The term "horror" has meant different things in the world of comic books over the years. In the ‘50s, EC Comics published truly horrific stories in such titles as Tales from the Crypt and Vault of Horror. The stories were so violent, they were targeted as a corrupting force in society, and the Comics Code Authority was created to “save the children.”

When two couples on vacation have a bit of boat trouble, Paul and his chick paddle to the shores of the nearest fishing village in search of help. Nautical nonsense ensues. This is one freaky fuckin’ town, and its inhabitants are creepier than a tongue kiss from grandma. The church seems the only refuge, but it is sans gaudy Christ idols and crosses. It seems that good ol’ Jesus has been kicked to the curb in favor of Dagon, an ancient fish-shilling god, highly regarded by pre-Christianity Jews in the Old Testament.

Well, in the sprit of my favorite holiday (aside from St. Patrick's Day), Halloween, I thought I would review Steve Oedekerk's latest Thumb featurette, Frankenthumb. I now wish I hadn't! This was,.. let’s see,.. bad just doesn't seem to do it justice. How about God-awful? Yeah. God-awful sounds about right. I'm not kidding. This was that bad! This is the seventh installment of Oedekerk's Thumb featurettes, his first being the hysterical Thumb Wars. If you want to see what Frankenthumb should have been like, rent Thumb Wars.

Ever notice how the lead singers for music groups seem to get all the attention and most of the credit? Well, there is a reason for that. If there is one thing that can make or break a band, it's the singer. The music can be mediocre but still tolerable enough to allow some play time. But as soon as the singer opens his or her yap, everything gets decided for sure. Rusty Miller is a fella who sings lead vocals for a tidy, radio-friendly band called Jackpot. Rusty has that all-around nasal, in-tune-but-out-of-tune, sing-song voice.

Q: What's more gratifying than Christina Aguilera and a sturdy pair of kneepads?
A: Christina Aguilera, a sturdy pair of kneepads, and Har Mar Superstar's forthcoming supersexy debut record, You Can Feel Me.

From the pictures these dudes look fucking rad, but you know how pictures are. If they don't steal your soul, they lie. And you end up on an awkward date with some dirty fat chick from a chat room. If Space Ghost sycophant Brak was ever the lead singer in a rock band, this is what it would sound like. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, because Brak is a funny motherfucker. But whether or not he should have a rock band is up for debate. I think his Dad would be cool with it as long as you didn't move his chair or usurp his authority.

Waking the dead is a time-honored Halloween tradition. And what better way to do it than to the sweet, shockabilly sounds of Tiger Army. Always looking out for you, their darling fan, Tiger Army helps kick off this ghoulish month with their Early Years EP (Hellcat Records). It's a collection of recorded material from before their Hellcat records days, including demo versions of "F.T.W." and "Nocturnal", as well as a cover of the Misfits' "American Nightmare". (Good Misfits. Glenn Danzig Misfits.

Have you ever been too tired to sleep, so you get in your car and take to the highway, circling the city limits, only to slip into a waking daydream, and wake some ten hours later, halfway across the country, driving through the desert, into the sunrise, having mysteriously acquired a passenger who looks like Tex Avery's wolf, who needs you to take him to the Dusklight Motel, which is one of those swanky, cheap motels where family value-oriented political officials make scandalous amateur pornos with their buxom, 23-year-old receptionists, and when you get there, a couple of plainclothes cops

I can remember cold fall evenings long ago, when my buddies and I would pile into a car that should by no means be able to make the 40 mile drive to Columbus, Ohio. We would smoke cigarette after cigarette as a ritualistic offering. The more we smoked, the further the car would go before breaking down. We would blast our favorite bands on the poor excuse for a stereo, and get ourselves pumped up for the show we were traveling to see. Once in Columbus, we would fall out into the street, leaving the warmth of our hoodies behind. This was another ritual.

Chloe stumbled toward the light like a punch-drunk moth; her mind was spinning from grain alcohol and too much candy. Her heart was racing. She leaned forward, coaxing her legs to move faster. Where the fuck was her so-called boyfriend? The last thing she could remember was his hand being ripped from hers when those evil fucking clowns came after them. Why did she even agree to go to that stupid spook house anyway? All she wanted to do was check out the Gods & Monsters Halloween Art Show.