Hey hey, my feisty little tomatoes! How're ya hangin? (Haha, tomato jokes. I love 'em!)

I'm just stoppin' by th' office ta pick up a new pair'a boots (you don't even wanna know what nasty stuff I had ta tromp through ta retrieve th' intel I needed ta "obtain" fer my last employer). But since I'm here, figured I oughta stop in an' post a lil somethin'.

So ya know those journals where people just post a buncha random Twitter junk insteada entries an' think it amounts ta fascinating storytellin'? You know what I mean. Like:


Look what I posted on Twitter today!

ha i fell aslepp again what is up with that

yesterday i ate a snadwich it was good

i don't really like lettuce though wat do you think?

my cat fell off the bed i am so bored

isn't twitter awesome i wish more people actually read this

i wonder if i should brush my teeth what do u think? nah.


Yeah, I hate 'em too. But, ya know, every now-an-then ya just gotta immortalize great moments in Twitter hist'ry, an' the first ever time I had a party that some'a you feebs crashed came to definitely counts.

( All I did was offer her a beer...hey, where'd all these people come from?? )

Hey, ya know what else counts as Twitter stuff that's *gotta* be recorded? The Legends of Ryan Reynolds, a glorious byproduct of #ryanreynolds / #deadpool week. An' that reminds me, if ya don't know already, I've declared this week on Twitter ta be "#ryanreynolds / #deadpool week" just 'CAUSE I CAN. So ev'ry day, everybody tweet somethin' with #ryanreynolds and #deadpool in it. Don't care what it is! Just make somethin' up if ya have to. Or help add ta our list of Completely True and Accurate Facts about Ryan Reynolds, also known as:

( The Legends of Ryan Reynolds )

An' now...I gotta go see what Sandi did with my spare mask. No rest fer the poor mercenary! So until next time, keep 'em primed an' prepped!

Holy horny toads in a hot bayou, my fearsome followers! I am just about the slowest typist this side of Louisiana, ain't I? Ah well, quit'cher complainin', 'cause I just got paid fer a sneaky little recon job me an' Outlaw pulled, so now I can take a few minutes to sit back, relax with some of Bob's Icy Death Lemonade (Now! With Arctic Poison Ice!*), and answer some a' your ingenious questions. Please, please – try to contain your excitement.

OK, then...lookin' through the pile a'junk Sandi handed me on my way in...Ah! Here's one that's been festerin' in the mail heap for awhile:


docwebster says:

Greetings, o purveyor of awesometudeness. I bring you numbered questions, and true brain strainers they are, too.

1) What's up with the feebs at Marvel's website making it so dang hard to subscribe to your new series?

2) What's up with Outlaw chasing that closet case boyfriend-Fabio lookalike contest reject instead of basking in the glow of the mighty Deadpool?

3) Where the hell are my pants?


Oh, numbered questions, let me count the ways I adore you! But first, let me answer you!

1. First things first: anyone else here see the irony a' the Doc askin' me what's up? Yeah, I thought so. Now then, Doc, there's a very simple explanation here, and it goes somethin' like this: see, whenever Marvel prints an issue of my comic, the editors look at it, all shiny and pretty and new, and decide that you feebs don't deserve such a wondrous piece of artistry. They decide they want t'keep 'em all! (You know the mooks who work in comics are the biggest geeky collectors of them all, after all.) So they go an' sabotage the online subscription sign-up and order list, and then they lock all the issues up in The Special Vault. An' then the accountants start crunchin' numbers (as they do) and go on an' on about pesky little things like “cost of supplies” and “overhead” and “profits” and what-all, and the editors cry and pout, an' then the accountants haveta go down the hall and get Fred.

Fred's a little slow, but he's a big dude that don't ask fer much pay, so they keep 'im around for this stuff. So Fred goes and pries the new issues away from the editors, and beats up whichever one of them sabotaged the order list this week, an' everything gets straightened out. But see, Doc, this whole song an' dance happens every single issue, an' it kinda slows things down. So that's why it's so hard to receive issues of my awesome comic on time. It's because they're SO AWESOME.

See? Wasn't that a simple explanation?

2. You know, I'd say it's gotta be the hair. I mean, we all know I'm one in a million and three, here, but Outlaw's got this thing about pretty blonde hair, an' I ain't bin sportin' that for a long while (X-Force #56, anyone?). So I prob'ly wouldn't be much use on a trip t'the mall an' the hair salon, plus last time we went I may have accidentally, y'know, inadvertently caused some murder an' mayhem, and Outlaw hates it when things get between her and her sale items. Anyway, her la-di-da relationship with WB doesn't really phase me. Whatever barbeques her ribs is cool with me, 'cause I got my eye on a different gal. But I do wish Thor wasn't so goshdarned whiny.

3. In yer back pocket, a'course! I can't believe ya didn't check there already!

Now then, since I'm on a roll, here...


ghetto_ninjette writes:

Dear Deadpool,

I have a few questions for you!

1. Do you still have feelings for Siryn?

2. Are you even more embarrassed about being cursed with the face of Thom Cruz [after being cursed by Thanos for trying to hook up with Death] now that he's gone crazy and is into Scientology?

3. On average, how much do you think you spend on Taco Bell?

4. Would you ever consider Jack In The Box tacos?

Thanks for taking the time to read my questions!

<3 –Ames


Ah, my precious little Ninjette, your numbered questions have stealthily stolen into my heart and nestled there, right alongside my eXtreme love of delayed-detonation hand grenades. And now, to answers!

1. Well, I know th' mooks who run this LiveJournal carnival tend to frown on explicit written pornography, so in th' interest of not rainin' on their funnel cake stand, I'll skip over how much seein' Red spins my carousel, an' just say that I'll always have a little soft spot in my heart for th' stunning songstress – prob'ly the spot right next to my love of sharp shiny things.

2. Man, I was embarrassed enough before anyone went around jumpin' on couches and grinnin' like a monkey on speed all the time. Lemme just say, no matter how much I may have looked like the dude, I never got so excited talking to people about my belief in aliens an' explodin' volcanoes or whatever that I looked like I was gonna spit a lung up at them. AND that I would rather be cursed with immortality than that face. Whew, what a narrow escape THAT was!

3. Ahh, who's to say? Sandi got me an expense account there. She said it took some doin' – apparently no one else in th' known world had ever asked fer one. But then, I always knew I was special.

4. Are they free? Free for me? THEN HELL YES.

Anytime, baby. Now ninja on outta here and bring me a taco!

OK, one more before I go see if Agent Orca has left a single snack in the kitchen t'day.


spam_monster says:

...Well, I'm glad to hear that you still would want to team up with Nate after all that. Seriously, you guys are just awesome together. *fangirls*

But anyway, questions!

1. If you could get some kinda super tricked-out crimefi-I mean merc-work vehicle, what would it be? And what sort of features would it have?

2. What do you superhero/villian types normally wear under your costumes? Do any of them, you know, go commando? (Or just wear a little red thong like Tony Stark?)

3. Could you possibly find some way to jump into another comic book universe? If so, can you punch this guy in the face for me?-http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adrian_Veidt
Because he really needs to be punched in the face.

I'll pay you in cookies. Or brownies, or cupcakes. Some type of baked goods. Please?


Ooh, numbered questions from the Monster of Spam! Shouldn't they all be asking me if I want to expand my mojo with the little blue pills an' things? Huh. Guess not. Ok, here we go!

1. You know those giant hamster balls? The ones where you can go rollin' down hills an' over th' water an' stuff? Well, I'm not sayin' that would be my transportation a'choice, but it's definitely gotta be a feature. Collapse one a'those down and pack it in the side compartment for the easy jobs, ya know? Because, I mean, what else strikes fear inta th'heart of whatever mafia goons you're about ta knock off like a Giant Hamster Ball A' Doom barrelin' straight for them? Gets 'em every time, I tell ya, right about when I roll on over their heads. Other features, other features...OOH. Well, a smoothie machine, fer sure. Sometimes a brain freeze is just what my bubblin' brain-pan needs. And a'course, some of us are easily distracted, so I guess I'd have ta heist one of Mr. Iron Man Stark's little smart robots to rig up somewhere so it could hand me my smoothies and take the ladies' phone numbers when I slow down at red lights and all that. An' naturally I'd have some, y'know, homing missiles, spike-producin' tires, crazy spy GPS tech, an' pretty much everything else you've ever seen in a Bond movie.

But where would all this custom gear fit, you ask me? No contest! In a tricked out, souped up Ducati Superbike 1198 S, a'course. Don't think I could fit it all in there? 'Chya! A'course I could. Look at how much Tony fits in one little suit a'armor and tell me I couldn't do even better with a Ducati! Not to mention their gear comes in my colors.

2. OK, now see, I don't go around spyin' on the other supercool peeps in their skivvies unless they happen t'be, y'know, women. So I can't say one way or th' other what Tony wears under that suit. An' there are some things us superheroes (like me!) are totally sworn to secrecy on, like how Emma Frost manages to keep her top from falling down all the time (but oooh, wouldn't you fanboys love to know how I found that one out). I will say, though, that those of us who wear spandex have a much easier time of it if we forget our briefs than kids like Tony. OUCH! An' then you got crazy bastards like The Thing, who pretty much wanders around in his boxers all day without anyone sayin' a word, even if he does look like magnified sandpaper. So pretty much what I'm sayin' is it depends a whole lot on who we're talkin' about. Me, I get by with just about anything I can find that's sorta clean at the moment, which usually means something with little Deadpool symbols on it, although I'm not above wearin' the green panties if Bob hasn't finished the laundry yet. I look pretty darned good in green. Yellow, too!

3. OK, I tell you what – if I ever get out of the crossover story I'm stuck in right now, I'll take a little detour downtown to Veidt's place and knock his lights out for ya. And you know? I'll even do it for free. 'Cause MAN, what a tool that dude is.

I won't turn down baked goods if they're offered, though.

P.S. Yes, to answer your other question, Nate *is* part pirate, thanks to his pirate captain granddaddy's shenanigans (although I'm not sure his granddaddy was the sharpest splinter in the tinderbox. Who builds a plane out of wood these days?). In fact, one of his middle names I always forget t'list is “Yaarrrrrr.” I think it's somewhere between “Christopher” and “Dayspring,” but who can remember? Anywho, I got him an eyepatch for his glowy-eye one Christmas, 'cause it was totally keeping me awake at night, but he refused to wear it unless I saluted him and called him “Yaarrrrrr.” He's very respectful of his heritage. What a dork.

An' that's it for today, my friendly amigos. Bob's cookin' up some South a'the Border specialties fer dinner, and I don't want to be late. You know how I love me some Mexican food.

So until next time, keep 'em revved and ready! (And I'm referring here to my elite fleet of Ducati motorcycles. You know, the ones I assume you all are buying for me as we speak. You haven't started signin' the papers yet? WELL GET TO IT. I accept both red and black paint jobs. Thank you.)


* Sandi would like to remind us all that Artic Poison Ice, while not harmful to regenerative wonders like me, is actually a serious matter that we should be trying to stop, even if it does leave Bob with less fun ingredients to experiment with. So recycle and save energy and and help stop global warming and all that jazz! Sandi thanks you.

Great galumphing gazpacho on a grizzly! Am I glad to be here instead of hangin’ out in the pages of yet another Pool’o’vision-heavy storyline! *grumble grr rassumfrassum Pool’o’vision* But I gotta say, the Agency has gotten real dirty while I was out doing Secret Things with Secret People all those months. Clearly Agent X is gettin’ more bored than usual with the whole not-getting-to-do-anything-ever-because-fat-characters-aren’t-cool-unless-they’re-named-Kingpin thing. He’s gone and turned one half of the lobby into a crazy-ass shooting range, complete with whacked-out rubber duckies in a row (and doesn’t #4 look a lot like someone we know?). Remind me to clock him one for the giant poster of me with bullet holes in the head.

But enough about that crazy s.o.b.! We got more important things to talk about. Like how, finally, after more procrastination than twelve Marvel writers on a deadline, I’m gonna answer me some questions! (Please, please, hold your applause until the end.)

So starting from the very ancient and moving forward...


expletives writes:

Dear Deadpool:

I do know how you love numbered questions. However my driving need for nonconformity means that they'll be Roman numerals.

I. Only a few months ago did I actually start paying for the privilege of reading your comics (blame scan communities), and I regret nothing. But something really bothers me. The last two volumes of Cable & Deadpool cost, like, five dollars more than the rest. That might not seem like a lot to a merc with as much work as you get but I'm an art student, so my comic budget is pretty small. So what's up with the sudden hike in price?

II. My friends and I are constantly arguing over the fact that some of us preferred The Dark Knight and some preferred Iron Man. Which movie did you enjoy more?

III. Why does your costume keep changing? I mean, how many different ways can there be to strap two swords to your back? Seriously. This is a pain to keep track of.


Oohh, Roman numeralled questions. You sure know how to appeal to a guy with classy taste – like me! Now then, lessee here...

I. Well, my furry little friend (and speaking’a that, get your cold nose outta my armpit while I’m tryin’ t’type, willya?) there’s a real simple answer t'that. The truth’a the matter is, guns are expensive, not even counting the endless ammo I need so I can do what I do best (yeah, yeah, tagline copyright infringement blah-de-blee. Bite me, Wolverine). And big guns are really expensive. So I bet you can imagine how much Liefeld-sized guns cost. And that’s just the beginning. After all the guns and ammo me an’Cable need, you got’cher grenades, yer knives, yer hand-crafted heavy-duty landmines, yer katana-handle-grip-tape (what the heck is that stuff called, anyway?), yer switchblades, yer Vaseline, yer crossbows, yer grappling hooks, yer fuzzy handcuffs, yer...well, you get the idea. The point is: Merc werc? It don’t come cheap. And what happened, see, is that suddenly, all our favorite suppliers showed up at the office to collect, and Cable and his wallet were off saving the world or whatever, and I’d just got back from Vegas (yeah, baby), and Nicole and Fabian and Reilly and the whole happy bunch’a mooks who chronicled The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay Cable and Deadpool realized that they were, erm, a bit short’a cold hard cash to pay the piper. So: price hike! ‘Cause it was either that or Fabian lost a hand, Reilly lost an eye, and Nicole lost...well, they decided it’d be better to pay is all I’ll say.

There. Now wasn’t that a simple answer?

II. Ooh, now this is a toughie, doomed to inspire endless debates, just like the age-old question of who has more spine, Weasel or a jellyfish. But personally, I gotta say, I don’t see why we can’t just all get along and agree that Batman and Iron Man would totally be drinking buddies if the mooks over at Marvel and DC headquarters ever decided to get crazy and make that crossover happen. I mean, think about it: two rich miserable geniuses with messed-up psyches and way more gadgets than any grown man strictly needs. They could sit around all day moping about their problems and comparing Bat-a-rangs and shoulder-mounted missiles. It’d be an emo friendship made in heaven. Don’t believe me? Just watch this.

III. We do it just to piss you off. POW!

And on we go.


chrryblssmninja asks:

1) What big-name fashion designer would you model for?

2) If you were in the Olympics, what sport(s?) would you compete in, how many medals would you get, and what international judging scandal would probably arise?


Numbered questions: they make my world go round!

1) Well, my sweet li’l cherry pie, for this one I’d have to say Narciso Rodriguez. After all, his designs are red and black and scary all over, which fits me to a T. A’course, he’d have to go a lot less girly before I’d wear his gear, but, hey, I just bet with a proper (and sharp) incentive, he could make it happen. And you all know I’d look stunning.

2) Oh, ya know I’d rock the house at table tennis. I’d be all up in those judges’ faces, like, “WHO’S FORREST GUMP TO YA NOW, FEEBS? And they’d be so wowed they’d give me all three medals. And the ones from curling, since it isn’t really a sport anyway. It’s just something the Scots used to do between reaving to keep warm. And I guess I’d go out for judo, too, just for kicks. I always like the easy A’s. As for scandals, the real scandal would be when I challenged the entire judo-judgin’ panel to a knock-down drag-out fight and they ran away crying like babies. Ohh, yeah.

Ooh, would ya look at the time? It’s half past time for me to go kick some ass on another secret mission that you won’t be reading about because Way only writes about the ones with zombies in ‘em.

So until next time, keep ‘em locked, cocked, and ready to rock!

Ahoy, thar, mateys! Weigh anchor and hoist th’ mizzen! Today be th’ day when all faithful buccaneers must Talk Like a Pirate, and ye know I must be following what th’ captain orders! So t’day, all yer bonny questions’ll be answered in the best pirate-speak that mercenary money can buy! Er somethin’ a’that nature, anyway.

Just in case ya scurvy dogs want to know what th’ crew’s been doin’ today, I SHALL TELL YE. Unlike a coupla days ago when I posted my lonely ballad a’woe, every last one a’those worthless seadogs in my profile is on deck at th’ Agency t’day. Even the faithless dog I never figured would be stridin’ th’ boards a’this vessel showed up fer a pint a’grog. I almost made ‘im walk the plank fer bein’ a low-down, dirrrty deserter, but chose to be a charitable captain and let him try some’a Bob’s special brew instead. Avast! Ye should ha' seen his yaller eye glow as he choked on it! (Bob’s getting partic’ly good at Arsenic Limeade and Cyanide Stew these days! He’s always muckin’ about in th’ galley now.) I asked the scurrrvy varmint what he’s been doin’ with hisself since we divorced he went off t’find a different berth t’call his own, but he just looked all sorts a’serious and mumbled somethin’ vague ‘bout ‘babies.’ He didn’t stay long even though I offered him a place on th’ crew but said mayhap he’d be comin’ back through this patch’a sea soon and that he missed me like the dickens, that pansy feeb. I bade him ‘good riddance’ and downed a pint meself.

After that shockin’ happenstance, Orca X climbed back on board after a three-day shore leave. He’d been out practicin’ his cookin’ ‘cause th’ feeb wants to be on The Iron Chef. Apparently th’ booty fer winnin’ is now a lifetime supply a’victuals, but I don’t reckon Orca will make it to the treasure, even if there is an X in his name – all’a that fat gets in the way a’speedy cookin’.

Now that he’s back t’sitting on th’ couch, Outlaw and that feeb WB have deserted that berth fer the lobby. Methinks they’re playin’ tiddlywinks on the floor right now, ‘cause they’re a coupla crazy kids. And splice my mainsail, but me bonny lass Sandi’s gone a bit crazy as well! She’s waltzin’ around in a raggedy stripey skirt an' eyepatch askin’ me iffen I want t’play some “special pirate games.” I dunno why she wants me t’tie her up and pretend she’s my pris’ner, but Weasel said he’d be game if I’m too lame. Me! Lame! Arrrrr! So now he’s a’followin’ her around and beggin’ her t’ ‘shiver his timbers,’ th’ fool.

In th’ middle a’all this, Irene stopped by, (woman’s got a sixth sense fer whenever Cable’s been in th’ vicinity) and kicked me ‘cause I hadn’t called her when the shiny mook came by. I suggested she’d better just hang around in my bed me until he came back, since we all know Priscilla can’t stay away from yarrrrs truly fer long, but she just kicked me again.

Right about then, Tasky wandered in, twelve sheets t’th’ wind (i.e. as drunk as a bedbug in a whisky fact’ry), and I realized there was ONE thing we were missin’ here at the office on Talk Like a Pirrrrrate Day. So I got lil’ Mary-O to give me a hand, and we hoisted ol’ Tasky up the yardarm outside so's we could use his skelly little face as the middle of our new pirate flag. Tasky makes a fair bonny Jolly Roger, a’though he’d be a good sight bonnier if he didn’t look so gloomy all th’ time!

But hoist me up the mizzen mast and use me as a sail if it’s not time to be answerin’ some questions!

Let’s go to th’ mail ship and see what she’s a-brought us t’day.

Blimey! half_attended writes:


Dear Deadpool,

A close friend/person I am forced to deal with on an unfortunately regular basis is being a bit of a tyrant. It's always her way or no way, even in matters she has no say over. She had a little power and it's all gone to her head. Should my friends and I handle this internally, or should we outsource our rebellion?

Also, where do you get your costumes? And do you buy in bulk because you go through them so quickly?


Avast ye! I always say th’ best way t’handle uppity folks and mutiny in the crew is t’hire a strappin’ fine mercenary t’do yer dirrrrty work! And I just happen t’know a few who’re in th’ market. But if ye want t’handle it yerself, here’s a wee tip: th’ best approach is a direct approach. So drag yon bucko down to th’ brig, sit ‘er in the bilges, and explain t’her in kind, calm terms that unless she gets her arse offa her high horsie and starts lookin’ at ye more respectful-like, yer gonna have to, much as it breaks yer wee heart, keelhaul ‘er an' send ‘er down t’shake hands with Davy Jones; th’ scallywag. I guarantee that’ll set the lassie straight!

As fer where I get me rig-and-getup, if me memory serves me right (and when don’t it, ‘cept always?), ‘twas at a custom costume shop, made ‘specially t’fit me manly’n’muscular physique. It was def’nitely not made outta Spider-man’s old cast-offs, that bilge-sucking arachnid! But what is this ‘buy’ of which ye do discourse? A cap’n like meself darsn’t lay down good doubloons fer what c’n be hornswaggled outta little pansy shopkeeps! Savvy?

Now, on t’th’ next bit o’scrap and words.

rozokuthedragon replies to me last post:


alone?
dude your never alone when you have us around
but I have to ask how "Orca" X made it out the door?


Ah, me hearty, th’ fat landlubber deflated some after his disgustin’ love affair with chips'n'applesauce came t’an unsightly end, but really it was th’ grenade I lobbed at WB a coupla days ago that did it. Didn't leave a mark on that son of a biscuit eater, but our doorway got a whole lot bigger.

Arrr! Sandi’s callin’ fer me t’come 'n' batten down th’ hatches ‘cause a storm’s a-comin’ through, so until next time, lasso a big bag a’pieces of eight and heave-ho that booty on board!

(And if ye be confused by th' local lingo, check out this handy translation of me pirate prattle.)

Holy hillbillies in a high-rise, my small but fierce crowd of fantastic fans! Have we ever been having some adventures over here! Sorry you’ve had to endure a few sad, lonely days without my wonderfully whimsical and winning quick wit, but hey, masterminding a plan to steal the most essential part of a superhero’s costume EVER takes dedicated, time-consuming hard work. Also we stopped off at Hershey Park after we finished the job. Wanna Kiss?

I know you all want to know how it went down with Captain Teeny Wings, but, y’know, I gotta be careful about sharing trade secrets here on the “blogosphere,” or one’a those two-bit, has-been wannabe other merc agencies might start trying to be as cool as us. So I’ll just give ya the short’n’sweet’n’expurgiated version of how we pulled it off:

We caught up with Cap in Las Vegas, where he was headin’ into the Bellagio; apparently this whole “losing-at-poker” thing isn’t the only gambling issue he’s got. I bet you can imagine the stir that was going on when he started playin’ blackjack, what with him still being in costume and all, and kinda on the drink, too – and then when he started losing, well, you never seen such a big crowd of feebs all standing around trying to give a man advice or stop him from going another round. We coulda just jumped him right there - I mean, between me, Orca X, Outlaw, Tasky, Bob Hail HYDRA!, Mary, and Weasel on tech, we coulda taken him out no problem – but Iron Man was real specific that we weren’t supposed to hurt him - “Don’t you dare hurt a hair on his pretty head, or I’m not paying you,” is I think how he put it – so we had to figure out how to get ‘im alone and take ‘im out gentle-like.

Once we saw the state he was in, we gave Outlaw that job. We figured what with all that long blonde hair and her, ah, enhanced assets, she could lure his drunk butt into a nice quiet corner where she could work her magic and then, y’know, emwingulate him. Sad to say, though, the Cap didn’t seem real interested in her enormous...charms. So then we gave Plan B a try. Plan B involved me, Orca, Mary, Tasky, AND Weasel, and a whole lotta complicated machinery. And possibly lubricant. Tragically, I can’t say any more than that or I’d hafta hunt ya down and kill ya, and I’m really getting kinda fond of you guys. So, y’know, “skip to the end!” We managed to extract Cap from his crowd of adoring but increasingly concerned fans without a single one seeing where he went, and hauled his staggering be-winged self off to an empty room. Bob Hail HYDRA! was all for tryin’ to reason with him (“Iron Man won the teeny wings off you fair and square, Cap!”) but that pretty much failed miserably (even drunk, that dude can really pack a punch!).

I’m not real fond of people punching my pets, so I mighta, y’know, smacked Captain Teeny Wings around a little after that, but really, the bruises’ll fade long before Iron Man sees the guy again, (considering we left ‘im tied up in a closet in his Underoos just for kicks), so I figure it’s all good. Anyways, after Cap was good’n’subdued, Tasky got out the chicken shears and we gave those wings the ol’ Snip of Doom. Then we FedExed ‘em to Iron Man in a big gold box with a shiny red bow. And that, my children, is how it’s done.

It was a good time, but now I’m glad to be back at the office, ‘cause it means that I can...answer questions! YEAH. So here...we...GO!


caia_comica asks:

Hi! I've been enjoying your blog, and I've got some questions for you.

1. I was listening to that song about Rasputin, and man, that's either a durable guy or some incompetent assassins. If they hired you, how would *you* kill the guy?

2. Why is Cable's last name Liefield-Nicieza and not Liefeld-Simonson? Did Louise disown him or something? Or is this something to do with you guys being married? Which I didn't think you *were*, but I don't know why else he'd have taken your creators' names rather than his own.



Ooh, numbered questions! Shiny!

    1. Well, my little comic, this one’s a tricky one, ‘cause there are SO MANY great ways I could kill this Rasputin dude, and it’s hard to pick just one. So I’ll pick two!

Clearly the man was all about consuming anything in sight, so I gotta say tiny grenades might be a fun way to go. This is the kinda guy who would eat grapes by the handful, I can tell, so, well...a buncha grenades work better than one, right? Just rig the stems like pins, paint ‘em kinda purple or green, offer the guy a plate, and, VIOLA! No more Rasputin! On the other hand, I woulda shot the guy just for wearing that doofy fur coat and the big fluffy hat, so another fun way to kill ‘im (well fun for me, anyway) would be to just suffocate the hell out of him with his own couture. It’d be doing everyone a favor. And, y’know, it’d make me laugh.

    2. Nah, Louise never disowned the poor fool, even though she prob’ly shoulda. I was just givin’ you the short version is all. I don’t think even Cable can remember the whole shebang without looking at his cheat sheet, and hell, it’s a good thing he can bodyslide, because they couldn’t never fit that thing on a driver’s license. Anyway, Louise is in there with all the rest, but since the man’s a bazillion years old, people tend to shorten his stupid moniker (Heh, moniker. I like that word.) every which way just so they don’t get to be his age before they’ve stopped sayin’ it.

But since you’re so keen on knowin’ the whole deal, s’far as I can remember, it’s something like this:

Nathan Simonson Christopher Zercher Gesundheit Lim Charles Harras Askani’son Romita Summers McFarlane Winters Medina Soldier X Loeb Chosen One Churchill Priscilla Brooks Dayspring Portacio Campbell Brown Mutant Messiah Malin Jesus Wannabe Johnson Geronimo Jackson Liefield-Nicieza

Except, y’know, I think I forgot about fifty names. Close enough, right?

And tell ya what, I'll make sure Louise is gettin' her proper credit in the profile, too, just for you.

...Moving right along, then!


beware_pussycat wonders:

Dear Deadpool:

I HATE everyone that I work with. How can I deal with them without going all buckets o' crazy?


Listen, pussycat (rrowr!), who says crazy’s such a bad thing, huh? I mean, I know one or two cats as is crazy, and sometimes they’re just barrels’a fun. But, hey, if that’s not your cup of tea, there are lotsa things you can do to maintain your tenuous grasp on sanity. Might I suggest pranks? Possibly ones involving duct tape (duct tape duct tape) and, y’know, sharp, pointy things? Or maybe torture, potentially via playing that one song about the horse that got lost over and over and over again until THEY are the ones that go crazy? Or hey, maybe just make ‘em look at drawings by Liefeld until they think all men were meant to look like monkeys! There’s all sorts of ways you can break down The Man, and some of them don’t even involve holding impromptu fundraisers where Renee Zellweger stands on the roof belting out the lyrics to a song by a one-hit wonder. (Although, damn, she was foxy in those little skirts.)

And if pranks aren’t your thing, I’d go with the old standby of a blowtorch and a new gig. Just leave ‘em in the dust (or, y’know, ashes) and find yourself a job where you feel more Zen. Trust me, you’ll never regret it.


Well, that’s all the answers I got time for today, ‘cause Bob’s been experimentin’ with all those different kinds of chocolate we brought back from the park, and he says his “Killer Chocolate Cake” will be ready for sampling in about two minutes. I ain’t gonna miss stealin’ a piece of that, even if he may have used rat poison in it. Oh, and speaking of Bob, poll results are in! Even though this whole “maybe guest blogger” thing was Weasel’s idea, the poor schmoe only got one measly little vote. It seems like after me (and, yeah, I still won by a landslide in the coolness department) the guy you most want to see answering your questions or blogging about our adventures is Bob, our very own little Agent of HYDRA Hail HYDRA. So keep a lookout for an entry by Bob sometime, and don’t worry: if this cake kills him, we got Tasky on the line to take his place.

Ooh! The oven just dinged. Gotta run. So until next time, keep ‘em fueled and firey!

Jumpin’ Jack on a beanstalk, my magnificent little matzos! It’s been so busy around here I haven’t had a minute of me-time, but I’ve been waitin’ and waitin’ to tell you the news, and I just can’t wait any more!

So remember how we got hired by Iron Man a few days ago to go “liberate” the forfeit Captain America lost to Iron Man at poker? Well I thought fer sure it was gonna be his shield – I mean, everyone loves that thing, right? Who wouldn’t want to have Cap’s shield? But I was so far wrong on this one. It’s not the shield we gotta get – it’s the teeny wings! THE TEENY WINGS. You know what I’m talking about, right? The teeny, useless little wings Cap sports on his mask like weird little antennae? Oh, man, when I read the fax from Iron Man, I couldn’t get off the floor for about an hour, I was laughing so hard. Sandi was havin’ a hard time, too. We can’t even look at each other right now, ‘cause every time we do, one of us says, ‘Teeny wings!’ and off we go again.

Anyway, that Iron Man is one twisted *&%@&!^#4$#%! You gotta admire a man who would go after Cap’s teeny wings. I wonder what Iron Man’s forfeit woulda been.

Since this it CAPTAIN AMERICA we’re talkin’ about, and the teeny wings aren’t as easy to nab as the shield (I mean, he throws that shield around all the time, but I’ve never seen him throw the teeny wings), we decided to call in Tasky, too. Well, that and Sandi’s a little worried ‘cause he tried to drink the oven cleaner yesterday after he ran out of booze. Little skelly-dude is a mess. So she thinks maybe this’ll get ‘im back to normal. Well, normal for him, anyway. Even if it works I’m not sure we’ll be able to tell the difference.

Speakin’ a’folks at the Agency, Agent X has finally gotten his Bloat down to “normal” levels. We put ‘im on a No Twinkie diet yesterday to try to help him even more, but so far, even with the electrodes we hooked up as a deterrent to Snacking, the score’s at Twinkies, 82; Agent X, 0. I dunno if we’re ever gonna get him the way he used to be again. Which is good for me, ‘cause then I can keep gettin’ all the work!

...Oh, and I almost forgot. Weasel said don’t tell, but he’s got a little crush on one a’you readers. Chyah, like he really thought I wouldn’t tell.

Weasel also had a kinda fun idea, though. He thought maybe, y’know, now and then, one of the other Agency mooks should answer some questions. Apparently all the famous people have “guest bloggers,” he says. I think it’s just ‘cause he’s getting bored with his Wii and wants to interact with possibly hot babes over the wires, but hey, I’m willing to give it a try. Sandi showed me how to do this nifty “poll” thing, so I’m gonna try it out:


Poll #1224775 Guest Bloggin'!
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 24

Who should come answer questions for a day on this here journal?

View Answers

Orca X
2 (8.3%)

Sandi
0 (0.0%)

Bob, Agent of HYDRA (Hail HYDRA!)
10 (41.7%)

Outlaw
1 (4.2%)

Weasel
1 (4.2%)

Tasky
7 (29.2%)

Mary Zero (who?)
0 (0.0%)

Thor
2 (8.3%)

Irene Merryweather
0 (0.0%)

Iron Man (Just kidding!)
0 (0.0%)

Cap's Teeny Wings! (eeeeeheeheeheehee)
4 (16.7%)

No one, ‘Pool. No one is as cool as you!
9 (37.5%)

And now, while Orca X is polishin’ up the guns and polishin’ off the puddin’, I’ll answer some questions:

First up, daughterofisis asks:


Good day, Sr. 'Pool,

1. Were you born snarky, or did you have to work at it? Or, to put in another way...have you always been an asshole, darling?
2. Have you ever worn women's underwear, and if so, what kind and do you have any pictures?
3. What is your favourite vivverid?
4. Should my girlfriend pierce her tongue?
5. In the interest of irritating you and repeating questions, how's that cock taste? And did you know someone made two Cable/Deadpool fanmixes? Heh.

Yours truly,
SCIENCE!!

P.S. I'm German, incidentally. Hopefully that'll make you less inclined to shank me.

Oh, and happy birthday and suchlike. Actually, another question's occurred to me: what flavour of cake do you enjoy? An excellent tool in personality assessment, is that.


Oh, numbered questions, my heart sings for you!! Whee!

    1. Well, kid, I gotta tell ya, I came outta my mother’s belly crackin’ wise, and I ain’t never stopped yet. Except when the writers shove me in those lame alternate worlds where I’m all boring and look even scarier than I do here. Man, I HATE THAT. But really, I can’t remember a day when I wasn’t me, so clearly I musta been me from Day One. But I don’t like t’think of myself as an asshole – if I had to pick a body part, I’d say I’m more of a dick. A private dick. A--oh, never mind.

    2. How come on Marvel Girl it’s a uniform, and on me, it’s underwear, that’s what I wanna know? I mean, hey, if I came out wearing the one-eyed angst-cushion’s stupid visor people’d just say, “Oh, look at ‘Pool. He borrowed Cyclops’ visor ‘cause he wanted to look like a tool, too!” But when it’s yellow panties, everybody gets all excited. I just don’t get it! As for pictures, well I tried to pose (those feebs got a whole wall with shots of themselves in uniform, and I figured they’d want me too, since I’m the coolest mutant of them all) but everyone seemed to be outta film. Schmoes.

    3. Is that like a Pokemon? Charmander’s THE BOMB.

    4. If you’re inta that freaky $&^!, then go for it! I tried to get a piercing once, but the damn hole kept healing up! Mutant DNA, I tell ya. It ruins all your fun.

    5. Well like I said, the chicken stew was fantastic, but we haven’t killed the cock yet. I think Bob’s kinda starting to think of it as his little pet. I can’t wait to see what happens when I wring its neck. And…uh…fanmixes? Is that like a mixer that can fan you at the same time? Hey, if it means my mask is on more merch, I’m cool with it.

As for the cake question, well I’m pretty partial to Bob’s non-lethal lemon cake, but I gotta say I like me some red velvet cake, too. Too bad Bob refuses to make it with black icing.


Whew! That was a lot of answerin’, right there. My typin’ finger might be just about worn out now. No, no, wait...ah, healing factor. Feelin’ good, feelin’ ready. On to the next letter:

chrryblssmninja wants to know:


if you could be in any classic black-and-white movie, what would it be? Doesn't even have to be in English.


Oh, I love the easy ones: Citizen Kane, baby. That CFK was one crazy dude, and I dig that. ‘Course, if I was in the movie, it wouldn’ta been called Citizen Kane anymore, it woulda been something like, Deadpool Kicks Ass, so maybe it’s a good thing I wasn’t in it – I wouldn’t want to upstage some poor actor who can’t even afford color film.


OK, one more, and then we gotta go do some more Strategic Planning around here, ‘cause Iron Man said we’re supposed to try not to hurt Cap too much when we go for the TEENY WINGS.

glitterandlube says:


Fabian did list you and Cable as one of the romances he has written.

Then some asshat claimed Nate didn't love you back.

1) What the hell is that about? Nate was the one who used the word divorce, and was practically writing you love notes, am I right?

2) How can I make my father stop stalking me? Do you have any advice?

3) How hot are you going to be kicking Skrull butt on a scale of 1-15? 27? 29? 150?


Ah, the numbered questions, like candy to my soul!

Fabian can call it whatever he wants, but I never starred in no romance novel. But to answer your questions:

    1) Well, you know how it is, some asshats are still stuck in Big Guns ‘90s, and can’t stand the idea that Cable is really a woobie schmoop. But, y’know, if they can’t wrap their heads around that one, I don’t know why they even bought the issues. I mean, here’s a guy who practically sheds a tear of w00b if he can’t save a little girl from a toothache. He’s a schmoop with a capital S. As for how the big glowy-eyed Schmoop feels about me, well, I can’t help it if everyone loves the ‘Pool-man. And I do mean everyone. I tried to let ‘im down easy over the fact that I just ain’t interested – y’know, shooting at him, trying to arrest his a$$, blowing him up with a grenade – but he just won’t give it up. Whaddaya gonna do?

    2) As my good friend Bob would say, “TAKE. HIM. OUT. Hail HYDRA!” I mean, sure, he’s your dad, but really, what’s that mean? He’s got some of the same DNA as you? Well I got some of the same DNA as Cable, and like I said, I got no problem shooting him inna face. Just DO IT.*

...Well, unless by “stalking me” you mean he asks you where you been all day when you been out on the corner with the girls smokin’ and drinkin’ and flashin’ some leg or whatever. In that case, I think he might be justified. Even if you’re fifty. That’s just something dads are allowed to do. Forever.

    3) Like the Black Box once said, I’m off the CHARTS, baby. Those Skrulls won’t know what hit ‘em. Unless Danny-boy wusses out on the writing, but you can’t blame me if that happens.


Oh, looks like the big meetin’ is about to start, so I gotta go. Wish me luck on the mission, and until next time, keep ‘em jacked and packed!


* Our lawyer (Outlaw, via mail-away law school degree) has informed me that encouraging non-super-powered beings to violence and murder is Probably Not a Good Idea, so I have to put in this little disclaimer that says, “Don’t really shoot him.” But, y’know, I don’t mean it.

GUESS WHAT, my brilliant and beloved bratwursts? The Agency just got another job!!! And you’ll never guess who hired us this time. Go on, guess. Guess! Give up? OK, I’ll tell ya:

IRON MAN!

Yes, that’s right, the Man of Iron himself has just called our humble little office to hire ME, badass merc that I am, to carry out a job of international significance!

...Well, ok, maybe not international significance, but surely at least national significance. See, apparently Iron Man was playing poker with Cap last night, and Cap lost, bigtime, but then, he refused to pay the forfeit! Can you believe it?! So now Iron Man’s hired me to bring in the prize.

I do feel a little funny about it, ya know, ‘cause I mean, this is CAPTAIN AMERICA we’re talking about here, but hey, even Cap shouldn’t be allowed to welch on a poker forfeit, even if some people would say that’s the American way.

Iron Man’s about to fax us all the details, like what it is we’re going after, but I’m already putting together the team. We’re gonna have to go all out on this, because, I mean, hey, CAPTAIN AMERICA. So even Orca X is running the ops with us this time. He may not be able to get from point A to point B without a winch anymore, but he’s still got his dead-on aim when it comes to shooting, and shooting’ll probably figure into the plan (not shooting to kill or nothin’. Just general shooting.)

Anyway, while I’m waiting for the details, I figured I’d kill some time answering questions, so here we go! First up:


infecti0n writes:

Dear Deadpool,

01. Will you marry me?

02. What do you think when I say Deadpool for president?


Oh, numbered questions, I do love you so! Especially when your number is small and manageable. Numbers such as two are like music to my...eyes. Anyway.

    1. Well, darlin’, even though having an infection like you around could be real fun (what kind of infection are you? The long, lingering kind, like TB? The short, sharp kind like whooping cough? Wait, are those the same thing? I have no idea.), the problem is, I’m sorta engaged right now. And, well, honestly, you wouldn’t want to fight my fiancée for my oh-so-desirable hand in marriage, ‘cause she can kick some serious ass when she wants to. Actually, even if you saw her on the street you might want to 'cross over to the other side' (haha, I kill myself. Ohh, man, I just did it again!) because she can be pretty deadly when riled. (Heeeeheehee.) Just so you know what you should watch out for, sometimes she looks kinda like this, although sometimes she’s even more hot than that. But whatever she looks like, I’m pretty sure you’ll know her when you see her, and if you do see her, well...run real fast in the other direction?

On the OTHER hand, since it’s taking her so damn long to pick out the wedding dress or whatever these dames do to delay the big day, I’m pretty sure she’d be cool with me having a little, y’know, casual female company now and again. And she’s not really around that much, what with her job being so demanding and all, so, well, what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her anyway, so...CALL ME.

    2. I think, damn, they got some nice bathrooms up in that big white house. And then I wonder what kind of sandwiches I could order them to make for me. Mmm, sandwiches on demand. Any time I want. Mmmm. Oh. And then I remember how much it sucks for Cable, having to be president of that weeny little fake European country or whatever, keeping tabs on all the silly little uprisings and the plumbing and junk, and I think of all the boring paperwork I’d have to do if I was president of, say, the good ol’ U. S. of A., and then I think: NO THANKS. Except I think I’d be really good at the part where you have to talk to ambassadors and stuff. I figure I could talk to them until they saw reason or passed out, and either one would probably be pretty good for me.


OK! Next letter up...ooh, it’s that sweet little bit o’totty in lederhosen, addygryff!

She writes:

Dear Deadpool:

I erm.. made something, in which I actually put some time and effort, even though it doesn't exactly look it.

Hope you'll still like me after you've seen it. ;P

Here it is.

And also...quick question! If I was all super-powered and awesome, what should I call myself?


Ah, Adelaide, ma cherie (well, it should be Adelaide, even if it’s not), I am flattered by ze hours ov work you have put eento zis charming statuette of moi! Clearly you are enchantee avec moi, mon petit chapeau. So let us run away and live a carefree life somewhere exotic... like Pittsburg!

Or, y’know, there’s still that date we got planned, if I ever get some merc werc in Germany!

And to answer your question, well, clearly you’re a mutant in disguise, with the ability to manipulate clay and possibly also earth (which is a nicer way of saying dirt). Otherwise you couldn’t have made such a cute little statue of yours truly. And since you’re good with your hands, (ooh, I hope I hope!) and German, well, it’s pretty obvious. Your alias would be...Masseuse! No? Well maybe, um, Masseformen? Damn, I’m really no good at these Germanic languages. (Although, hey, at least "Masseuse" is better than "Schmutzeuse," right?) OH WAIT. I got it. Oh, I am so good! I am so the MAN. Your mutant alias, Miss Adelaide, would be: Kaolin! There. Pretty AND descriptive. I win! I’m goin’ on break.


Oooh! For real, I am, ‘cause here comes that fax from Iron Man. I can’t wait to see what it is we’re after.

Until next time, keep ‘em oiled and coiled!

Greetings, my bouncy blancmanges! How’s the air out there?

Me, I wouldn’t know, ‘cause I’m stuck at the Agency again, and the air in here is fetid. Why, you might ask? WELL I’LL TELL YOU.

See, yesterday Agent X went on a new food kick, and all he would eat were cinnamon pita chips and strawberry applesauce. Together. Yeah, I don’t know either, but he kept stuffing his face and mumbling, “Stacy is my new best friend," and junk like that.

So who knew, but those chips, if you eat enough of ‘em, can cause “bloating, gas, constipation, and loud annoying monologues.” Seriously, the warning is right there on the bag and everything, but of course Orca X couldn’t be bothered to read. And now he’s eaten 57 bags, and he looks even more like the Goodyear Blimp than usual and is spouting the most depressing parts of Hamlet in between groans and ramblings about the inner workings of the TV he rewired last week (not that he even did it right – everything is blue now, and for some reason Kirby keeps running across the screen!). Oh, and did I mention the Most Important Part? He’s stuck in the door, and not even the combined might of me, Outlaw, and Sandi can get him out. I guess we just have to either slice right through him (I’m game, but you know Sandi and keeping the carpets clean) or wait until he – heh - loses some hot air.

So, um...making the best of a stinky situation, it’s...LETTER TIME!!! (Good thing we didn’t let him try to re-wire the internet cables.)

Let’s see here...Ah! From one of the bags of mail that is not currently under Agent Orca’s ass,

foresthouse writes:


Dear Deadpool:

I think you are completely awesome. I wish I could come and work at the Agency with you, but I don’t have a healing factor or much luck with guns so I’d probably just get killed or something. So instead, I decided to make some wallpapers so I could see you everyday anyway. Oh, and also I made some icons of you awhile back, because I love you soooo much. Can I share?

The icons are here, and the wallpapers are here, here, and here.

I hope you like them!

Emily

P.S. ♥ ♥ ♥


Well, Emster, I’m always in favor of my lovable mask being plastered all over walls, computers, and shirts that will be worn by girls with big...intellects, so hey, sharing is A-OK with me! And some of those icons are pretty cool, although of course it’s mostly that my general badassitude just shines through and makes anything with me in it better. As for the wallpapers, well, I like the first one, anyway. I don’t know about all that “Best Friends” crap, though – I mean, didn’t you even READ the last part of the Cable & Deadpool run? Marvel publishes those things for a reason, and it’s so mooks like you know what’s going on in the lives of Amazing Superheroes like me. So, you know, get with the program! Those wallpapers with Cable in them are so outdated they kind of make me tear up. From the agony of your outdatedness, of course. But hey, no hard feelings. If you want to make some more that feature me with hot redheads or possibly Marvel Girl, I’ll wholeheartedly approve.


Now, what else have we got here? Ah-ha! From under last week’s tuna fish sandwich, a letter from amejisuto, who asks:


Dear Deadpool,

Who are the top five bad guys you'd like to smash their face in. Any bad guys, or girls, RL, Marvel, DC and otherwise.

Later dayz!
Ame


Oh, now, that’s not fair. I have to narrow it down to five? Well, ok. I guess if I hafta. Here goes!

    1. Well, I would say that creepy mook Osama bin Laden, but, you know, the last time I iced a terrorist, everybody yelled at me. What. the. hell? And then I had to pack up and skedaddle, and ended up being sorta brainwashed, and MAN, that was just a bad idea all around. Although I guess I did get to eat some good six-legged chicken because of it. Indirectly. Or something. Anyway, you know what? Screw the yelling, if you believe the government (and who doesn’t believe the government, I mean, they wouldn’t lie to us, right??) he’s the dumb freak responsible for ruining my favorite panoramic skyline, AND I’m tired of hearing about him, so yeah, even with the yelling, I’d still love to pop that creep. Hard.

    2. A certain someone we all know named Daniel. I mean, Pool-o-vision? What the eff is THAT? I may be psychotic, but I’m not crazy. And I DON’T DRIFT. I don’t even know what drifting means, unless we’re talking Tokyo Drift, here, but I don’t think we are. Anyway, it’s not like I want him laid out on a slab or nothin’, but maybe if I just, y’know, roughed ‘im up a bit Marvel’d get the hint and get Fabian or Gail back on the job, and we’d all have a rollicking good time. Which prob’ly isn’t gonna happen if we’re stuck with ol’ Danny-boy. With him, we’ll probably get a few lame issues and a cancellation, and then it’s goodbye, celebrity status and hot babes that always come with the solo runs. Isn’t that just my luck? Damn Daniel. (Paco, though, now, Paco’s my MAN. He’s a sweet sketcher, he is. Makes me look badass.)

    3. Cab—oh, wait, I was cured of that one, wasn’t I? Huh, well then...Deathstroke? Yeah, Deathstroke. How dare that poufy-legwarmer-wearing wishy-washy merc try to steal my thunder by dressing kinda like me and having a healing factor and saying he was there first? AS IF he could ever be as awesome as me, similar costumes aside. The very suggestion that I did a copycat routine on him is ridiculous. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve DONE Copycat. And she was a BABE (miss you, ‘Ness!). But I sure’s hell didn’t copy that lame, be-eyepatched, full-head-of-hair-esque Deathstroke dude. So, yeah, just let me at ‘im (crossover, ahoy!) and I’ll slice-n-dice my way right through his silly, staff-toting ass.

    4. Whoever the hell came up with vegetarianism. I mean, what the heck is that all about? We got pointy canines for a reason, folks, and if cows weren’t meant to be eaten, they would look more like fluffy little chinchillas or somethin’. I mean, yeah, you eat a chinchilla, I’ll gut your stupid self for harming one of this smelly world’s cutest little critters ever. But a cow? What’s a cow? Bad breath, big ugly teeth, and a bellyful’a cud. (Ew.) So Angus burgers are A-OK with me! (And speakin’ of Angus burgers, y’know I think the vegetarians are actually behind that whole campaign. I think they figure if you know the poor bull’s name was Angus, you won’t want to eat ‘im. You’ll think, “Oh, poor Angus, a bull bifurcated before his time! His poor cow wife Molly and calf kids Alice, Annie, and Arnold are so sad. Look at them, with their big cow eyes, beseeching us: ‘Why did you take our Angus??’” But I say, if he didn’t want to be eaten, he shouldn’t have gotten so fat that we still haven’t run out of burgers made out of ‘im. Sorry, Angus, but you can’t argue with that logic.)

    5. Michael Jackson. Sure, he did some great stuff back in the day. I won’t deny I’ve had a listen now and then. But man, that dude freaks me out so much, and after that one South Park episode where his nose fell off and his face started melting, I keep having nightmares that he’s tryin’ ta eat me ‘n’ stuff. These days, seein’ his ugly plasticized mug creeps me out more than pictures of bald Britney Spears. I keep expecting next time he shows up on the news he’ll have MADE IN CHINA stamped on his forehead. And...Heh. You know? Actually? That'd be pretty frickin’ hilarious. But still. Yeah. Dude is freakin’ weird.


OK, one more for today, before we start tryin’ to knock a hole through this brick wall to let in some fresh air. Uhhh...ah! Here’s one.

lady_sith writes:


Dear Deadpool,

1) I'm aspiring to be a mad scientist and I'd like your input on what you think my first evil deed should be? I know world domination is the goal you're supposed to aim for but I thought I should start with something a bit more low key and get some practice first. Any ideas?

2) Further to the above, would you be amenable to being kidnapped and subject to perverse sexual tortures in the name of science?I'm free all week.

3) You spend a lot of time defending your heterosexuality, but if you had to have sex with a man, any man, who would it be?

4) Have you ever been to Australia? You really should come down here sometime, we could use the excitement.


OMG, numbered questions! YAY. OK, I’ll take these one at a time:

    1) Well, I wouldn’t have suggested world domination, anyway, m’lady. Because really, what do you do with the world once you’ve dominated it? I mean, sure, you’ve got all the food and treasure and stuff you might want at your fingertips, or somethin’ like that, but sooner or later the unions are gonna form up into a Super-Union and be whinin’ in your face about your newly-conquered slaves needing bathroom breaks, and the rebels (there’s always gonna be rebels) are gonna start stealing ammo to off you with while they’re working in your munitions factory for one grain of corn a day, and you’ll fall for some chick (or dude, maybe, in your case?) who starts carpin’ at you about how world dominators should be giving them more diamonds and fancy cars because if you can’t do that, what’s the use of ownin’ the world, and man, it’ll just be one big headache, I tell ya what. So definitely start small, with something you really, really want, but most people might think you shouldn’t have. Like, you know, using mad scientist skillz with explosives and junk to take over Marvel headquarters so you can put whoever YOU want on whatever series YOU like, cancel all the *%@( you think is dumb, and hang a gigantic blown-up photo of yours truly in the lobby. Yeah. That’d be an awesome start to your mad scientist career. GO FOR IT.

    2) Perverse sexual tortures, huh? Depends. How cute are you? Ah, who’m I kiddin? You could be 82 years old and I’d still say HELLZ YEAH. (P.S. especially if you looked like the 82-year-old women on a certain show we all know and love.) Call me, babe.

    3) Oh, here we go again. OK, OK, I’ll answer this once, JUST THIS ONCE, but it’s only because I promised to answer all the questions and stuff and I can’t break a promise, now, can I? I know you mooks all think I’m gonna say Cable, because some stupid dork out there decided to write some stupid stuff that maybe, somehow, slightly implies that would be the case, but I’m totally not going to say him. I’m going to say...this dude. I mean, COME ON. Brilliant, rich, smokin’ hot, and fun to throw down with (and I do mean throw down with) from all I’ve heard. AND he’s got a Bat-pod. A BAT-POD. No one can even ride that thing, that’s how badass it is. So, yeah, if Batman propositioned me, well...I’m not sayin’ I’d say yes, but...um...NEXT ANSWER.

    4) Y’know, I haven’t, but Mitch Hedberg liked Australian things, so it’s got to be a cool place, right? I mean, Mitch said koalas are the cutest infestation ever, or something like that, so I’d be game to come on over and see a few. Unfortunately, until we get some more jobs here at the Agency, we’re a little short on recreational funds (well, unless you count practice down at the shooting range as recreation, WHICH I DO, but, y’know. Big trips are pretty much out unless someone in Australia hires me and flies me on over.) You lookin’ for any merc werc done cheap?


WHEW. That’s all for now, my brave blinis. It is getting gross in here, so I’m gonna go carve me a window right now, whether Sandi whines about the carpets or NOT.

Until next time, keep ‘em oiled and ready!

Hey you loyal Deadpool lovers, guess where me’n’the Agency folks are tonight?

Oh, you’ll never guess. NEVER.

Give up? OK, I’ll give.

NEW JERSEY.

No, seriously. Sandi’s got some friend who was beggin’ her to visit for some burgers and fireworks, and since we just wrapped that assignment on the murderous fella with the eyeball keychains, Orca X and I had nothing better to do, so we kinda tagged along--I mean Sandi begged us to come, is what I mean. Fer real.

So, y’know, we all hopped in the truck (strapped Orca into the truck bed; it was a perfect fit) and drove on down to some highfaulutin’ rich suburb that spends more on one night for exploding sticks than I spend on my entire collection of magazines for discerning gentlemen. Seriously. They had all kinds of little flamin’ pictures on the ground and rockets in the air and whirling stuff and I kinda wanted to toss a grenade in there to add to the fun but Outlaw told me she wouldn’t play strip poker with me anymore if I did. She shoots down all my best ideas.

The only parts that sucked were that we got pulled over on the way down for speeding and because the policeman thought we had a pile of dead bodies in the back, and that Outlaw brought her new boyfriend and he’s a total stick-in-the-mud whiner. Fortunately after the cop who pulled us over realized it was just one giant porker in the back, he calmed down a bit and even told us he wouldn’t give us a ticket for the speeding if we let him take a picture of Agent X to show to the rest of the guys, ‘cause he didn’t think they’d believe it. I hope they get a good laugh out of it. Or blow it up and use it as a dartboard or something. There wasn’t a thing we could do about Outlaw’s obnoxious new "man," though. He would insist on dragging that hammer everywhere and on lecturing me about what’s “morally right.” (“Wade, it wasn’t right to use your sparklers to set that old lady’s hair on fire.” “Wade, you shouldn’t have stolen that little boy’s ice-cream. It’s not right.”) After awhile I managed to block it out, and now all I hear when I listen to him is “Wade, wahwah-wahwah-wahwah.” Which is a total improvement, let me tell you.

Anyway, the rest of those mooks are sprawled out on the futons sleeping and whatever now, so I figured I’d answer a few questions. Lessee...


Ooh, my loyal fan lady_of_mists writes:


Dear DP,

What time is too late to go to work and when should you just call in out of embarrassment?

And if I had mutant powers, what would they be? Either I'm oblivious or I don't have any... :(

Best Wishes, Lady_of_Mists

P.S. Thanks for taking the time to answer all of us! Much appreciated. :)


Oooh, m’lady. I know only too well the pain of waking up four hours after you were supposed to be out saving some dude from a hit by the mob or stealing a giant diamond from the eye of the crocodile god or blowing up a top-secret government outpost before the enemy soldiers arrived and absconded with all the dirt on top government feebs.

The thing about it is, you gotta figure late is better than never at all, right? I mean, as long as you get the job done, I don’t know what your employer’d have to complain about (well, unless you were employed by the guy who is now dead from a mob hit, but really, that only happened ONCE. Cut a guy a break, y’know? ) So what I do is just make sure the job still gets done - track down the lady who got to the diamond before you, knock ‘er dead, and steal it back, jump those HYDRA lackeys who’re trying to access the latest gossip on who Senator so-and-so is sleeping with and blow ‘em all to hell...you get the point. Which is that it’s never too late to go out and kick some ass, and sometimes it’s even fun to wait, ‘cause then you can kick more ass. And if your employers have a problem with the way you do the job? Just kick their asses too. And steal all their loot. That’s how I handle it, and I’ve never failed to come out on top yet.

As for mutant powers, well, clearly your mutant power is like that dame the Runaways ran into a hundred years ago who could attract every man in range once they got a whiff of her perfume. I mean, I’m a few states away from you, and even I say “RRRAWR.” Haven’t you noticed the guys fighting over you in the hallways at work? It’s kind of a limited power, as far as I can tell (i.e. immediate chances of someone dying = less than stellar), but she certainly seemed to enjoy using it. And hey! Maybe you’re a direct descendant or something. Which would be kinda cool, ‘cause it’s always fun to say you’re related to famous people, even if they were famous for making people stab each other in the ear.

And no problem - always glad to answer the questions! It’s not like I could sleep right now, anyway. Sandi snores like a bear on Ritalin.

OK, one more before I smother Sandi with a pillow and get some shut-eye. Oohh! My favorite little schnitzel, Miss Addy, has written in again!

addygryff writes:


Dear Deadpool,

1) What's the most annoying song ever?
2) Are you looking forward to 'Wolverine: Origins'?
3) Why did that stupid chicken cross the bloody road? What was on the other side? Did it even get there without being run over? Sorry, but someone needed to get that question out of the way.
4) You know, does the bodyslide thingie still work now that Cable is back? Did you try it?

Woah, there's this really big thunderstorm outside right now, that's so totally cool, but I'd better go offline now, before I get electrified or something.
Yay for the whole end of the world feeling!

Keep up the good work, Wade. :)

♥,
Addy


OOOOH. NUMBERED QUESTIONS!!! Once again you make me bounce in joy. OK, here we gooooooo!

    1) Oh, I love starting out with the easy questions. OK. So. The MOST ANNOYING song EVER is that one about the car crash and the dead girlfriend. You know, the one Eddie Vedder made the massive mistake of covering at some point, possibly when he was high on a cocktail of paint-remover fumes, helium, battery acid, and venomous Venezuelan tree-toad serum? That must have been what he was on, because otherwise I don’t know how such a God of Music could have thought that would be a good idea. Man. The boring story? The depressing droning about where his ‘baby’ has gone? DO NOT WANT. But really, the reason it’s most annoying is NOT the terrible lyrics, the toneless tune, or the lack of vigor with which it is sung – it’s the fact that there is NO situation, whether it be a stakeout, a late-night game of strip poker, a fistfight, or a shootout, in which singing that song makes things more fun. And that cannot be said about any other song. Not even the one about the horse that got lost.

    2) OH HELL YEAH. Are you kidding me? I mean, yeah, I’m a little bitter they didn’t ask me to play me, but I can understand why – after all, I’m so busy these days, they had to have known that I’d have to call out every other day for emergency shootings, stabbings, and other things done with bits of pointy metal, and that would play merry hell with the production schedule. Sure, they could have at least asked me out of, as they say, politesse (that’s French for "being nice"), but I’m not gonna get my boxers in a bunch just because they decided to use a Hollywood hunk instead. And if they had to pick one, Mr. Ryan Reynolds is totally the way to go. He’s got the cajones and the rhythm to do a fair imitation of me, although of course nothing’s as good as the Real Thing (or quite as bendy). Me and Ry go way back, too – I called him up the other day and gave him a few tips, and he was real happy to hear them, once he figured out I wasn’t a crazy stalker or nothin’.

Anyway, I don’t know yet what part of my awesome life they’re gonna show, ‘cause Ry couldn’t tell me any of the details or those movie mooks’d hire a contract killer to take ‘im out for “spoiling” the movie, but he assured me it was “all good things.” So probably it’ll be that part where I gutted Wolverine and left him with his broken nose in the dirt, or maybe where I punched that uppity little girl who follows him around (damn that was a good time), or maybe that time that ol' Wolvie told me he wished he was as awesome as me. We’ll just have to wait and see when it hits the theaters, I guess. Well, YOU will, at least. I’M planning on crashing the premiere.

    3) Damned if I know what was on the other side, but I know why it crossed the road. ‘Cause I was on THIS side, and I was HUNGRY. And even chickens, with their tiny, pea-sized brains, gotta figure that my side of the road isn’t a good place to be when that happens.

Lucky for me they aren’t smart enough to figure out that I can cross roads, too. That chicken stew was delicious.

    4) Well t’tell you the truth, I’m not a real big fan of babies and stuff – the squooshy smelly diapers, the spitting-up-in-your-face, the stupid tiny little adorable feet wavin’ around. And I just KNOW if Nate started wonderin’ what I was up to while he was hangin’ out with the tiny tot, he’d figure out some way to trick me into wiping its dirty butt or something:

“Hello, Deadpool! I’m an anonymous person calling to hire you for a ridiculously low fee to retrieve a valuable artifact that is hidden someplace slightly messy. You’ll have to clean up a bit to find it, but I have confidence you can do it! Did I mention I am offering you a completely LAME sum of money for this?”

And there I’d be again, up to my neck in $#^% and with no clue how I even got there. So, yeah - not planning on tryin’ that bodyslide thing anytime soon, and just hopin’ he forgets all about it for awhile. S’far as I’m concerned, good ol’ Nate can trek around with Widdle Woobie tryin’ to save the world until the cows come home, and I’ll just sit here in my cushy merc agency making the dough and scorin’ with hot chicks. The less he remembers of my existence, the better! Until, of course, some feebs over at Marvel realize it’d help their revenues to pull that bodyslide gimmick. At which point, hey-ho, a-butt-wipin’ we will probably go, whether I WANT to or not. Stupid *&$%@!# writers.


♥ you too, little miss. Rrowr! Stay out of the rain, now. I don’t want you to melt before I make it to Germany for our date.

And speakin’ of dates, I got a date with some beach-bum hotties tomorrow (unless they’ve all been mutated by the Jersey Shore beach sludge) so I’d better get some shut-eye. So CIAO, as the Italian mob dudes who inhabit this ritzy town would say.

Whooooo-boy, my pretty pashminas, it’s been a ROUGH morning over here at the ol’ Agency, let me tell you what. First, we ran out of Twinkies, and Agent Orca came about *thisclose* to stabbing Outlaw in the face because she stole the last one after distracting him with, well, let's just say that rack comes in handy for more than hangin’ a cute shirt on. Of course, I missed the action 'cause I was out on the job, knee-deep in eyeballs and entrails, but Sandi made an emergency run and came back with Hostess products and Dunkin’ Donuts for all. THEN Tasky stopped by, all drunk from a three-day bender, and tried to kidnap Sandi and take her away to his love-nest or something. Orca says he just ended up falling on his face and slurring, “Wilssshnssh a prick ‘n’ you need f’get him.” I don’t know what he was on about, though - it’s not like Sandi’s not free to find another job if she wants. I can’t help that I’m such a fantastic boss.

I wasn’t really concerned with all that, though, ‘cause I was still on the trail of the Eyeball Gouger – found him holed up in a warehouse on 52nd, and THEN things really got fun. The revolver, the candlestick, the lead pipe, and the knife were all in play, but darned if I could find the little plastic rope, so in the end we stopped with the CLUE and I just beat him over the head, repeatedly. It was sweet.

Right when I got back to the office, though, Outlaw’s new boyfriend came crashing in and they started fighting about whose hair was nicer. (I don’t think she told him it’s a wig yet.) He hit her with a hammer and flew her away, and really, I’d go after them but it’s not like I can fly. Anyway, Outlaw’s a big girl. She can handle him fine, from the looks of things.

So instead, I’m gonna shove my uniform in the wash (you wouldn’t guess it, but eyeball juice stains) take a nice, deep breath, and answer some questions. (And I have to say, I figured out why so many people are addicted to this ‘blog’ thing and stuff – you get to talk and talk and no one can interrupt you. I love it!)

First question today comes from lady_of_mists. She writes:


Dear Deadpool,

Name a few situations in which I can't see you, but you can see me.


1) When I’m hanging upside down outside your window and watching you sleep? But I don’t do that these days, ‘cause now it’s not considered “romantic,” it’s considered “stalking.”

2) I’m a master of stealth and sneakiness, so when I’ve got you in my sniper sights, I’d be seein’ you but there ain’t no way you’d be seein’ me! Not that I’d ever try to kill you, though, ‘cause then all your lawyer friends’d slap me with a lawsuit before I could say, ‘Great Gatsby in a knapsack!’

3) Well if you close your eyes while I’m starin’ at you, but that one seems obvious.

4) There was this one time when Cable duct-taped me from head to toe, and he could totally see me but I couldn’t see him at all. I stabbed him in the forearm for that one. Then he duct-taped me to a truck windshield and painted me orange and black like Garfield. That bastard.

5) If I hid under the pile of undies in your laundry basket, you probable wouldn’t see me, even if I was starin’ right up your skirt at you. Not that I’d do that. That’s the kind of thing Agent X would do. And then he’d steal your panties. Pervert.

6) I could go on for hours, here, but I think you get the idea.

P.S. That grappling hook you found outside your window yesterday? Totally not mine.

P.P.S. How do I know you’ve got lawyer friends? Well I am stealthy and sneaky, and possibly also a master of disguise. Yet another reason you’d never see me if I didn’t want you to.

P.P.P.S. These green panties are adorable. Can I keep them? All my boxers are dirty right now.


And now, a question from judsons, who asks:

Dear Mr. ‘Pool:

Why do my socks never match?

and

Could god heat up a burrito that was too hot for even him to eat?


Well, Judsons, this may come as a shock to you, but the reason your socks never match is that you’re colorblind. In one eye. You know, I knew this guy who was colorblind once. When he was a kid, he had this white shirt he wore all the time. It was his very favorite shirt in the whole world. He wore it to school, and he wore it to play, and he wore it to bed. And then one day, his friend asked him, “Sam, why do you always wear that bright pink shirt?”

He also painted part of his green car brown when he was in high school. When his dad asked him why he’d bought the brown paint, he said, “Well dad, I have a brown car. Why wouldn’t I buy brown paint?” Poor schmuck. I used to love asking him what color things were and then laughing at him. Until he stabbed me in the leg that one time. Then we were no longer buddies.

But back to your problem. See, because you’re colorblind in one eye and your nose is really really big, your peripheral vision just plain sucks, and the socks you wear on your left foot look different from the ones you wear on your right foot. Sorry, dude. That’s just the way it works. Your best bet for solving this is to never wear socks.

As for God and food, did I ever tell you what a fantastic baker that skinny li’l gal is? I mean, I’ve never met her, personally, but one time while I was hangin’ with Loki (that tricksy dude with the great hat collection) she sent him a strawberry shortcake ‘cause he mowed her lawn for free or something, and he gave me a piece, and man, was that stuff good. I mean, it almost tasted like there were no preservatives or artificial flavors in it at all. I almost fell for God right then and there on the basis of cake alone, but it’s always bad news dating two immortal anthropomorphic gals, and I knew Death’d be jealous if I started stalking God, even if it was just cake-love. And then there’s that whole universal ‘kick-me’ sign God seems to have decided to slap on my back. I kinda can’t get past that, even for cake.

Anyway, the way I hear it, God never eats Mexican food. It gives her really bad gas.

...

Oh, time to throw my suit in the dryer. So, until next time, keep ‘em sharp and shiny!

Hey, my little taquitos! What's happenin'?

It’s Day 47 here at Agency X, and honestly, merc jobs are kinda thin on the ground. What with word getting around that Agent X is fatter than Janet Jackson after her seventeenth cookie run of the day, not that many people are calling in. But I’m sure when more of them hear that I’m back on the job, they’ll be dialing that number faster than you can say chimichanga. Just got to wait a bit...

...but while we’re waiting, I guess I’ll answer some mail I’ve gotten lately from my millions of dedicated fans. Just let me find a letter...um...pile of Taco Bell receipts...ooh, here's my dry-cleaning pick-up ticket (that costume is a pain to wash)...Hmmm...oh, here’s one:

Dear Deadpool:

Why are you werking at agency x? I thought Hayden hated you. Whats’ up with that?

Sincerly,

George Walken Bush
(You know where I live. And i know where you live, too.)

P.S. It's rude to carve your name on other peopls' bathroom walls.

P.P.S. I can speel my own name. I have to write that because I know someone like Jon Stewart will point and laugh at me if I do'nt make it clear. But I do really know how to speel it. I’m really, really smart. Really. I’ve just always wished I was related to Christopher Walken. Don’t you?

I do! Doesn’t everyone? But to answer your question, Georgie (may I call you Georgie?) it’s true that Agent X hates me from the tip of my nosie to the hang of my cajonies. On the other hand, he’s gotta pay the rent somehow, and everybody knows I’m the best there is at everything, so he offered me the job as frontman and main merc at the Agency until we figure out how to get his raging appetite under control. And I thought I ate a lot. Man. Fortunately for me, all that fat gets in the way of his killin’ skills, so even when he does get that hatin’ feeling, he can’t really do too much about it. Which is why I pinch Sandi’s ass sometimes when I know he’s looking. I love watching Orca X struggle to jump off the couch.

...

Ah, another likely letter:

Dear DP,

I heard on the news this morning that a group that was backing Hillary Clinton in the Presidential race is now backing Barack Obama. The guy on the radio said that was "quite a switch in a few short months." What do you think of that, and what do you think of Obama?

Sally Cinsinero
Gibson City, IL

Sally, the first thing I have to say about Barack Obama is: FINALLY! A potential President who has a fun-to-say name! Barack Barack Barack Barack! Bombombombabom-o-baaaaaam-AAAA! I could totally rap it. So yeah, he’s got my vote. Twice if he tells me his middle name and it’s fun, too. (Like Hillary’s. Rodman is such a great middle name. She’s related to Dennis, you know. They’ve got the same chin and everything.)

As for this whole "Clinton supporters backing Obama now, what a surprise!" thing, well DUH! I mean, Hillary left the race almost a month ago. Is it really a big shock that the Democrats are going to back the only other popular chance? They want to WIN, right? No more of this "Republicans! War! Fundamentalism! Sitting-in-the-pockets-of-oil-company-CEOs!" for them. You know they’re getting pretty desperate to oust those conservative feebs. Hell, I think they’d back Oscar the Grouch if he made a run for it.

So, yeah. Don’t color me surprised about that or anything.

...

Now, let’s see...hmmm. Ah!

Dear ‘Pool-man,

How do you feel about this?

Johnny C.
Newport News, VA

Hmm, let’s see here, clickety-click—oh! Um.

Well, Johnny, I’ve always liked horses. For one, if you had a real crazy-a$$ horse here in NYC, you know, like a warhorse or something, maybe with metal-plated hooves, you could totally ride it out on the streets and use it to kick the $*@# out of the taillights of cars in front of you when you were stuck in traffic. I’d aim for the taxis, personally. I told Cable that idea last year and he didn’t think it was so hot, but hey, what does that geek know? The NYPD rides horses, so why shouldn’t I?

Anyway, you know I’m all about the branding (the Deadpool boxers were my best idea ever), so if I DID have a warhorse, I’d definitely give it a paint job like that – insignia on the butt and all! On the other hand, um…that pony looks a little gay. And you KNOW if I’m riding a horse, it’d have to be one bada$$ mother*#&!##@! So, yeah – like the design, don’t like the pansy pony.

Oh, and what’s it say in the...wait...wait... "Deadpool as a My Little Pony”?! That prissy thing is supposed to be me? WHAT? OK, now I call shenanigans. Where does this Pony chick live?? Google maps, Mapquest, where's my gun?...AH!

Hey, I gotta go, y’all. Until next time, keep ‘em sharp and pointy!