Ultimate X #1

Yet another Ultimate book begins! Will this be as good as the last? Read on to find out.

Fuck you, Jeph Loeb.

I don't know any other fucking way to say it. That's all this is. There were be more words, because I have a quota to fill, but they will all boil down to this. What is this? I'm sitting here and not knowing what use to words to express my hate.

Hatred is too fucking tame a word, Jeph.

Too. Fucking. Tame.

Y'see, I like the X-Men. I like them rather a lot. They brought me into comics. I have a whole chunk of the Claremont issues. I have games. I have novels. I wouldn't even be surprised if I still had action figures somewhere. I have read every single issue ever written about them.

Yeah, that's not hyperbole. I'm not exaggerating. No 'except ____' or 'starting from ____'.

Every. Single. One.

Y'know, when it was other things you were fucking with, like fucking Supreme fucking Power, or the Hulk, I could take it. Captain America? I could take it. I could, really. I'd whine, I'd bitch, I'd moan, but I can take it. But this? No. Now you've started pissing in my playground.

Now it's personal.

I don't even know how to express what this is. I'm normally pretty eloquent, but this just isn't cutting it. Whatever feelings you're picking up from these words on this page pales in comparison to my rage. I could actually talk about the issue. I could say that this is Way's fansertion clawcest bullshit run through a Loebotomization and shat in technicolor glory onto the page before me. I could say that for everything Ultimate Enemy did to restore my faith in the line, this ruined. I could. But that would demean the purity of my rage. That would belittle the affront this thing is to my eyes and my brain.

And the sad thing is that, as much as I would like to, I can't pin this all on Jeph. It takes more than awful plots worse than most fanfiction thrown together by horny adolescents, dialogue more at home in low-budget soap operas, and the worst characterization this side of Chris Claremont's Psylocke to ruin a book. It also takes thin faces, cheekbones sharp enough to slit a throat, feathered hair, and impossible muscles straight out of Liefeld's handbook, which is where Art Adams comes in as he completely ignores the established character designs for the Ultimate versions of Kitty Pryde and Wolverine, as well as horribly-colored text boxes that form gigantic textwalls of fail so large that they apparently took two letterers to compose.

Just get out, Loeb. Just stop this. I don't know what you think you're doing here. Is it some kind of fucking sadistic glory, to ruin all we hold dear? Is that it? Are you trying to put us through as much pain as you went through? Is this all a gigantic exercise in motherfucking sadism, to see how much mind-numbing bullshit we can take before we explode? Because, you know, if this was all some joke at all the readers' expense, I could almost respect you for it. But I don't think that's the case. I think you actually think this is a good story. That this, that Rulk, that fucking cannibal Blob are what we all want to see. That you have done well by your fans.

Take a fucking reality check. You're a pathetic hack who should have been fired years ago. Give up, bow out, keep hold of some fucking pride and don't you DARE pollute my fucking comics with this bullshit again.

Don't you fucking dare.

If any of you have an ounce of taste, an ounce of intelligence, an ounce of SANITY in you, you will BURN this issue unread.

Don't say I didn't warn you.