Mid 80’s and feces show that was Marvel was getting off the cracked toilet and, well, stumbling down onto its face and drowning on that morning’s high power breakfast; a screwdriver that was less drive and more screw.

I’m a throwback of a generation that had to deal with Dolph Lundgren dropping the ball on a New York accent and doing a bad Death Wish rip-off. I’m a genetical offspring of an Era where Hulk was nothing more than a Jersey Shore poster boy who had been bitten by radioactive kale and had a love affair with some scantily clad broccoli. Then, when that bandwagon had hit the brick wall and we thought it couldn’t get any yuckier, the drunken buffon started scarfing down its own vomit like a dog with parasites.

Yes, our eyes and hearts were submitted to watching Marty McFly’s mom indulge in her Ornithophilia; the girl getting hot and heavy with a Mos Eisley reject known as Howard The Duck.

Not even George Lucas could save Marvel from reenacting Janis Joplin’s heroin soaked final night at the Landmark Hotel. The coroner waiting to drape a towel over Marvel’s cadaver… For the whole review read more.

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