If My Head Explodes, Do I Still Have To Go To Work Today?

Weeks ago, during a "basking in the afterglow of being overserved but still making it home" moment, I went prowling around the PornoNet to find an image of Captain America playing a snare drum (not a Maker's Mark soaked fantasy either, I know one exists), only to find this...

^{Marvel Comics' Pizzazz Magazine, February 1978}

Recollecting the chain of events now, I'm still a little overwhelmed by this picture.

I've read about sixty billion comics ^[1].

If NASA had put as many hours in research as I did watching the first three Star Wars films, then we'd probably be refining oil on Mars by now and not blowing up a spacecraft every 20 years.

I vividly recall the slight trembling in my pre-teen babymaker-cannon upon noticing a Linda Ronstadt poster on my 20-something cousin's bedroom wall.

So... how on fucking EARTH did this particular magazine slip by me? I bought several issues of Pizzazz, because Marvel Architect Stan Lee was my master at this point--I still assumed he wrote every Marvel Comic, just under 12 pen names.

I'd be willing to get my ass sued off at this point. Which of my Photoshop-literate friends are willing to turn this masterpiece into a Fumble CD cover? (Here's the catch--you have to keep the "Scintillatin' Dr. J Poster Calendar" part.)



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[1]And I purchased about half that--if you're reading this, Dave Sincere or Random Seven-Eleven Manager... HA!