Epic Default Productions

So before you click the witty link below this summary, let me preface this rant by stating, truthfully, I wasn’t expecting much from this comic. And don’t worry about any spoilers, because trust me, this will blow your mind. Not in the “OMGTHISISSOAWESOME!” kind of way, but more the Kurt-Cobain-suicide-but-not-really-because-it-was-Courtney-Fucking-Whore-Love-the-whole-time kind of way. There… That’s your summary, now let’s talk shittiness, as Yahtzee would say.

BTW, the link is sung to the tune of the original Spiderman TV series.

So, I’d heard about this particular issue of The Amazing Spiderman… somewhere. I don’t really remember because, honestly, it was the kind of situation where you hear it, think “WTF, mate?!,” and then go back to beating your head in with a frying pan. Or is that just me?

I immediately forgot about it, thinking I would never come across it. I hadn’t been in a comic book store for four years, because, quite frankly, comics really were at the bottom of a very rocky hill for me. I know that most will disagree with me—they think either they were dead and long gone, or still in their golden age.*

But alas, that streak ended when I decided to get my own set of dice for our D&D game. When I stepped in the door, I quickly slipped back into my old habits. Go left, eye some of the classic action figures and trading cards of the various kinds. Make a right and scan the anime and manga, stopping only if something catches my eye… like boobs. Sidestep to the left to get a good look at the graphic novel and collection section. Pirouette and thumb through the classic comics, looking for that elusive West Coast Avengers issue where Tigra becomes a sex-crazed maniac.

As a side note, Tigra is the most underrated comic character there has ever been, IMHO. Her story is so engaging. An outcast even in superhero circles, she’s perpetually trying to find out who she truly is: tiger goddess, or human being caught in a crappy situation. Always afraid of being hurt and hurting those she loves, and constantly battling with her insecurities, all while somehow saving the world. Horrifically emo? Yes, but when placed in the right hands, such as those of Christina Z (the same person who created Witchblade, which was awesome in it’s early years you must admit), she becomes someone that any nerd can identify with. Not to mention that she combines the two most beautiful creations of the natural world into one big package of sexy, but that’s for Epic Default: After Dark.

Anyway, after still finding no success at that, a quick glance at the posters, a bit of drooling over the maquettes, and laughing at the new attempts of action figures (Guitar Hero? Really?!), I finally do what I stepped in there to do. I carefully select my dice, walk up to the counter, and what do I see? None other than Mr. President’s smiling face… as drawn by… someone.

This triggers the memory of that story, as well as a strange throbbing pain in my temple. So, I plop down the $4 (urge to rant like an old man rising!) just for the kitschiness, and to have something to show my kids later and say, “This is how fucked up we were back then. We made comics about Presidents. What do you have? Soylent green? Psshh.”

I did not intend to read it.

But here’s the thing about a concept this bad. It’s like handling biohazardous waste. You know if you get anywhere near it, there is a high likelihood that your wang—or knockers, if you’re so luck-uh, inclined—will fall off. But yet, it’s so intriguing that you have to risk it. So, unfortunately, I committed the worst atrocity known to man; I read it, cover to cover.

And here’s the kicker: it wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be. However, when you weren’t expecting much to begin with, that’s not really saying much. Oh, and let’s be clear that I’m only speaking about the Obama storyline. I’ll get to the “real” plot in a minute.

But first, some more stalling. Why wasn’t I informed that Marvel did a series where a zombie virus infected the population of superheroes? I mean come on, I had that idea when I was 13, and they waited this long for it?

Okay, time to perform the horrid task of telling you about this atrocity of a book. Now, the Obama story line is hokey, the writing is poor, and the art is average, but you don’t buy this for an enthralling story. You get it for, well, the reasons I mentioned: nostalgia in the future, a collector’s piece that you just want to say you have and/or read. The problem is, they placed that story at the back of the book, making this the sort of split 7″ of comics, those that contain a mediocre band that you’ve never heard of but all your friends tell you they are amazing, and to get to it you have to sit through someone trying to emulate Daniel Johnston and failing horribly, as weird as that sounds. My real beef is with the story that is supposed to be a part of whatever fucking arc the wheel-of-stories happened to land on.

Honestly, I’m not going to tell you the details, if you really want to give yourself the urge to gouge your eyes out with a spoon. Be my guest and spend the four Washingtons. The story is so unbelievably bad that I don’t want to have to sit here and remind myself of it, just to clue you in. You just have to trust me.

And now you’re asking, “Why the hell didn’t you just stop reading?” or, “Just skip to the Obama part and call it a day.” My answer: I couldn’t. My heart shattered with every word that was written, but still my mind thought one of two things with each crack in the blood pumper: a) It has to get better, something has to happen that will make up for this travesty; or b) there has to be a “You have to get out of here! Your vagina is haunted!” moment coming up, and fuck if I’m going to miss that.

But neither came.

I’d accepted the horror of the book. “This is Marvel, though,” I thought to myself. “I’m sure to get some comic proportions on some woman in a full-page spread that I can fantasize about for the night.” But even that was cut short and lackluster—one-sixth of a page, and not even in skin-tight clothing.

Whatever happened to the days where if a comic was bad you could at least jerk o-… enjoy the artwork? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a more realistic approach to the female physique in comics, but Jesus tap dancing to polka, what happened to their faces?! Comics are art, or at least they should be, and contrary to what some of my previous comments may make you think, the whole sandbags on the chest, hams in the ass craze is one of the many reasons why I stopped frequenting these shops. It did and does objectify women, in a way.

But I don’t think it’s as bad as many would like you to believe, at least with the mainstream stuff. This is too much dialing back. I don’t want the strong-willed yet average-looking woman as the heroine. No offense meant to anyone, but I know many women like that in real life…

And I have tremendous respect for them…

And love them to death…

And will probably give them flowers in exchange for a ladder to get myself out of this hole I just decided to dive headfirst into.

The point being anyway, that comics used to be an escape. Something you could turn to to get away from the outside world if it was getting to be a little too much. A place where men were men, and women…’s organs were made of helium, but could still kick your ass in an instant. A place where your wildest dreams and fantasies could be true, and you wouldn’t have to try.

And now? It’s this… this… this train wreck of horrible soap opera angst (more than ever) mixed in with spoon-fed drivel just to catch the current obsession of the world. It doesn’t make you want to dream, it makes you want to wake up from a nightmare. It doesn’t make you feel like a kid again, when anything was possible and the only worry you had was if you were going to get bored while in the middle of some crazed adventure. It makes you feel like punching a Lumbergh koala in the face. It makes you realize that this is your reality, and there’s no escaping it, no matter what you do… And it sucks.

Oh, and by the way, just because I think that both the Tiger and the Female Human are the two most beautiful creatures on the planet, and that a combination of the two is absolutely mind-nukingly (trademarked!) gorgeous… doesn’t make me a furry, ok?!

*If you’re one of the latter, and you’re not in a wheelchair screaming your name at completely inappropriate and random times (not that you would know), you might as well stay in your mom’s basement because no one will ever like you even though you are truly “special.”

Call Jonny a sexist pig in the comments, or regail about the golden years in our forums.