God Hates Astronauts #3

9 Overall Score
Art: 9/10
Dialogue: 9/10
Wonderful Smells: 9/10

It's better than being eaten by a giant octopus.

It's not better than eating a giant octopus (if given several days to do so).

God Hates Astronauts #3
Ryan Browne, Jordan Boyd, Chris Crank
Image Comics
2014

(Read my review of Vol. 2, issue #1 HERE, issue #2 HERE and my review of the entire first volume HERE.)

And so the epic saga of Stargrass, Starrior, The Anti-Mugger, The Impossible, Craymok, King Tiger Eating a Cheeseburger, Sir Hippothesis, Doctor Professor, Deformed Cowboy Texas Tom, Gnarled Winslow (now no longer bear-armed) and several other oddly-named and sometimes anthropomorphized characters continues with this, the third installment in mad genius Ryan Browne’s maniacal opus.

As I mentioned before, the questionable titling of this series is finally being addressed in this current story arc. (The first arc, although it sparingly featured amateur astronaut farmers fucking up things in space, focused more on Stargrass–nee Star Fighter–and his quest to reclaim his wife, his dignity and find a suitable head to replace the gargantuan, swollen and deflated beach ball that he once called a cranium.)

Things aren’t going swimmingly for our characters. The Anti-Mugger (who now works as a clerk at Shitty’s Groceries and Shit!!!!), in growing a muscular green mutant arm out of the center of his chest, has become increasingly prone to trances in which he does the very thing he is so strongly against. (Mugging. It’s mugging. He hates mugging. It’s why he called himself the Anti-Mugger. It’d be weird, you know, if he hated… like, chandeliers or some other weird thing but insisted on calling himself the Anit-Mugger, you know?) Stargrass’s psyche is being fought over by his human side and his new cow head. (I forgot to mention that… he has a cow head equipped with an android-ish retinal attachment that seemingly regulates his more primal, herbivorous impulses.) Starrior, Stargrass’s star-powered star wife, is having the darndest time looking after their star-infused star child, Starlina.

Elsewhere, robot armed Gnarled Winslow and Texas Tom, who has put on a bit of weight since we last saw him—a change in physique not unnoticed by Gnarled—run into one another at Crappy’s Bar and Grille. Winslow is currently being haunted by the ghost of an ex-lover, something that the obese deformed cowboy can relate to himself. (When we met him back in the first story arc, he was being followed around by Bluegrass, a disembodied cow head that later bonded with Star Warrior to form the super cow/star-powered superhero hybrid, Stargrass!) Even Elser-where, King Tiger Eating a cheeseburger is mobilizing his crab-headed army to get revenge for the death of his son, Admiral Tiger Eating a Cheeseburger, both because of his own desire for retribution and due to the repeated insistence by his wife, Queen Tiger Holding a Baby.

There’s more, but I’ve already said too much. Buy this book, jabroni. It’s pretty much the funniest thing since I saw Father Perry eat it while running from the auditorium to the library back when I was in ninth grade. It was raining, the sidewalk was wet and he was carrying a pink umbrella which just went flying. He got up almost immediately and said in his very effeminate British lilt, “I’m okay! I’m okay!” Before losing his footing and landing on his ass again. I was the only one who saw it. It was pretty amazing. I’d show you pictures, but I didn’t take any.

A freelance MMA, entertainment and business journo born, raised and residing in Miami, FL, Jesse Scheckner is a musician, cinephile and recovering ne’er-do-well who still believes Mickey Rourke’s finest days in film have yet to come. He isTuffGnarl.com‘s editor-in-chief. Follow him on Twitter: @JesseScheckner.

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Jesse Scheckner
Author: Jesse Scheckner View all posts by
A freelance writer who regularly produces work for MMA Owl, Tuff Gnarl, Broward Palm Beach New Times, Florida Geek Scene and Miami's Community Newspapers. Moderately relevant. Follow me on Twitter @JesseScheckner.

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