero madness of he last few blockbuster summers. Our ongoing victory, if you will.

The mission is becoming an increasingly difficult, because – in no small part on account of this blog, obvs – these pants are more popular and common than ever before. They’re everywhere. Several of my fellow mindless can now be seen baring a splash of four colour idiocy by their bumcracks when they bend, and (and the pride I take in this is truly pathetic, I appreciate that) we received a genuine, honest-to-shitness Thank You email from a grateful reader whose girlfriend spied him checking out some of my hot strides, and is now the happy holder of a burgeoning collection himself. This post is dedicated to him.

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*The other part? bumgags, bumface.

Incredible Hulk pants V

February 27th, 2009

These are my favourite new pants. They bring the total of Hulk pants to five, making the mean green smashing machine a clear winner in the pantularity stakes. (Regular skidophiles will remember that for reasons unclear half the total Hulk pants feature him taking big licks from Iron Man. Technically this is only gamma pant solo mark three.)

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The force that through the green fuse drives the flower / Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees / Is my destroyer. – Swamp Thing #140

The great sock weekender – roof

February 23rd, 2009

Things got a bit too much for a minute there in the loft. Get outside for some fresh air. There’s a balcony and it’s a warm night. There’s a crowd, chilled and clumped, sitting around, smoking, chatting too-earnestly, getting the feelings gained through the gnosis of the dancefloor spoken and out into the air before they vanish, quick as the sweat disappearing from your fringe. Take a deep breath and lean against the balcony railing, head back, breathe it out into the night. Look up. Something catches just the corner of your eye.

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Shit did you just see something? What was that?