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The MARVEL COMICS Hall of sHamE

EXHIBITION THREE:

still more of the World's Lamest Villains


Yeah, yeah, yeah... I know. I already picked on this particular ubergoober, back in the dim, distant days of this particular section's initial installment (The Marvel Comics HALL OF SHAME: PAGE ONE (The World's Lamest Super-Villains) ), re: his latter-day nom de crime of "the Trapster." I just couldn't resist using this gloriously inane and hysterical picture scan as a "header," is all.

Before we get decently underway with our latest little atrocity exhibition, here: I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who sent in their nominations for The Most Spectacularly Lame and Awful Marvel Comics Villain(s) of All Time. A great many of these were so malodorous and ill-conceived, handling the requisite back issues (for the scanning of the appropriate pics) necessitated iron tongs and a full-body containment suit.

A final word of warning, folks: if you thought the entries last time out were unspeakably deranged (i.e., The Porcupine; The Matador; etc.)...

... well... take my word for it: the asinine assortment we've got here, this time out, is the very ne plus ultra of Super-Villain Stupidity.

Be afraid.

Be very, very afraid.

We'll start off with someone I promised you all the chance to pelt with rotten eggs and fruit last time out: the manifestly inept Ringmaster [see pictures, accompanying].

I think this guy's track record pretty much says it all, really: after getting his big, dopey top-hatted head handed to him by the Incredible Hulk, in the course of his Marvel Comics debut -- which, in all honesty, certainly is no "badge of dishonor," really; that Ol' Greenskin is one tough cookie, by jingo! -- this cut-rate cutthroat quickly mastered the arcane super-villainous art of "downward mobility," getting his silly face pimp-slapped, in succession, by: Spider-Man; Daredevil; Howard the Duck; and the freakin' kids from Power Pack, f'chrissakes!

Me: I probably woulda chucked the whole "ruuuuuuuuule the world" gig after having my sorry, super-villainous hinder drop-kicked up and down the street by a duck, myself. I mean... how can you possibly even justify that, the next time you're cadging cigarettes and swapping "battle stories" with all the other professional costumed baddies, over in the prison exercise yard...? "He attacked me from behind"...? "The sun was in my eyes"...? "He, like, pulled a knife on me, man"...?!?

Cripes... better you should just tell 'em you got sucker-punched by a fightin' mad Gary Coleman, y'know? At least that way, you be a little less likely to end up as The Involuntary Bride of Cell Block "H." I'm just sayin', is all.

Speaking of savage and unnatural love: our next entry, here, is a would-be world beater whom we haven't seen for quite sometime (not that I'm complaining, mind you; just making the observation, is all).

The Red Ghost [see picture, accompanying] has so many "strikes" working against him, conceptualization- wise, that it almost seems... I dunno... unfair, kinda, to let the poor schlub have it with both barrels. I mean: his entire raison d'être, for one thing, was The Advancement of World Communism, which -- obviously -- "dates" the guy as badly as would a similarly fanatical commitment to the bringing back of bustles and high-button shoes. That's one, right there.

Two: this balding bozo never gets referred to as simply "the Red Ghost"; oh, nonononono. It's always: "the Red Ghost and his SUPER APES." That's a pretty damned tough "sell," any way you wanna slice this particular pimento loaf. (Go ahead: just try saying "... and his super apes" without snickering. Just bloody try.)

... and, three: check out the above picture, again. "... my three beauties"...?!?

This, obviously, was one seriously desperate and... well, let's just say lonely old man... okay? Don't make me draw any pictures here, for God's sake.

Equally in dire need of a nice, long hug or three, in my estimation, was the next would-be super-villain supermodel to stroll his clubfooted way down our celebrity catwalk: the mandibled moron renowned and ridiculed as The Scarlet Beetle.

Now, even after making some ameliorative allowance for the observation that this loser-on-a-stick made his dunderheaded debut within the pages of the old Ant-Man strip in TALES TO ASTONISH -- placing him in such (*giggle*) distinguished company as Egghead; the Human Top; and the Porcupine, among others (Ant-Man was not, as a general rule, regarded as one of Marvel's "A"-list series'; go figure, huh?) -- one fact remains resolutely manifest: giant, sentient and irradiated insects given over to shrieking such things as: "Your days of meddling are ended, Ant-Man! The Scarlet Beetle has vowed to destroy you!" are pretty much always A Really Lousy Idea, push come to shove. I mean... even Team America never fought anybody this freakin' l-a-a-a-m-e, f'cryinoutloud!

The Scarlet Beetle made no fewer than three -- count 'em; three -- wholly unnecessary appearances within the Marvel Comics canon. This was, in retrospect, three appearances too danged many. At least.

This gives ol' SB more than a little in dire common with yetanother contestant in our pinheaded pageant: the inexplicably recurring regurgitant known as The Tarantula. [See picture, accompanying]

Little pointy-toed shoes. It just doesn't get any dorkier than this, gang. Little. Pointy. Shoes.

The true sportsman, as a general rule, disdains the "easy" kill, so I'll holster the verbal Uzi in this poor S.O.B.'s case (I wanna make dead dog certain I have enough ammo left over for the last two targets in this particular paean on behalf of Enforced Four-Color Euthanasia, in any event)... except to make the following observation:

In a desperate, last-ditch attempt to render this hopeless goober as something other than a total laughingstock, super-villain-wise... Marvel Comics scribe Roger Stern had the twit mutated into a giant, sentient and irradiated insectoid creature.

In other words: someone actually figured that morphing him into an 80's version of The Scarlet Beetle would be an upgrade for the character.

I think that pretty much says it all right there, really.

Our penultimate penitent, by way of actual comparison, probably sits around praying for the day when some suitably crack-addled comics scrivener trots him out and transforms him into a fifty- foot-tall marmoset, or what- have-you.

Ladies and gentlemen... I give you: The FoolKiller. [See picture, accompanying]

Now, the Good Lord only knows that I'm scarcely much of a "stickler" for obsessive, meticulous, down-to-the-last- detail brute logic, when it comes to my own particular funnybook reading "needs." This is, after all, a medium (comic books) and genre (super-hero serial fiction) given over to the perfectly solemn-faced exploits of thunder gods; strange, spandexed visitors form other planets; and even men bitten by radioactive spiders, for the love of Allah! Some sense of... whaddyacallit... proportion, therefore, seems called for, in this regard. (There's a darned good reason why they're called comic books, y'know... fanboy).

That much being conceded, however: a character whose sole motivation for poncing about in skintights, buccaneer boots and a big, poofy hat boils down to "there are lots and lots of Intensely Stupid Peoples out there... and I just plain ol' kinda likes shootin' me some Intensely Stupid Peoples" is... well...

... it's intensely stupid, is what it is.

The FoolKiller's chosen targets were, for the most part, jaywalkers; litterbugs; people unschooled in the arcane art of parallel parking; and folks like that, there. With the peculiar clarity which is afforded us, courtesy of perfect 20/20 hindsight: one's chiefest regret is that the little pseudo-Mikado wannabe nutjob never got around to scribbling the addendum: "comic book writers" onto his little list.

Our final contestant, however, manages to walk away with the gold medal in our cross-eyed competition... and maybe the silverand the bronze, as well.

I am, of course, referring to none other than: Chondu -- the Deranged Killer Fawn. [See page reproduction accompanying... if you dare.] ;))

See if this makes any sense to you: a bargain basement swami/mystic- type by the name of "Chondu" hooks up with a gaggle of similarly stinky seventh-rate super-villains, none of whom (individually, or collectively) could effectively whip cream, much less your standard Marvel Comics super-hero.

(The other members of said collective included: Arthur Nagan, whose human head rested atop the body of a gorilla; Ruby; whose head was a big, shiny red ball; and Jerry Morgan, whose head looked like runny pudding. They called themselves -- waaaaaiiiiit for it -- The Head Men.)

(... and don't kid yourselves for even one moment that I don't know what you're all thinking, right now. My gawd, but you're a coarse, filthy-minded lot. Animals.)

In any event: seeing as how ol' Chondu (remember him?) was the only member of this little weinie roast whose cranium wasn't freakish or malformed, our moronic mystic was elected to undergo a minor bit of elective surgery. To wit: brain surgery.

As in: brain transplant.

Now, the actual, intended goal of said medical procedure was, ultimately, for Chondu's brain (such as it was) to end up within the skull of then-DEFENDERS stalwart, Nighthawk. (Oh, wait... didn't I mention that part? These silly, self-styled Doctor Dooms-with-training-wheels were planning on taking out the likes of Doctor Strange; the Valkyrie; and the Incredible Hulk. By taking over the body and abilities of the team's weakest member, mind you. This, of course, is precisely the sort of thing one might reasonably expect to happen, so long as Casey Kasem continues oozing encouragement to hopeless, basement-dwelling morons the world over, week-in and week-out, re: "keep reaching for the stars." I'm just sayin', here, is all.)

At some point along the way, however: this crack unit of cranium commandos manages to snafu the situation so desperately, poor ol' Chondu's brain somehow ended up inside the noggin of an adorable, Bambi-esque baby fawn that the the Hulk (this was, you must remember, during that endless, wearisome "Hulk Just Big, Dumb, Lovable Dope" folderol of which Marvel seemed so relentlessly enamored, back in the mid-70's) had kindasorta adopted, as his own precious widdle snuggie-uggams.

What all of the foregoing means, of course, is: Chondu gets a full complement of Big Dummy Loser Points, first off, just for... well... just for being Chondu, really...

... yet another complete score, for becoming (however inadvertently) Chondu: The World's Most Dangerous Killer Fawn...

... annnnnnnnnnd: an unprecedented third ten-out-of-ten, for attempting to soldier ahead with The Big Cheesy Master Plan ANYWAY, by attempting a wholly ill-advised physical assault against Nighthawk while still trapped in the body of a baby deer!

Chondu, ol' buddy, ol' sock, ol' shoe: the award is yours, dude.



The Marvel Comics HALL OF SHAME
PAGE ONE (The World's Lamest Super-Villains)
PAGE TWO (Hopelessly Lame Super-Hero Battles)

"MORE COMIC BOOKS," YOU SAY...?

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