Bomb Queen 2

This is possibly not the worst comic I’ve ever read, but it feels like it.

Oh, you want elucidation?

Ok. The cover. A circle of six women dressed in latex,  displaying and fondling  boobs that would put Lola Ferrari to shame, looking down at someone – probably you, the reader. (Note to all large-breasted superheroines/villains: your old age will be notable for spinal deformities and mammaries that reach down to your knees. I don’t know what you, the reader, are supposed to doing down there. Possibly tossing one off or something.)

Inside, there’s a quick recap of the plotline so far: Bomb Queen runs an enclosed crime-ridden city, which President Obama is threatening to close. She fights back by manipulating the media and stealing Obama’s semen from a medical lab. The storyline’s called Oh-BOMB-ah. Oh, my aching sides.

See, Bomb Queen is a satire. It’s a satire of politics, and of the comics medium. It’s a satire of the media in general. It revels in its bad taste. It’s gory and un-PC and deliberately over-the-top. Or that’s how it like to think of itself.

You can grasp the level of satire from the opening summary though: “Editor Girl runs into the next stage of the Queen’s plans when she stops a pair of criminals, Miss Demeanor and Fellow Knee, from breaking into a medical facility.”

Did you get that? Miss Demeanor and Fellow Knee? Well that’s about as profound as the satire gets.

So, during the course of the comic this is what happens: Bomb Queen appears on TV and wins over the populace by her libertarian philosophies. There’s a battle in New Port City in which villain Cap’n Muffmuger displays his superpower-wielding penis, but is defeated by Shadowhawk. Obama sends in a troop of superheroes to defeat the Queen, who then reveals she’s pregnant with Obama’s child. Along the way japes are made at the liberal establishment, at gays, at extremists, at blacks. Everything’s fair game. None of it is illuminating or amusing though, that’s the thing: and you’re left with the image of a creator that’s the equivalent of a thirteen year old boy, drawing this comic in his bedroom and thinking, “Oooh, I’m so wicked!”

On a positive note, the artwork is actually pretty good. It comes across as a cross between Steve Dillon and Jamie Hewlett, and if harnessed to a decent script, you’d also have a decent comic in your hands.

The art can’t redeem the script’s many sins though. It’s quite simply abysmal. If you want to see this sort of thing done properly, pick up a copy of Marshall Law, and avoid this like an outbreak of Ebola in your neighbourhood.