Review: Mondo 1-2

Digital comics will never replace print comics because of books like Mondo. This golden age sized book is a 40 page black and white masterpiece that simply wouldn't translate well into a digital format. It just feels right. Mondo is all Ted McKeever. Within four pages the man was quoting Frank Zappa, and if the aesthetics of the book were not enough, that right there managed to get the job done.

I have always been a huge McKeever fan. From his humble beginnings on the self published Transit, to the more recent Meta 4, and even his run on the DC book Doom Patrol, McKeever is all about making his work as weird as possible. These are the kind of books I love, they transcend the traditional "magicial elements in a normal reality" theme that permeate most mainstream books. I will attempt to do my best at a quick plot synopsis, and I have a feeling that it's also going to give you a perfect example of what this man is all about.

Catfish Mandu is an anti-social grunt at a chicken factory where he is responsible for blasting chickens with nuclear radiation in order to make them freakishly huge before they are sent to the supermarket. He is mute, sans the occasional gutteral chicken noise, and is frequently visited by the apparition of a large chicken that gives him the gift of one egg. After a nuclear accident he is transformed into Mondo, and upon ingesting the previously mentioned gift egg he is now also accompanied by a six foot chicken sidekick. His new job is to get revenge on all the people who blew him shit when he was the meek and voiceless Catfish Mandu. As Frank Zappa says in the book: "The meek shall inherit nothing."

Most comic fans love a good revenge tale, and I can be placed squarely in that group. Let me give you a little insight about the shit I had to put up with in High School. Once upon a time, I was a talented young trombone player. The only serious detriment to my hobby was that anyone in band was referred to as "band fag" by the countless scores of future gas station attendants that graced the halls of Lake Central High School. Thankfully, I caught a little less shit than most "band fags". I got laid, and was accepted enough by the general population to get invited to parties, but the band stigma still remained despite the few concessions I was granted. This brings us to Dave Layman. I can honestly say before this incident I had never spoken to this kid once. He played on the football team, drank disgusting Red Dog 30 packs, and even though we were not acquainted I can assure you that the man did not have an intelligent thought or original idea in his fetal alcohol, freakishly large head. One day before a football game I was walking through the foyer where the entire football team happened to be gathered. My thoughts were occupied with either Watchmen or the white album, either way, I was minding my own business when I hear:

Dave Layman: "Hey faggot."

So at this point I'm thinking that there is no way this guy is talking to me. I don't even know this dude. Now I'm not thinking about anything comic or music related. All of my survival instincts are starting to kick in all at once, but I'm still thinking that there is no way in hell Dave Layman is talking to me, until inevitably my thoughts are interrupted by:

Dave Layman: "Hey faggot."

All right, now I know this dude is talking to me. While I am smart enough at the age of sixteen to realize that I cannot fight the entire football team, the best way to get your ass kicked in this situation is to keep your head down and not respond. I take a deep breath and turn around. The best that I can come up with is:

William: "Are you talking to me?"


Dave Layman: "Yeah, I'm talking to you, you fucking faggot."


This is the part where the entire football teams erupts in laughter and I turn around and walk away. Would I love my own revenge comic starring me kicking the shit out of this guy, absolutely. Hell, I probably even drew a few crude panels of it in my fourth period geometry notebook. But as I get older I realize that Dave Laymen probably never amounted to shit, the Dave Laymens of the world never amount to shit, but my life is awesome. In addition to having a great job in the worst economy since the Great Depression, at the age of 31 I have traveled most of the world and even managed to have a short lived relationship with a smoking hot 18 year old last year. Truthfully I wasn't really that into her at all, but I thought it would be a great story to tell the grand kids. And even today it's already one of the classics. Wherever you are Dave Layman, (probably masturbating in some shitty suburban studio apartment, perspiring Keystone Light can leaving rings on your GED) thank you for inspiring me not to be a total fucking asshole. Wait a minute, what the hell am I writing about? OK, back to Mondo.

I expected issue two to touch on the main theme and some of the engaging sub plots that were set up in issue one, but I got Ted McKeevered. Issue two introduces almost a completely new set of characters and manages to complicate the plot to the point of confusion. In a three issue series this is an extremely ballsy move, but this series has been so artfully done, and has been so much fun to read, that issue three will be mine regardless of the $4.99 cover price. Mondo is hilarious despite the lack of plot continuity, and a great way to take a mental vacation from the morning coffee/evening beer 9 to 5 grind. If you like Cronenburg films, revenge fantasies, great art, and overall hilarity, this is the book for you. A quick caveat, this is one that I had to pre-order, so make sure you give your local comic shop a call today you fucking faggot.

By: William R. Davis Jr.