April Fools! April Fools? Yes, it's April Fools Day, the biggest holiday on the internet, and in the spirit of the day I have violated not one, but two of my sacred rules: I have read something by both Rob Liefeld and Mark-expletive deleted-Miller. So be grateful.

Last week I sat down with Youngblood: Bloodsport, and and after several days of recuperation (and several stiff drinks), I am ready to report on my findings. As a word of warning, this is without a doubt the worst comic book ever made. For the following review I have cast open the casing of my black heart, from which I shall pour forth a litany of hatred unto the internet. If you are a fan of either Rob Liefeld or Mark-expletive deleted-Miller, then I am very sorry for you. Please seek the help of a licensed professional as soon as possible.

Miller is, of course, in high form on this particular project. We go not three pages before running afoul of two of his three favorite subjects: gigantic assholes with superpowers, and Larry Craig-style homosexuality. Youngblood opens—somehow unsurprisingly—with gay nude hot-tubbing. Seahawk and Battlestone (who are apparently “heroes” of some sort? [I'm doing sarcastic air quotes there]) are enjoying a nice hot soak, a few fatty rails of coke, and discussing the good old days, while Cyclops and Wolverine (dressed as Jean Grey and Kitty Pride) give them blow-jobs. My mind is beginning to bleed already, but believe it or not this may be the high point of the comic.

On page five we meet Miller's third favorite subject: people being horribly mutilated. In an artfully crafted two page spread, Shaft kicks someone's head off. And as a double bonus we get to enjoy some of the snappy, erudite dialog Miller is known for.

Now don't worry fans of necrophilic sodomy, I know that you might be concerned that we've gone nearly 10 pages without desecrating any corpses. Not to worry dear reader. Miller has not forgotten about you. The Necromancer has raised a quartet of 60s civil rights leaders from the dead, and Shaft—who's name apparently has nothing to do with the bow and arrows slung decoratively between his shoulders—has a splash page just for you. Poor Martin Luther King.

The threat apparently dealt with (I say apparently because having blown his load, Shaft doesn't actually bother catching any of the other zombies. Foreshadowing? Probably not), there's a few pages of exposition. To many heroes, not enough to do, blah blah blah. Most of the heroes are down and out these days, since apparently none of these schmucks can think of anything to do with godlike power other than star in reality-TV shows and basically act like a bunch of whiney, washed up child actors.

I mean, poor Johnny Panic is so down on his luck, he can't even afford penile extensions. Can you imagine!? Oh, and shadowy figures are putting together a new Youngblood team. Tons of cash, original team members only, etc., etc. Couldn't possibly end badly, right? Right.

Cut to a few splash pages of a couple dozen generic superheroes—the collective cast of Youngblood one would imagine—posing dramatically. This is the inevitable zomgwtf moment that comes part and parcel with any of these all-star team-up dealies. All your favorites are here, from Die-hard, to Combat, to Die-hard 2.0. I shouldn't blame Miller for the wonderfully imaginative names, as these are all pre-existing characters; but I'm going to anyway. F****** you Mark Miller.

I feel better now.

Moving on.



The comic wraps things up with some final exposition, setting up the series. Apparently this new Youngblood team is multiversal. The single best member from each universe. So this universe needs to determine which one member to send. But how to choose? I dunno, Mark-expletive deleted-Miller, what do you think? A fight to the death? Yeah, I thought you might say something like that. Queue the two page spread of Nighthawk, or Bladewing, or whatever this crime against human anatomy's name is getting his head vaporized.

Now, you may have noticed that I haven't said anything about Rob Liefeld yet. If you were suffering from the misapprehension that this is somehow a tacit approval, let me stop you right there. Rob Liefeld's art is a testament to the collective sins of humanity. His continuing ability to get work in the comics industry is a benediction to ancient gods, terrible and inhuman. Dark things that dwell in the darkness beyond time, basking in the dimness of dead stars, their many gibbering mouths singing the song that ushers in a new aeon of torment and devastation. Hmm... my Big Gulp of Whiskey mixed with Bourbon seems to be dangerously low... back in a jiff.

Now a proper diatribe against Mr. Liefeld would involve exacting descriptions of Rob sealed in a barrel of guinea pigs. Guinea pigs that are ripped to the gills on a mixture of speed, crack, and pcp. There would be firearms involved, and possibly a party clown. Unfortunately editorial standards, a lack of horse tranquilizers, and basic human decency prevent me from expressing these dreams in appropriate detail, and as such will be foregone.

If the few samples included herein have not scarred your brain enough, I suggest that a very brief google search will reveal Mr. Liefeld's crimes in far greater detail than I could hope to manage within the confines of this humble column. I will content myself with pointing out one simple fact. Look at his faces. The left eye is about twice as close to the nose as the right eye. Every. Single. Time.



Now, I'm going to be totally serious for a moment. Under no circumstances should you ever buy this comic book, not even as a joke. It is the gold standard of bad. Bad plot, bad dialog, bad art. At best you will release a half-hearted chuckle, all the while secretly sobbing internally as the outer layers of your brain liquify, running out your ear and staining the new carpet. At worst you risk serious mental and emotional damage to yourself and everyone in a 5 meter radius. If you are just plain jonesing for a superhero comic, go pick up a trade of All-Star Superman, or Nextwave. Leave reading the truly dangerous comics to the licensed professionals, and remember: Knowing is half the battle.

Questions? Hate-filled Diatribes? Suggestions for Future Reviews? Send them all to tpanshin@nerdlives.com, or post to the Nerdlives forums.

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Tobiah Panshin was born in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, taught all he knows by the animal companions that raised him. As many fine naturalists will however note, Badgers and Woodchucks are notoriously bad at algebra. His math and science skills doomed from an early age, young Tobiah followed the only path available to him: the Humanities. Today, Liberal Arts degree in hand, he pursues with the dogged determination of a short-tailed shrew the pathetic, poverty bestrewn life of a writer. Armed with the strongest weapons he possesses--the umlaut, the gerund phrase, and the mighty schwa--he battles the English Language in a never-ending struggle for domination.