BY THURSTON GLUMME
Crack-shot critic Rock Scorch came to the attention of comics readers the old-fashioned way: by putting shit on the Internet.
The competitive-yodeler-by-training and comic-shop employee may be the only comics critic as known for a series of rap videos in which he once starred as he is for shit on the Internet. I've read other bloggers linking to Scorch the way old-timey Scottish Highlanders would fasten their funky plaid kilts to their hairy round man-buttocks before cleaving with mighty claymores the skulls of trespassing Englishmen on battlefields so drenched with blood that the wool of the sheep grazing there today still requires no dyeing thanks to being by nature as red as the anus of the 600-pound alpha-male patriarch of a troop of Gray-footed Chacma baboons after it (the anus) was rubbed—for hours on end—against the gnarly bark of a conveniently located Coconut palm tree. Scorch is out there engaging with the art form—all of it—as it arrives on comics shelves every Wednesday like Tom Hanks and Vin Diesel once did on the shores of Normandy.
It’s been a fascinating year for mainstream comics, in much the same sense as it is fascinating to watch the elder females of the Gray-footed Chacma baboon tribes sling their sometimes sun-dried feces at one another, and I thought Scorch might provide a perspective that, though so utterly and completely divorced from my own, might be valuable for those who broadly accept as questionable the premise that the slinging of feces—sun-dried or otherwise—is to be considered a worthwhile pastime. He did not disappoint.