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Punching Day: Brockway Needs Time

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PUNCHING DAY

Bolo Yeung’s Opus Of Mediocrity 🌭

As a tastemaking 1-900-HOTDOG reader, you already know most of our articles are about artifacts covered in the spectacular wrongness of some dark otherworld. Today is different. This Punching Day I’m talking about a single fight from the sequel to a knockoff movie that achieves spectacle through mediocrity alone. It’s a collection of uninspired cliches and lifeless performances as if all anyone cared about was smearing vaguely kung fu-like shapes on some film for the Yugoslavian VHS market. I’m, of course, talking about the finale of 1996’s Shootfighter II: THE ULTIMATE FIGHT TO THE DEATH: KILL OR BE KILLED.

Before we look at the stunning ordinariness of Shootfighter II‘s climax, we need to talk about how we got here. It took decades of training to create something this hauntingly generic. So let’s look at the long, weird, and almost exclusively mediocre journey of the film’s star, Bolo Yeung.

In 1973, Bolo Yeung was named Yang Sze and he starred in a movie called “Chinese Hercules.”  I dare you to come up with a title more efficient at explaining the content of a movie. The films We Bought a Zoo and I Have Sex With Latina Babysitter (Facesitting Fetish) owe the elegance of their naming style to the legacy of Chinese Hercules. The only question you could possibly have when you hear “Chinese Hercules” is “Can he pick you up by your dick in the middle of a fight?”

The answer is yes! And there were no wire tricks or reasonable ways to safely perform it! That stuntman’s genitals were squashed into a wet rubber glove all for Chinese Hercules, a movie not worth such a sacrifice. This stuntman’s first four children were declared “bologna with fingernails” by the state. And even after doctors fused them together to form most of a boy, that boy received an unprecedented rating of “Get this thing the fuck out of my office,” in the April, 1977 issue of Hong Kong Son Review. All because the man who would one day be called Bolo Yeung couldn’t stop pumping weights even during handjobs.

To give you an idea of how good Chinese Hercules was, here’s a shot from the trailer. Which means this footage of him just missing the shit out of these guys was where they thought he looked the coolest. The trailer also prominently featured Bruce Lee who is not in the movie and a narrator screamed: “BONE CRACKER! HEAD CRUSHER! BACK SNAPPER! BODY BREAKER! MEN. WOMEN! OLD. YOUNG. HUNDREDS. OR ONE ALONE. EACH CHALLENGES, AND EACH BECOMES THE PULVERIZED PREY OF CHINESE HERCULES. THE FIRST AND ONLY MUSCLE MAD MONSTER OF THE MARTIAL ARTS. CHINESE HERCULES! HE’LL GET A CRUSH OUT OF YOU!!!

Chinese Hercules was the 18th film by Yang Sze, who was also credited as Yang Szu, Szu Yang, Shih Yang, Yang Tze, Sy Young, Young Zee, Sze Yang, and Yeung See. One of the reasons he was so muscular was so bank tellers would be scared enough to cash checks made out to 70 different names. The point is, whatever the hell he was called, our English letters didn’t know how to recreate it. It’s sort of like how my name in hanzi can be the character for “explosion” in a cowboy hat or a drawing of Pac Man eating the letter 母乳. None of it mattered, though, because later the same year, the actor known as Something-like-Soo Something-like-Young would star in Bruce Lee’s Enter the Dragon and everyone in the world would know him as “Bolo.” Or at the very least “that big guy who killed a dude by cradling him like a baby way too weirdly.”

Enter the Dragon was the most famous movie by the most famous kung fu star, so you’re probably familiar with it. And Szu(ish) Yang(ish) would milk its popularity for 15 years. After Bruce Lee’s death, 750 Chinese actors changed their names to something very close to Bruce Lee, added kitty cat sounds to their kicks, and made unauthorized sequels to his movies. Bolo Yeung was in fucking all of them. He starred in Bruce’s Fingers, Soul of Bruce Lee, Image of Bruce Lee, Bruce Li Invincible Chinatown Connection, Amsterdam Connection, The Tattoo Connection, Enter the Game of Death, Dragon on Fire, Bruce and Shao-lin Kung Fu 2, Young Dragon, Enter the Game of Shaolin Bronzemen, Bruce the Superhero, Way of the Dragon 2, The Clones of Bruce Lee, Bruce Lee King of Kung Fu, The Big Boss 2, and Bruce Lee’s Dragons Fight Back (starring Jackie Chang).

Between 1973 and 1988, Szu Young acted alongside a Bruce Le, a Bruce Li, or a Bruce Lei 17 times, meaning he starred in 12 more Bruce Lee ripoff movies than there were actual Bruce Lee films. He has worked with hundreds of co-stars on dozens of movies, but he has never met anyone with a second name. To tell the Bruces apart, he had to use subtle vocalizations like a penguin, and even then he could never be sure he was on the right set or punching the right Bruce.

His characters rarely had names because why bother? It’d be like giving a backstory to the Before model on a tube of Teenage Mutant Karate Tortoise Penis Large-Up Cream. No one fucking cares who Henchman #3 is in Broose Lea Meets Cop-Robot 2000. Bad example, because that was Professor Shave Gravestone, who everyone loved. The fact is, you could have named Szu’s character “Titties Breakdance” or “Beijing Trevor” and everyone would have still called him “Bolo.”

In 1977, Sze tried to fix his name problem when he played a character named Bolo in a film he directed named Bolo. Strangely, it wasn’t about a man named Bolo murdering men by cradling them too tightly. It was a comedy aimed, apparently, at shitty toddlers dying of stupidity. It wouldn’t have exactly redefined his personal brand even if anyone had seen it. It was like Jaleel White writing “Urkel Vitamins!” on a bottle of benzodiazepine pills and leaving it in a parking lot. Still, it gave Tse the courage to finally, officially change his name to “Bolo.”

You already know this, but in 1988, the man now known as Bolo Yeung starred in a second Greatest Martial Arts Movie of All Time– Bloodsport. It’s the film my Netflix algorithm knows as “the only movie.”

Bolo was great in it. Just like in Enter the Dragon, he hardly talked, stole every scene he was in, and the moment the movie was over he spent ten years playing characters with the same name in third rate knockoffs of it. For instance, his first project after playing Chong Li in Bloodsport was playing Chang Lee in Bloodfight. That sounds like the winner of 1989’s Least Inspired Joke, but it’s what really happened.

If you had a wife named Maggy and you introduced her to Bolo Yeung, he would go home, build five mannequins named Majo, Morga, Maggie, Majjy, and Cyber-Maggy vs. Moonwolf, then fuck the shit out of them for SAG minimum. After playing “Chang” in Bloodfight, he went on to play “Chong” in Tiger Claws. Then he mixed it up by playing a good guy in Shootfighter: Fight to the Death, a movie the producers definitely pitched as Bloodsport meets nothing else featuring the co-star of Bloodsport. It had both bad guys from Karate Kid, only enough plot to get everyone into an underground death tournament, and one of the fighters was a man-snake. Look at how sweet Shootfighter man-snake was:

Fucking snake dodge! Snake dodge! Snake headbutt! Man-snake’s existence implies there are lots more magical Mortal Kombat guys in this movie, so it will already never live up to your expectations, but it’s still pretty great. And it’s weird seeing Bolo as the good guy, not because he’d been a villain for 80 straight movies, but because of scenes like this:

Was this Bolo’s script note? To have the hero rip a man’s bones into gore and then, in front of cheering fans, feast on his agony? Silently? For a full minute? This would be like Rocky III ending with Sylvester Stallone running over Mr. T’s head with his car and screaming, “Adrian! My boner throbs with the forbidden power I’ve taken from the vanquished!!!” Bolo didn’t even try for a catch phrase. He could have said, “Thought you could use a break!” or “If this movie is a hit, I’m going to play this character again in six no budget reboots with you impersonators!” Anything would be better than demon-hissing at the crying man’s ruptured remains.

So that brings us to this, the fight scene I mentioned 9000 Bolo Yeung facts ago– the finale of Shootfighter II. It’s everything Bolo had trained for over the course of 100 lazy, knockoff movies. It opens with an avalanche of story elements. There is no need to watch the rest of Shootfighter II because everything you need to know is communicated with “Chinese Hercules” levels of efficiency. Stakes are explained by having actors walk right up to the camera to show the audience their gun. It is not ham-fisted. It is Shaquille O’Neal searching for his wrist watches inside two full pigs.

The cage fighters, Bolo Yeung and Joe Son, are both cranky Asian men wider than they are tall. The film wants us to know this is serious, but they look the same heading into a battle to the death as they would bowling or enjoying a glass of sun tea. These are actors who can perform “menacing” and “bored after a long day of menacing.” Asking them to act like this particular murder is important is like asking a Wendy’s employee to make a cheeseburger extra special. They wouldn’t know how or even consider trying.

A crowd of about 15 wealthy gamblers are there to watch, and they each specifically look like the last person you’d trust to keep your murder fighting pit a secret. They all take turns demonstrating how they’ve never seen a fight, a crowd, or a movie. For instance, one guy spends the whole match against the cage fist pumping and any time he starts to feel too silly he’ll throw an awkward high five to the nearest extra.

The extras are putting in five times more work than the fighters. If you’ve ever seen a kung fu movie, you recognize the move where one guy has a staff and chases his enemy with foot smacks. It never hurts anybody, but it’s more exciting than picking it up and walking over to them. At least it was before Bolo Yeung tried it. He looks like he called time out to sweep up dog hair. This is how an elderly couple learns hip hop dance on a cruise ship, not how you kill a man with a stick. It’s almost too terrible to explain away with “everyone involved sucks.” They might have had to patch this scene together with rehearsal footage after Bolo left to film Bloodpunch IV with Jake-Claude Von Doom and the original Hamburglar.

Bolo and Joe both have a tendency to look away when they attack or block as if they learned how to fight by watching Magic Johnson play. It takes away all urgency from this life-threatening situation as if they learned risk assessment by watching Magic Johnson fuck. Nobody in this cage gives a shit if they live, die, or look at all like two men fighting. Luckily, the subtle filmmakers remind the audience of the stakes by constantly cutting to a shot of the villain holding a gun against the neck of Bolo Yeung’s friend. 

This is a pretty normal trope for a death tournament movie. Bloodsport is both the best known example of the genre and the only one where the hero enters the tournament for no reason other than kicking ass. Normally, they need to be blackmailed. What’s weird in Shootfighter II is that it’s happening in plain view of the main group of shootfighting fans. Assuming they’re okay with this very different tone of crime, it still seems a little distracting. This would be like watching an illegal horse race while Magic Johnson was in the center of the track hovering a nose bleed over a sleeping baby. It is not the drama you paid to see, but it will command a bit of your attention.

It’s insane and ridiculous, but checking in to see which of these guys is smiling is the only way to know who’s winning. Joe and Bolo never change expressions and their punches and kicks miss by a wider margin than Magic Johnson AIDS jokes in a karate article. But you can always tell when one of Bolo’s nonchalant air swipes was supposed to hit because the hostage is having fun.

I didn’t edit that clip in any way. The sequence of events is this: Bolo claws at Joe’s titties with both hands and misses, neck hostage guy fucking loves it, then suddenly Bolo is holding a stick again while Joe patiently waits to die with his arms at his side. It should not be possible for any men to be this bad at pretending to fight, especially these two. At this point in his career, Bolo had been in over 200 professionally choreographed fights and Joe Son was a UFC veteran who would go on to be a convicted sex criminal and actual murderer. Joe Son could have shown a tape of his UFC fight to the producers and said, “In my exact experience, real cage fights look more like this:”

The filmmakers knew the action had to escalate, but weren’t sure how to do it since the gun-in-the-neck guys can only smile and frown so hard. One idea Joe had was to climb onto Bolo’s shoulders like he’s getting sleepy at DisneyLand. I guess It was about as good an idea as the one he had at UFC 4 when he clung to a useless headlock while getting punched directly in the dick. And it didn’t help the scene when veteran actor Bolo Yeung chose to sell the attack as “mildly to not annoying, this reminds me of the other time I held a guy up by his mangled dong.”

By this point, each fighter had drawn blood, but the makeup effects were limited to a few streaks of fake blood on two very wet men, so their wounds closed after one or two camera cuts. And with neither able to land a convincing shot, it seemed there was only one way this fight was going to end– have Bolo freeze in place for several seconds so Joe could pick up an emergency fuel can and douse him in gasoline.

Think about what this means. Someone built a cage for the purposes of locking two gladiators inside and thought, “We should be ready in case they drove here from the left side of the basement and ran out of gas.” This is a truly insane choice for the one single object to put in a fighting cage. Even assuming it was for one guy to light the other on fire with, what kind of maniac wants Bolo Yeung on fire in a crowded room with one exit? You think a burning alive Bolo Yeung is going to wait for the building to evacuate before he bursts through the cage and into a flammable stampede of sociopaths? All these people should be dead and this lair should be ashes. It’s pure dumb luck that Joe Son suddenly came down with a brain disorder that prevented him from swinging a torch any lower than seven feet in the air.

There is no more certain way to lose a kung fu fight than to use a lethal weapon against an unarmed opponent. If you’re the only one with a sword, drop it. That man is about to do something so cool and kill you. In this case, it would be almost too obvious for the blind, battered, gasoline-covered man to defeat the guy beating him with a flaming stick, but one thing Shootfighter II: THE ULTIMATE FIGHT TO THE DEATH: KILL OR BE KILLED never does is defy expectations. Sure enough, Bolo finishes Joe with dozens, maybe zeros of punches. With the bad editing and mistimed sound effects, it’s hard to tell which impacts happened and which ones were sarcastic. After it ends, Joe is helpless while the crowd chants for Bolo to execute him. But Bolo has done this enough times to know: if you’re the only one with a sword, drop it.

With the hero gladiator refusing to kill and walking away, there were no cliches left to film. “Not… so… fast,” said Joe Son as he picked up the discarded sword and drove it into his own guts. “You assholes… forgot about this one.” And with a look of disappointment from the bad guy of Karate Kid, Bolo Yeung had finished the perfect final fight of his long film career– an impossible combination of insane, cliche, terrible, and awesome. Long live Sze “Bolo” “Chong” “Chinese Hercules” Yeung.


This article was brought to you by our fine patron and Hot Dog Supreme, Ethan Rangel: half wolf, half cop, half cyborg, and all wolf again twice, for a total of 2.5 wolves.

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PUNCHING DAY

Eliminator

Malibu Comics was a slipshod comic imprint from the ‘90s held together by duct tape and a stubborn unwillingness to recognize failure. Their greatest lasting impact on society was teaching Child Brockway to hate. Malibu’s entire business model was based on tricking confused grandmothers into buying the wrong comic book for their sick grandchild. It was a whole publishing line built on the cynical exploitation of dementia, and the only reason its president, Scott Mitchell Rosenberg, is not in jail today is because he has never missed a single payment of unwanted babies to Balphas, the demon who presides over Backwards Wishes.

Eliminator ran for four issues, which is what we call a ‘Malibu success.’ He was a mash-up of Iron Fist and Deathlok, which you might recognize as “the dude from the shitty Netflix show” and “I don’t.” Malibu was so low-confidence they couldn’t even steal the good characters. Buying a Malibu title was like buying storebrand ramen – don’t lie to yourself that you’re saving pennies here; you’re doing this because you hate yourself somewhere between Face Tattoo and No Note Suicide.

Eliminator’s powers were “Robot Arm” and “Maybe Karate.” His costume was a leotard, a blouse, and his secretary’s makeup but you’ll have to wait six more images for that joke to pay off. Eliminator was a mercenary, just like every generic comic book character in the ‘90s, but he was an especially shitty one who only went after Zumba instructors that stole Quickbooks passwords.

Eliminator had a motorcycle that changed into whatever was convenient at the time, so long as he techno-fingerblasted it a little first.

It was not the only finger-blasting going on in the transmogrocycle. 

Eliminator was a mash-up of things the ‘90s were all about, but didn’t age well: transformers, mercenaries, cyborgs, white guys doing karate, and banging your assistant. 

Either Eliminator sarcastically called her Laquita, which would make him very racist, or the author named her Laquita, which would make him very racist, or Laquita was a common and entirely accepted name in ‘90s black culture, which would make me very racist. Let’s check: A quick google first asks me if I meant La Quinta:

The ‘baby names’ robot tried to ask me if I was fucking with it, but was not programmed with the proper words to accuse:

And Urban Dictionary, as always, makes me regret looking at Urban Dictionary:

So let’s drop this whole debate and just agree on one thing: It is never acceptable to call a woman “queet.”

The whole series, all four of it, is chock full of racial stereotypes. There are two latino characters in this book: one of them is in a gang and one of them used to be in a gang. They are brothers. 

Here’s one of them stumbling across a beached shark and thinking 1. “My gang would love this shark,” and 2. “We could sell sharks, that could be our gang thing.”

The central villain for the entire series was:

Malibu combed through the great bible of comic book names and couldn’t believe their crap luck: Cyborg was taken, Metalman was taken, ManBot was taken – wait for real, fucking manbot was taken??? They flipped the page in frustration and noticed one conspicuous absence: Mannequin. “Oh well” is the official Malibu slogan. It’s on their business cards. All four of them.

Thus ends the compelling origin story of Mannequin, the half-man half-robot named for an inanimate bust whose only purpose is to wear clothes. He does not wear clothes. 

So yes, there’s a lot wrong with Eliminator, but nothing touches the dialogue:

Every quip was pulled from a rejected Friends spec script, “The One Where Chandler Is Maimed in a Sweater Accident and Has to Be Rebuilt With Robot Parts.”

This is what passes for wit in a Malibu title:

You traveled so far for something so lackluster and it didn’t even land. You’re like a plane crash in Auckland. That’s one of our latino characters spending yet another of his action scenes running from and fighting the police, who are only in this comic to arrest the other latino character but can’t tell the two apart. So at least Malibu did their research on real police procedure. Here’s how Former Gang Member deals with the intense fear that his brother, Gang Member, might already be dead:

I’m telling you, that’s a Chandler line. Not a good one, but that is definitely pulled from somebody’s 💖🍵F●R●I●E●N●D●S F●O●R●E●V●E●R🍵💖 GeoCities fansite. Try it, read every joke in Chandler’s voice and then pretend Matthew Perry frowns and adds “we can beat that one, surely?”

“Genie’s Weenie” is not a canonical reference to something in this comic. That is a standalone line. That is an actual thing that Eliminator yelled while jumpkicking a cruise ship samba coach. It’s not a callback you don’t get, it’s just the product of a tired and overworked brain that probably shouldn’t have been doing this in the first place, much less have been doing it nonstop for eighteen hours. That brain wanted to go back and give this a second pass, but it already wrote ten issues that day and it still needed to help brainstorm 700 new titles for Malibu before it could earn a bathroom break. “A…a magic mom?” That brain oozed. “How about like a little kid who turns into a superhero oh fuck that’s Shazam, fuck I am getting so fired and I need this Work Experience credit if I’m ever gonna graduate from DeVry’s Program for the Comical Book Arts.”

But they did publish that brain’s exhaustion-farting idea sludge, and that brain did get its credits, and it did graduate with Extra Stickers from DeVry. And that brain? Why, that brain was a little someone named Roland Mann.


You haven’t heard of him. This was the best thing he ever did.



This article was brought to you by our fine patron and Hot Dog Supreme, toasty god: duly elected mayor of uncooked bread.

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PUNCHING DAY

Let’s Read: The Bible, Self-Defense, & Martial Arts

Should a Christian learn martial arts? It’s the question asked by nobody, victims of Methodist spin kicks, and the cover of The Bible, Self-Defense, & Martial arts by David Alexander (2019). Hold on– 2019? No one checked with God if Karate was okay until last year?

The ABOUT THE AUTHOR says “David Alexander is an author of numerous publications focusing on His passions in life. He is a non-denominational Christian and expert in Shukokai Karate.” It’s weird how David capitalizes His pronouns just like His martial arts ethical consultant, God, but it’s probably an honest mistake and not a delusion of grandeur brought on by the high of finishing a 29 page book. If you’re wondering, the other authorings he publicated so numerously were two pamphlets about Chrstianity and a printed pdf file of high block instructions. So “His passions in life” seem to be only those two things, and judging by his “publications,” Jesus would think this guy sucks and could just kick His ass.

The back of the book warns the reader, and it’s not lying, that it only contains Bible quotes. Aside from a two page introduction and a dedication to his mum and dad for driving him to Karate class, it is 40ish lines he found by word searching the Bible for violence. If some apostle ever mentioned blood, it’s in here confusingly, pointlessly, and without annotation. I learned more about God’s stance on martial arts when I held my fists to the sky and demanded to know why He gave me such terrible power. And His only answer was 15 more ninjas, Amen.

But still, we’re here. We’re reading this 29 page book put together by God’s laziest fan and Karate’s most reluctant orange belt. Let’s take a look at which verses he thought explained punching’s place in God’s plan.

This is a wonderful sentiment and the kind of situation that could call for martial arts. I doubt Jesus would say, “You used WHAT to rescue the weak and needy!?” when you came back covered in pulverized wicked. Still, it illustrates how unclear scripture can be. Jesus might have meant rescue them with some kind of stealth balloon mission or political pressure. To make matters more confusing, “The Hand of the Wicked” is the technique I use to pull out a handful of my enemy’s liver. If that’s what you’re up against, you’re fucked, Christian Karate pamphlet owner. The ethics of entering your cat stance will never come up while your eternal soul is floating above your pussy remains. “At least you didn’t try,” the voice of Saint Peter will say. “Anyway, welcome to Heaven, where all Karate moves are high blocks.”

These are the two parts of the Bible you were probably expecting in a book claiming to be about the morality of violence– the time Jesus got slapped and the time God said “eye for an eye.” The fact they were jammed right next to each other without context is outrageously unhelpful. It’s not crazy to interpret this as both “enemies deserve only sass” and also “kill that fucker and keep his teeth and feet.” The only clear message here is Christians can do whatever the hell they want because it’s easy to figure out how God said it was okay later.

You shall not murder? Tell that to my left front kick, Moses. Too late! Guess I’ll tell it to your widow whose name I’ll Google n– THARBIS!? You married a woman named Tharbis? Moses, how are you giving anyone advice when you’re having desert sex with something that sounds like a scoop made for boiled cabbage. Tharbis is the response I’d expect if I pointed to myself and told a rock monster, “Human.” How did you even romance a Tharbis? You can’t order flowers for her. The card would read, “All my love, OUR STORE POLICY FORBIDS THE PRINTING OF FOUL OR DEMEANING WORDS.” Tharbis is like the fart sound in a Greek comic strip. “You shall not murder?” More like, “You shall fuck thyself, Tharbis lover.”

It’s hard to picture anyone failing at their job harder than the guy collecting Bible quotes about Karate and including this one about loving everyone. If you asked a priest if it was okay to practice martial arts and he said this shit, you’d punch him for not listening. This is like checking with your doctor if you can eat red meat and him saying, “Tharbis used to love frisbee golf, Aneurysm Frankenstein.”

David doesn’t always let weird Bible verses fester unexplained. In a few cases he’ll come in like this and offer his interpretation. And I think I’m being fair when I say what he took from the Book of Chronicles was this: God doesn’t condemn you for killing, but He would prefer it if someone else built that church. That, a minor restriction on religious structure building codes, is the closest thing to consequences this goddamn idiot found for karate murder after a lifetime of theology and a digital Bible with 2019 search technology. So if you’ve spent this entire article with a tiger claw strike hovering above your enemy’s heart and waiting for the go ahead, go ahead. Even by the least generous interpretation, God baaaaaarely gives a shit.

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PUNCHING DAY

The Comic Strip

I’ve never met anyone else in real life that remembers The Comic Strip and this anomaly haunts me. The show’s existence is easily confirmed on the internet, but the second you bring it up face-to-face, it’s like you made a Pants Chapley reference. Did it leave no lasting impression on anyone but me? Was I the only one who watched it and survived to adulthood? Were there coded flashes in the animation that provoked a kind of late-onset Crib Death? Is this a Candle Cove scenario? Am I revealing a complicated and whimsical dementia, or was there a period in the late ‘80s where Child Brockway and a handful of others picked up transmissions from a parallel, inferior universe? One similar to ours in a superficial way, but somehow worse on a fundamental level — every detail carefully and minorly incorrect, like some kind of cartoon Toronto? 

Like I said, a quick Google will explain that The Comic Strip was a half-hour long cartoon variety show which consisted of rotating 10 minute segments — but can you guys even see that image? Are these search results just for me? I called my wife into the office and she watched me type every single letter in “TigerSharks” and then asked me what the ThunderCats were. We’re now getting divorced for several reasons, but are my perceptions tainted here? Am I trapped in the prison of my own mind like some kind of bullshit cartoon Shutter Island? There’s only one way to tell, and that’s to write an entire column about Street Frogs, then come back and check the comments to see if they’re all complaining about how we write about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles too often.

Every one of The Comic Strip’s “properties” were just one letter to the left of an existing show. They were the “is Sierra Mist okay?” of Saturday morning cartoons. And the reason this falls on Punching Day is because I want most to talk about Karate Kat. The ‘80s loved three things in equal measure: talking cartoon cats, karate, and pure cocaine. They could only make a cartoon openly about two of those things, and had to leave the third to implication.

It was a pretty strong implication. 

Karate Kat dressed like every guy you knew who was definitely holding cocaine, but he acted like every guy you knew who was definitely holding cocaine fifteen minutes ago:

“Karate Kat” is not just a descriptor of his ability and species, it’s also his first and last name. It’s like if I changed my name to Painthuff Man — that is a fully accurate encapsulation of all that I am, but it does take some of the mystique out of my spinning transformation sequence. 

Karate Kat dressed like Joe Piscopo and sounded like Joe Piscopo doing a Sylvester Stallone impression right before you asked “is that supposed to be Dolph Lundgren?” The show’s central villains were Big Papa and his two henchmen, Boom Boom and Sumo Sai. 

Did you already guess, based off of that screencap, that Sumo Sai was going to be a bit of a problem? Guess again, motherfucker — he is a huge problem. 

Sumo’s voice actor sounds like somebody told him there’s an Oscar for cartoonish racism and Clint Eastwood got disqualified that year. He turns every syllable into eight syllables just so you’ll have more time to process how much he hates the Japanese. Sumo was both a chauffeur and a sumo wrestler, and if the sushi craze had hit a few years earlier, you can bet he would’ve been rubbing raw fish on his genitals while hard-pronouncing every ‘L’ in the word “WARRIOR.” 

But somehow I remembered Karate Kat fondly. Perhaps the show was so moving to Child Brockway because I was absolutely certain that one could major in Karate. Karate in the ‘80s had the same publicist as Algebra in the ‘90s — “one day you’ll need this. Your life will depend on it. No follow-up questions.” The ‘80s were so insistent on the flexible importance of karate in your daily life that I didn’t even question it, but I have literally never had a non-drunk reason for a spinning jumpkick, and that means 30% of my education was a lie. It didn’t matter that the only joke in Karate Kat was that Karate Kat was bad at Karate, I believed in him — I sat in front of the TV every morning taking careful notes: “Sometimes be bad at Karate?” I scribbled. “Distraction or humility? Combo into MONTAGE???”

Next up was TigerSharks, which was kind of a SilverHawks ripoff which was actually a pretty impressive trick to pull since SilverHawks was a ThunderCats ripoff. 

Child Brockway did not care: if you had a ragtag team of anyone that transformed into anything, I was there for it. TigerSharks seemed custom-designed to test the limits of that claim. 

“You like transformations?” TigerSharks sneered. “How about unlikable dipshits turning into, I don’t know, fish? Yeah? You into that? How about not even cool fish? How about one girl transforms into an Angelfish – the ‘I guess that’s okay’ main attraction of every dentist office aquarium? Still rad? How about one fat old man transforms into a walrus so shitty he still has to use a cane underwater? You’ll buy that toy, you little fuck. You wretched little squirming fuck.”

I mean, the TigerSharks lived on a planet called Water-O and transformed using a device called the Fish Tank, so this premise was almost certainly conceived of by an embarrassed cartoonist caught jerking it to his own hand-drawn fish pornography. He panicked out a hasty explanation for this: 

And it fooled nobody at first, so he had to keep pressing the issue, hoping that actually getting the cartoon made would save his marriage. And it probably didn’t work on his wife, but it sure worked on me: I watched some aquaphiliac’s jerk material repurposed into spite merchandise by child-hating executives and I was happy to do it. I would’ve bought the TigerSharks cereal, if they had succeeded enough to have a cereal, which they didn’t. And that should tell you something since even Rainbow Brite got a cereal.

Then there was Mini Monsters, which existed so you had time to take a shit between better cartoons. 

Better cartoons like Street Frogs

Street Frogs was clearly a very loose attempt to capitalize on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, from a time when confused TV executives could only take wild stabs in the dark, trying to pin down which word the kids were so nuts about.

“Is it the ‘teenage’ part? Let’s make everything from 1987 to 1995 about teenagers, just in case. Mutants? Maybe. Let’s come out as ‘pro-mutation’ for the next six years. Okay, it’s definitely ‘ninja’ — greenlight everything you can about ninjas. What is Victor Wong doing? Because now he’s teaching three white children about ninjitsu and I don’t give a fuck that he’s Chinese, Gary! If I wanted an Oriental Correction I’d pay ten dollars extra at the massage parlor. What about turtles? Maybe the kids are into terrarium animals? It’s a longshot, but there’s an extra ten grand in the budget so here comes Street Frogs.” 

Do you want to know what Street Frogs was about? There’s only one line in the theme song, and it explains everything:

“Who can do hip hop better than a frog can? Street Frogs!”

That is artfully bare storytelling. I am a sucker for expository theme songs — if I had my way Game of Thrones would have started with a twenty minute guitar jam breakdown of the whole plot that rhymed “flayed man” with “splayed Bran,” and Street Frogs is the pinnacle of this artform. That is indeed all the show was about: hip hop frogs just having a good time — no adventures, no fights, no story, just feel-good slices of life from a universe where minorities were amphibians but nothing else changed. It sounds like the first draft of a vile David Icke rant, but the show was utterly charming. 

And man, just… fuck you, Child Brockway. You went hard for Karate Kat when you could’ve been all about this? If I had replaced every cell in my brain dedicated to karate with learning how to execute this Dr. Slick intro instead, I would have died fifteen years ago from a lethal combination of pussy overdose and funk poisoning. 

That is, of course, if the show even existed in this sad timeline we dwell in. Because honestly? I just wrote 1400 words about The Comic Strip, and an animated lineup consisting of Karate Kat, TigerSharks, Mini-Monsters and Street Frogs still sounds like an entertainment lawyer forced me to change all my references to real ‘80s cartoons.

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