Mindless Ones

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This week, Tymbus talked to me about the following very important subjects whilst I punished him:

• Dark Avengers #1
• Simpsons Comics #150
• The Strange Deaths of Batman
• Mr. Terrific

Some nice supplementary pictures after the jump…

A hell of day-glo plastic after the jump

I had nothing much to do this afternoon so I thought I’d visit my vault where I keep Tymbus.  He’d been in there all week with only Amazing Spider-Man #583, Final Crisis #6 and The Spirit movie for company.  In the dark and damp he stewed all week over these limited stimuli.  Here’s what he had to say to me:

download vault-of-tymbus-1

[audio:http://mindlessones.files.wordpress.com/2009/01/vault-of-tymbus-1.mp3]
More after the jump…

The last glass of complimentary wine is in hand, the fine cheese is either gone or at the stage where it really should be binned, and the pine needles are just fading memories, occasionally sticking in the soles of my feet. So yes, you’re right, that Santa pun’s been hanging around for a while now and, not unlike a certain pair of skids I could mention, is getting a bit ripe. Still, got to be better than ‘Pantuary’, or ‘Happy New Rear’, you’ll agree.

Why front? Click the jump.

A trout (poached) in (coconut) milk, yesterday. I am a literal mind.

So, our intersphere jizzgame of soggy biscuit has been incredibly successful so far, a fact I find somewhat mystifying, but – go figure – maybe bloggers like reading about blogging. I dunno. I’ve invited Plok or Pillock (which, wow, it used to mean penis, another thing I did nut no – all our British slang means penis, in the end, somehow) from the consistently excellent and engaging A Trout in the Milk to chat. Because we only deal with peoples using the WordPress, it seems to have worked out, coincidentally.

Lots More! Milk! Mindless! Trout! under the cut

Definitely in Greatest Hits mode at the moment, repackaging old tat to get ready for Christmas. 2.5% less VAT. Catastrophes averted by less.

Ancient Chinese Wisdom say: Jump! Juuuump!!

In part two of our interview with the lovely chaps over at Funnybook Babylon (part 1 here) we find out who the slackers are, fantasise about monetization, consider Jason Todd’s ethnic origins, and ask the question: what would you do if you were the fucking Beyonder!

Jump over the link and get a blog full of funnybook excitement right in yer face!

And you thought we’d forgotten. For the lucky uninitiated, check the Cape-Killer archive:

To catch a cape killer

Cape killer apokriffer

Join Us!

What are you waiting for? JOIN US!!

So. We caught one.. A genuine, real life, stone-cold Cape Killer. Hero-blood under the nails on her dialing finger.

Beware! The mind of a Killer lurks beneath!

When I was about 11 years old my Father and Stepmother moved into an enormous Edwardian house in Surrey, owned by an eminent Buddhist scientist and a Thai Princess. The House had extensive grounds, being situated in a large wood complete with an old cottage that was now a private residence but would have been the servants lodgings a hundred odd years ago. My Father’s family rented one half – again, probably the servant’s half – of the main house, while the owners, complete with jet-setting, Lamborghini designing children, took the really posh bit. There always was, and is, something strange about moving through the main downstairs corridor that connects both family’s ‘homes’ – from the shabby, sepia tinted wallpaper that represented the world I lived in when I stayed there, and out into the clear, white, airy space inhabited by the other residents. There was a feeling of intruding, of being out of one’s depth. But as I got older and eventually got to know the entire place, I started to feel differently. In the end, the overriding feeling was simply that the way the other half tried to present itself was inherently dishonest. Not intentionally so, but nevertheless there was something anachronistic about the kind of aristocratic world that they, and the house, represented. Like a good deal of Edwardian stuff, it felt as though the house and its inhabitants somehow embodied the last, glorious, sad throws of a world that had only recently been devoured by social mobility, daytime telly and cultural relativism. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, but there was something deeply melancholy about it – as though by peeling back the thick, red, draped curtains that weighed heavily on the bedroom windows, you could reach out, through, and touch that other world of bright sunny days, tennis on the lawn, and all that E M Forster crap. The place, even in the high rent bit, always felt faded, and like all proper mansions was cobwebby, the black wrought iron window-catches didn’t work properly, the grass in the orchard was often unkempt, and it was COLD. Wherever you went in the house, my abiding memory was that it was often bloody freezing. And it hasn’t changed much in that regard.

You have to kick the backdoor to open it – it’s bloody stiff!