Superhero Diaries

As some of you may have noticed, the Diaries haven’t exactly been updated in a while. It was always a labor of love, but between the amount of effort involved and the few (but amazing, in my opinion) people who read it, I decided to shelve the Diaries, except for a last-ditch sumission to a little site called Crave Online.  Bizarrely, they were desperate enough for content to take it, and in the months since, Crave has blown up.  It turns out that guys actually like comic books along with movies and fine women, though the editors at Crave seem to be the only ones who know it.   Luckily for me, they’re still kind enough to publish a Superhero Diary every couple of weeks or so, and I invite you to please go check them out at their new home.

As for Two Heroes in a Jar and I, Superhero, I hope to have some good news about those coming soon.  For updates, check back with my personal blog, Underpants On The Outside.

All the best,

-z

The Superhero Diaries: by those with their underwear on the outside. (In this case, she wears her underpants on the inside.  They’re pink.)

By Lois Lane

My husband is Superman.  More often than not, this is a good thing; for example, super strength, speed and the ability to fly really come in handy when you’re moving to a new apartment.  Still, just because I save a lot on air fare doesn’t mean I don’t have troubles.  There are some problems that can’t be solved by a closet full of diamonds made from charcoal briquettes.

For starters, I don’t feel like my husband pays enough attention to me.  We’ll be halfway through dinner, I’ll be mid-sentence, and all of a sudden he’s out the door because yet another citizen of Metropolis has found a way to fall out of a high-rise.  (Frankly, I would support legislation banning windows; in Metropolis they’re as dangerous as guns.  At the very least, we should prevent them from being opened between the hours of 8-10pm.  That’s Lois and Clark time, people.)

Other times he gets this far-away look in his eyes.  He swears  he’s distracted by how hot I am, which made me blush the first couple hundred times I heard it, but by now it’s like he’s looking right through me.  Literally.   As in, he’s using his X-ray vision because something behind me is on fire.  It just occurred to me he might also be using his microscopic vision to stare at a blackhead on my nose.   Great; now I’m ordering five grand worth of Neutrogena products as soon as I finish this post. 

Which brings up another thing; I’m constantly worried about my looks.  No one talks about that part of the job.  It’s not that Clark has given me a reason to doubt him, but he spends half his day on the moon with a bunch of superpowered hussies.   Am I really supposed to believe that Clark has never thought about it?  Look at Hawkgirl, Vixen, Black Canary - I’m sorry, but I just don’t see the need for those outfits until someone proves that the forces of evil are afraid of Camel Toe.  And cops have stopped crime for hundreds of years without needing brazillian waxes to do it; I’m sure Wonder Woman could find a way if she tried.  She could start by, I don’t know, WEARING PANTS.  Slut.

Okay, okay, that was uncalled for; she’s actually very nice.  I’m just stressed out right now (and I haven’t gone to the gym in a while.)  I’m stressed because the real trouble with being married to Superman is that my husband spends all day getting shot at.  And no matter how invulnerable he is, I’m never going to be okay with that*.

I’ve seen Clark die.  Sure, he came back, but that’s not the kind of party trick I want to see him repeat, and yet there’s always some intergalactic threat for him to fight.  If it’s not Darkseid, it’s Brainiac.  If it’s not Brainiac, it’s Luthor.  If it’s not Luthor…well, some days it’s like they’re handing out Kryptonite bullets on street corners. 

Tonight I’m a little more worried than usual.  Earlier, I was having dinner with ex-President Pete Ross, an old buddy of Clark’s.  Out of nowhere, Clark wandered into the restaurant looking awful.  He saw Pete holding my hand (perfectly plutonic; Black Canary should take notes) and he burned him with heat vision.  Then he ran out, grabbed a tanker truck, flew it into the air and exploded it on his head. 

Admittedly, he did the exact same thing a couple years ago, but that was after he and Pete split a bottle of Jaeger.   But if that were the case, by now Clark would be up to his favorite drunk-tivity:  “Pissles.”   On the off chance that some of you are not familiar with the game, here it is, broken down into three easy steps.

1) Fly to an altitude of 10,000 feet; incline penis at a 45 degree angle
2) Blow light freeze-breath aimed approximately six inches in front of penis
3) While exhaling, urinate at maximum possible velocity

There aren’t many things that make drunk-Clark happier than breaking the sound barrier with a javelin of frozen pee.  And since he hasn’t shown up with his fly hanging open, shouting, “Six miles, Lois!  High-five!!!!” I’m going to assume he’s not drunk and something else something else is wrong.
 
I don’t know what to do.  Deep down I know he’ll be alright – he is Superman, after all - but I’m still worried.   I thought it might help if I called Batman, but boy, was that a big mistake.  First he landed his jet on the roof of my building, and I just KNOW I’m getting a letter from the co-op board on that one.  Then he broke in through my window (even though I invited him over) which meant he didn’t take off his shoes at the front door.  And all he did was ask a bunch of questions I could’ve answered over the phone.  

On top of that, the guy is a total drama queen.  When I asked him if he knew what was happening he replied, “What I don’t know could fill this building,” then turned out the lights and jumped out of the window.   I get that the whole Bat-mystique is built on shadow and mystery, but you’d think he could drop the act in my apartment.  Before he showed up, I was sitting alone in my apartment, worried.  After he left, I was still sitting alone in my apartment, I was still worried, but now there were boot-prints on my carpet and I had to feel around for the light switch.  Thanks for stopping by, Bruce. 

At this point, there’s not much I can do but hope everything will be okay and try and get some sleep.  And if a bubble bath and several glasses of chardonnay will help me get to sleep, then so be it.

I’ll update when I know more,

-LL

*Full disclosure:  I have shot him a couple times, and I will admit that it was a lot of fun, not to mention a terrific stress reliever.  But I’m his wife; I get to do these things.

This diary was based on Superman/Batman #39, written by Alan Burnett.  The part with Batman turning off the lights while Lois is still sitting there actually happened; it was quite bizarre.  As for the storyline, I’m reserving judgment.  It could turn out good, or it could turn out to be another contrived Superman vs. Batman fight, and it feels like there have been a lot of those lately.  In my opinion, the last good one was in the Batman “Hush” story, by Jeph Loeb.

The Superhero Diaries: by those with their underwear on the outside.

By The Hulk

It’s good to be me.

Hulk here. What’s that you say? “It doesn’t sound like the Hulk”?? That’s probably because I’m conjugating my verbs now. For the most part, I’m through with the whole “Hulk Smash” sentence structure. True, it gave me a unique voice, but I found it limited the range of ideas I could express to merely who was smashing (me), and occasionally what was being smashed (other stuff). All rationale and reason behind my smashing went unspoken - no one ever knew if I was smashing to express my existential angst stemming from my monstrous exterior, or if I really had to pee. I believe it was this shortcoming in my communication skills that led to several misunderstandings between myself and my peers; misunderstandings which then resulted in extensive property damage. So a while back* I decided to change, and I’m smart now. Smart as a tack. A big, green tack that can punch through a tank.

Here’s where I should admit that some time ago I destroyed a significant part of Las Vegas. In my defense, a nuclear bomb went off in my face. Luckily that’s not lethal to me, but it is a lot like stubbing your toe, so understandably, I got a little “teed-off”. And even though I’m trying to be the type of Hulk who uses words to solve his problems, nothing feels quite like the ol’ Smashy-Smash. So yes, I did it, Hulk Smash Las Vegas. Looking back, I felt bad about it, sure, but in my opinion, there’s no need to rehash old stuff. Water under the bridge, bygones being bygones, no crying over spilled milk and destroyed casinos…that sort of thing. Unfortunately, several of the world’s most powerful people didn’t see it the same way.

I’m referring to Reed Richards, stretchy brainiac from the Fanatstic Four; Black Bolt, leader of the Inhumans and world-class mime; Doctor Strange, “Sorcerer Supreme” (Siegfried sans Roy and tiger); and Iron Man, tin-plated asshole. These four guys decided I was too “dangerous”, and therefore had to be “put on a rocket” and “sent into outer space”. (Sorry, I tend to overuse quotation marks when I get angry. It’s an outlet I’ve found for my “murderous rage”.)

In an attempt to make a long story short, I landed on a barbarous planet where I was enslaved and made to fight in gladiatorial combat. Eventually I inspired an uprising against a sadistic emperor, killed him, and was declared king. People often point out (rather derisively, I might add) that this is the plot from Gladiator, and as much as it hurt to spend several months not doing much else than get stabbed, to come back and hear that my ordeal was one big case of copyright infringement is a kick in the big green nads. But rather than get angry and throw those movie geeks into orbit, I use art to release my frustration, such as when I fold their cars into origami swans. Besides, I haven’t seen the movie, but I say that my story is more tragic, because my wife and unborn child were killed. I bet that didn’t happen in Gladiator! Oh. Apparently it did. Goddamnit! HULK SMA- no, Hulk. Hulk be cool. Hulk take deep breath. Hulk be like one giant green Fonzie…

Yes, that’s right, I had found a wife. Her name was Caiera. She was a warrior, she was strong, and she understood me. She also had a great rack. And just when I had finally found peace among a people that accepted me, the shuttle that landed me on that godforsaken planet blew up, destroying the entire planet, including her. It’s true what they say: breaking up is hard to do.

(Also, earlier, when I said that it was good to be me, I meant aside from the whole “dead wife” thing.)

The survivors were an eclectic mix of aliens who fought alongside me in the arena. We are friends, despite our differences, because above all we share an interest in, and are highly proficient at, destroying stuff. Plus, when you’re fighting lava monsters and death robots in a giant pit, you kind of become blood brothers whether you like it or not. (Luckily, no one in my posse has intergalactic hepatitis.)

Here’s my roster:

Korg: a big rock

Hiroim the Shamed: He’s got a lot of fancy names for it, but really he’s a ninja made out of stone. He and Korg insist there are huge differences between the two of them, but I say they both beat scissors and lose to paper. I forget why he calls himself the shamed; it’s in the middle of an incredibly boring story I’ve heard like five times and it would be rude of me to ask him again. It probably has to do with some frat prank or something.

Elloe Kaifi: She’s like Rizzo, from Grease. If they raced space ships.

No-Name of the Brood and Miek the Unhived: Insect-like alien creatures. Also known as “Slimy”, “Icky”, and “Oh God it touched me again!”

We had a serviceable spacecraft, and we headed back for Earth, to take our revenge in a very smash-like fashion. And here’s where things get good for not-so-little old me, because I am kicking ass. As of my last count, we have kicked the living crap out of everyone. Not just the guys who sent me out into space, I’m talking about the Avengers, the X-Men, every miscellaneous hero in New York City and three branches of the U.S. Military. I’ve chained them in Madison Square Garden, where soon I will make them fight to the death. I can’t wait; my newfound mastery of words has given me an appreciation for irony. Plus, I’ll get to wear a toga.

I feel like a little kid. I mean, c’mon, who hasn’t dreamed of being the star at the Garden??? Sure, I always imagined I’d be wearing a Knicks uniform, but the warm feeling one gets when he fulfills a boyhood fantasy isn’t diminished just because he had to kill a bunch of people to get there.

But that’s enough for now. The betting windows are going to close soon and I need to put ten bucks on She-Hulk. People think that’s it’s terrible for me to bet on my cousin’s fight to the death, but so what? I don’t care if she is a long shot; she’s family and I want to support her.

*I have no idea when this happened, because I don’t usually read The Hulk.

This Superhero Diary was brought to you by recent events in Planet Hulk and World War Hulk, mostly by Greg Pak, who has done an amazing job making me care about a character I always thought was dumb.

The Superhero Diaries: by those with their underwear on the outside.

By Robin

Current Mood: Angry/Sad

Listening to: The Postal Service

My life totally sucks. I know everyone says that and all, but I’m serious. I’ve got a team full of misfits, my ex-girlfriend is crazy, all my friends keep dying, and I have totally bad bacne. It’s so unfair. Why does everything happen to me???

A few months ago, I was totally kewl. (Batman hates it when I use TXT speak, but I’m like…whatever, old man, TTYL.) I led the Teen Titans, which was made up of myself, Superboy, Cyborg, Kid Flash, Raven, Wonder Girl, Beast Boy, and sometimes Speedy. All of us were totally BFF, and we even had a cartoon about us, which basically means that there isn’t a high school in America where I haven’t gotten to third base with some chick behind the gym. (I’m SO not looking forward to my eighteenth birthday next month. Hello, statutory much?)

Everything started to change when Superboy died. He was my best friend, so that totally sucked, though it wasn’t all bad; shortly afterwards I started hooking up with Wonder Girl. She’s smokin’-hot, but Superboy had been hittin’ that and told us if any of us touched her he’d play “got your nose” - but for real. She was all, “Oh, I’m so sad Superboy’s dead, blah blah blah,”, and I’m like “Yeah, me too. Why don’t you come to my room and tell me all about it…” Then she was totally bobbin’ on lil’ Robin. Holla!

Then a couple weeks ago Kid Flash died. Admittedly… this one wasn’t such a big loss. If our team was a family, then he would have been the younger brother who is on a ton of Ritalin – he was pretty embarrassing. Then before he died, an accident with the speed force made him age ten years or so, and he acted like was all better than us. (Total Big ripoff…) So I guess it wasn’t really Kid Flash who died, it was Suddenly-Adult-Lame-Flash who died. No big whoop.

But now it’s like no one wants to talk to me. Even though we all get shot at all day long, we superheroes don’t really die all that often, so for me to lose two friends in a year, not to mention my dad getting killed…everyone thinks I’m a jinx. Beast Boy quit, and the only heroes I could get to join the team are Miss Martian, Ravager, Ravager’s brother, Jericho, and Kid Devil. The most intimidating parts about them are their names.

Miss Martian is an alien who has like the same powers as Superman, except for the ability to actually win a fight. She can also shapeshift, and while normally I’m down with a chick who has a prehensile vagina, deep down I can’t help but wonder if it’s really the Martian Manhunter trying out a new lifestyle and/or trying to play a practical joke on me.

Ravager, don’t let the tough name fool you – she is a chick with a sword and one eye. Which means all we need to find is a chick with both eyes, hand her a sword, and right there we’ve got an upgrade. Her dad is Deathstroke the Terminator, and she’s evidence that talent does in fact skip a generation. Oh, I almost forgot about her brother, Jericho, who has the ability to inhabit people’s bodies. He uses that one far less than his other ability, which is to cry. Here’s a little picture I drew of him:

Oh, duh, I almost forgot Kid Devil. He has claws. And long hair. And sometimes he breathes fire, which will come in handy the next time we’re fighting a rotisserie chicken. :p LOL!

So now Wonder Girl and Raven are going around Titans tower playing Justin Timberlake and watching “High School Musical” all the time, and I can’t outvote them anymore because Jericho does whatever his sister tells him and Kid Devil likes it when they braid his hair. I’m fighting crime with a goddamn slumber party. Nightwing came by a week ago, and two days later I received a package from Batman – pink Batarangs and a Robin costume covered in glitter glue. Assholes.

Oh yeah, speaking of Wonder Girl, well it turns out she’s a total freak. First she joined a cult and tried to raise Superboy from the dead (weird). Then recently we had to fight a Bizarro Superboy, and I end up getting my ass handed to me because she spends half the fight crying and blubbering, “I can’t…I can’t fight him.” If that weren’t enough, today she went completely agro at Flash’s funeral. Here’s a charming little tidbit:

“I’ve had my heart ripped out…over and over again…You all have my word that the men who killed my little brother Bart will pay for this! [FYI: they’re not brothers – at first she was using it as a metaphor, but I’m pretty sure she forgot it wasn’t real.] They’ll rot in hell for what they’ve done and it still won’t be good enough. Not by a long shot! They’ll be hunted down like animals and punished. May the gods help them if I’m the one to find them first!”

And that was how she ended it. Then she comes over to me and is like, “I’m sorry…Bart deserved a better speech.” (Oh, y’think?) But I have to be all, “No, no, it was beautiful. A lot of eulogies include the words, ‘rot in hell,’ and ‘hunted down like animals.’ It’s how he’d want to be remembered.”

Now what am I supposed to do? I’m usually think a relationship is over once someone starts trying to bring their ex back from the dead, but what if she thinks we’re still together? This is a chick whose power comes from the Greek gods. She can bench press as much as Hercules, and if she catches me scamming with some other girl she might decide it’s my testicles that need to be hunted down like animals.

I don’t even know who I can talk to about this. Alfred will just lecture me on how kids sound so stupid and making fun of how many times I say ‘like’. As for Batman, our relationship is all about hurting the ones you love, then calling it ‘training’. My only real friend is Cyborg, and the last time I talked to him about girls, he recorded the whole thing on his eye-cam and put it up on YouTube, so the whole word would know that I thought it was called the “D-spot”.

Fighting the Joker is easy compared to puberty.

This somewhat long comic blog was based on recent events in Teen Titans, written by Geoff Johns, and in Countdown, written by a bunch of guys, but headed by Paul Dini. I think Geoff Johns is great, but for the love of Pete - Kid Devil, Ravager and Jericho really have to go.

A favorite fanboy hobbies is sitting around asking, “what would you do if you had so-and-so’s powers?” Usually answers consist of either exacting revenge on some people or very contrived methods of seeing girls naked. But if I had superpowers, I’d use them for EVERYTHING. So what would happen if I had the powers of…

Sandman

Sandman was a petty crook, until an escape from prison led him to a beach that had recently been used as a nuclear testing facility. Since we all know that radiation gives you superpowers (though most people just get the ability to grow certain parts of their body in uncontrollable lumps) Sandman’s body merged with the irradiated sand. Now his entire body is sand-like, and he has complete mental control over every grain. He can form his body parts into almost any shape, though he relies heavily on the standards of “fist mace” and “fist sledgehammer”. He can also incorporate other bodies of sand into his own.

Sandman can usually be found wearing the exact same green striped shirt and jeans he was wearing when he gained his powers. Apparently the radiation also turned his clothes into sand which then became part of his body, becau- excuse me, I seem to be having an aneurysm.

In any case, Sandman is a B-list Spider-Man villain – I don’t care if he was in the recent movie. Clearly he never thought of flying to L.A. to spend a couple days in the sun, grab an In-N-Out Burger, and then return roughly the size of the California coastline. He could probably find a way to beat up Spider-Man when the ol’ fist mace is made of Malibu. But me, I have no arch-enemies*, so what would I do with Sandman’s powers?

Day 1: They have not built a vending machine I can’t steal from. In an unrelated story, I’ve eaten nothing but chips and Hostess products today. In testing my powers I did discover a few less successful hand shapes, such as the Sand Spatula (Gritty Eggs), and Sand Toothbrush: (Gritty Toothpaste). I have also ruined three keyboards and two mice. The IT guys at work are getting pissed.

Day 2: Despite my ability to grow my penis at will, my girlfriend won’t have sex with me. When I asked her why not, she says, “You’ve been to the beach; how do you like the feeling of sand in your crotch?” I have to admit I see her point.

Day 3: I thought about what my girlfriend said yesterday, so today I went down to the Jersey Shore. Let’s just say there are a lot of girls with extra chafed thighs, and I’m wearing an awfully big smile. Everyone thinks bicycle seats have it good, but I just had the world’s first two hundred and forty-two-some.

Day 4: Last night, one of the girls I…uh… “sand-blasted” went home and had sex with her boyfriend without properly cleaning herself. That sure was unpleasant. You know what they say: nothing ruins a two hundred and forty-two-some like a second dude.

Day 5: Can’t go outside today – it’s raining with quite a bit of wind. I ran to the corner store earlier for some lightbulbs and came back two inches shorter.

Day 6: Went to the golf course today – I tell you, it’s like the sand traps were EVERYWHERE today! While it’s never fun to spend a day getting hit with sand wedges, the look on a man’s face when he’s forty-nine over par is worth it.

Day 7: I’m getting a little sick of everyone asking me if I’d like a SANDwich, or if I’m going to pay for something with SAND dollars. Though I’ll admit it was pretty funny when my brother warned my girlfriend that I might give her sand crabs.

*Other than Larry, the guy who used to have my phone number before me and who never bothered to tell any of his eight hundred friends that his phone number was changing. It’s been four years and I still get calls. Don’t worry, though; his day will come. Sleep with one eye open, Larry.

Anytime you make a “best-of” list, it’s obviously going to be subjective, and few people, if any, are going to agree with you. So after reading MSNBC’s list of the five best comic book villains, we here at Superhero Diaries thought we’d sit down with some of the big-bads who didn’t make the cut: Magneto, Doctor Doom, Brainiac, Darkseid, and Galactus.

Superhero Diaries: Gentlemen, hello. Let’s get right to it – number one, Lex Luthor.

Brainiac: I’ll start. Look, I will admit, I’ve hung out with Luthor on a number of occasions, and I want to say that I like him - I consider him a friend. And when it comes to the ladies, there is no better wingman out there. That being said, the guy is a human. When it comes to offensive capabilities, he has his body guard Mercy who we’re pretty sure is a post-op trannie, and a suit of high-tech armor…that Darkseid built for him.

Darkseid: Respect. Respect for DARKSEID, RULER OF APOKOLIPS!

Doctor Doom: What? Some guy with a store-bought suit is #1?? What a crock! I built my first suit out of a Peugeot and an Apple 2E! And it was awesome!

Brainiac: See, that’s what I mean. He’s a good guy and a great businessman, but when you break it down, he’s just a rich man with nice toys who gets by on his rep. I’m not sure what the silly looking guys in the capes have ever done, but I shrunk a Kryptonian city and its entire population for fun. I keep it in a mason jar.

Superhero Diaries: Good point. Still, Lex Luthor is Superman’s arch-enemy; I suppose he has to be on the list. Plus, he makes bald beautiful…

Brainiac: So? I’m bald.

Darkseid: As is DARKSEID, RULER OF APOKOLIPS!

Superhero Diaries: Yes, but I’m just balding, not turning green or a sickly grayish purple. And speaking of bad complexions, let’s talk about #2, the Joker.

Brainiac: I bet you think I’m going to pooh pooh the Joker too. I’m not. Just because he works on a smaller scale doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve respect. First of all, he dreams big. Most of us just want to rule the world, but he wants to kill it. That’s pretty villainous. Second of all, he fights Batman to a standstill, and even I think Batman is pretty bad-ass.

Darkseid: Word. That guy punched me in the face, and that takes some brass ones. For I am DARKSEID, RULER OF APOKOLIPS!

Magneto: Who are these guys? Who are they talking about?

Doctor Doom: I have no idea.

Superhero Diaries: Batman is most definitely bad-ass. Okay, so the Joker is legit. I can’t say the same for the next villain, Ozymandias. For anyone not familiar with Alan Moore’s Watchmen* Ozymandias was a hero who claimed to be the smartest man on Earth. Later he staged a fake alien invasion, killing millions, but he did so to avert a growing nuclear crisis.

Magneto: Why would he want to avert a nuclear war? What fate would better fit homo sapiens, with fire clearing a path for Earth’s true rulers, mutants! Homo Superior!

Doctor Doom: Yeah – he’s not even a villain!

Brainiac: Can someone please calm the Superior Homo and his R2 unit? Nice capes, fellas – don’t go getting them in a bunch. Though I must protest: Ozymandias is the smartest man on Earth? Hello…my name is Brainiac? Plus, look at what he’s wearing! Is that a loincloth? A toga?

Darkseid: DARKSEID, RULER OF APOKOLIPS OBJECTS! The guy may be a tool, but there’s nothing wrong with wearing something loose fitting. THE RULING TESTIKALS OF APOKOLIPS MUST BREATHE!

Magneto: Of course you say that – you’re wearing a skirt. Hey Doom, can you find out who this windbag is?

Doctor Doom: I’m Googling him, but I can’t find anything. Is Dark Side one word or two?

Darkseid: One word, but it’s actually spelled “d-a-r-k-s-e-i-d”.

Doctor Doom: Is that Jewish or something?

Darkseid: I actually get asked that a lot. The answer’s no. But Apokoliptan spelling is very similar to German.

Superhero Diaries: So we’re all in agreement that Ozymandias was a ridiculous choice and an obvious attempt by the author to prove he SHE read Watchmen and therefore seem cool, like when I reference Fugazi songs. But let’s stay on track, fellas. Doom, Magneto, we now come to someone from your neck of the woods: Dark Phoenix. How do you feel about this one? She did eat a star…

Doctor Doom: You mind if I go first?

Magneto: Not at all (filthy human).

Doctor Doom: What?

Magneto: Hm? Oh, nothing.

Doctor Doom: Anyway, as I was about to say, Dark Phoenix caused billions of deaths, and I think we’d all agree that’s very impressive. [Everyone nods, except Galactus, who shrugs] But then she went and killed herself with remorse.  If you’re a bad guy, you can’t get all weepy every time you kill people, whether it’s a village in Latveria or a system of planets. Honestly she comes off less like a villain and more like a pouty fifteen year old.

Superhero Diaries: Galactus, you’ve been awfully quiet up until now –

Galactus: That’s because I’m Galactus, Destroyer of Worlds. I eat planets. The Silver Surfer is my man-servant. Why don’t you guys work out which one of you is the best villain, and then I’ll come along and stir-fry your solar system.

Brainiac: Sounds like someone’s jealous…

Galactus: Of what – that she ate a star? Whatever. I can eat a star; I just don’t do it very often. You know what they say: “it burns like nuclear fusion going in, and it burns like nuclear fission on the way out.”

Doctor Doom: Ew.

Superhero Diaries: You said it. Okay one left. Let me see here…the Red Skull? That can’t be right…

Magneto: It’s preposterous! He is merely a Homo Sap-

Brainiac: Wait, why not? He sounds interesting, no matter what kind of homo he is.

Darkseid: YES, DARKSEID, RULER OF APOKOLIPS, FINDS SKULLS TO BE BAD-ASS!

Magneto: But he’s just a Nazi!

Brainiac: Really?

Darkseid: DARKSEID, RULER OF APOKOLIPS, DEMANDS TO KNOW: what’s a Nazi, dude?

Brainiac: I’ll explain it to you later. Wait – so you mean he doesn’t have any super powers?

Magneto: Nope.

Brainiac: What sort of weapons does he use?

Magneto: Guns, mostly. And the ‘Dust of Death.”

Brainiac: What the hell is that?

Magneto: I don’t know. Asbestos, maybe?

Brainiac: Well, why do they call him the Red Skull?

Magneto: Got a face like a red skull. Used to be a mask; then it got melted on.

Brainiac: He sounds like a carnival act. And you’re sure he’s just a Nazi?

Magneto: Yep.

Brainiac: Huh…well, that’s just stupid.

Magneto: Yep.

Doctor Doom: Uh-huh.

Galactus: I’m out of here. I’ve got a planet size casserole in the oven.

Superhero Diaries: There you have it – out of five top villains, two are pretentious dickheads with no superpowers and one is the type of girl who can eat a sun, but then gets all sad because she’s a big fat pig and boys will never like her. But then again, the author did read “Watchmen”. I’m sure he SHE knows what he SHE’s talking about.

*I’m contractually obligated to say that Watchmen is the greatest thing of all time ever, and it revolutionized comic blah blah blah – I’m sorry, as good as it is, the Prince Charming and text interludes are boring. There, I said it. And while we’re on the subject, the interdimensional – psychedelic warp scene in 2001 sucks ass.

The Main Event: Iron Man vs. Steel. Both represent the respective efforts of Marvel and DC, respectively, to toy with the hopes and dreams of their readers. Their hero status symbolizes that you don’t need superpowers to be a member of the Justice League/Avengers – all you need is to be smarter than everyone around you, especially if you like playing with robots*. Next thing you know you’re nineteen years old and still playing with your toy AT-AT. I hate Iron Man and Steel.

In the red corner: Iron Man – When he’s not fighting crime, Iron Man is also Tony Stark, a wealthy playboy, notorious womanizer and recovering alcoholic. The suit’s primary weapons are “repulsor rays” in the gauntlets (which I’ve already discussed, and are violations of everything we know about physics), though since Iron Man is basically a human-shaped version of Batman’s utility belt, he can really have any weapon writers can think of concealed somewhere in the suit.

In the blue corner: Steel –John Henry Irons (get it? Irons/Steel? BRILLIANT!) was a high-tech weapons designer until one of his designs was used to kill people. For some reason, this made him sad – clearly he never read his own business card. To ease his (nonsensical) guilt, he began working construction.

One day Irons fell from a construction site, and would have died had Superman not come to the rescue. Inspired, Irons built a suit of armor with a big Superman-style S on the chest, tied a cape around the neck, and went out to fight crime. Basically, Steel is the world’s most powerful groupie. (Take THAT, Jimmy Olsen!)

Aside from being Superman’s Number One Fan, Steel doesn’t have that many powers. His suit gives him increased strength and flight, but really his only weapon is a giant sledgehammer. But wait, it’s a “smart” sledgehammer! That means that the farther Steel throws it, the harder it hits, according to Einstein’s Second Theory of Shit That Can Never Happen. It also has the ability to analyze its target’s defenses and steer towards any weaknesses. Forget Luke and his ability to bull’s-eye womprats - this thing could have totally taken out the Death Star all by itself. What’s up now, R2?!?**

The Handicap: Given that Steel really hasn’t put much time and effort into his actual armor, I’m teaming him up with Troy Hurtubise. As some of you may know, Mr. Hurtubise is the designer of the Ursus Mark VI, a suit of armor that would allow him to live his dream of beating up a grizzly bear, or at least not dying when he walks up to one and punches it in the face. In any case, I’ve seen the guy take a shotgun blast to the chest in the thing – that’s pretty damned awesome. Plus, he was inspired by Robocop. I won’t lie, I really want to hang out with him.***

Round One: With the numbers on their side, Steel and Hurtubise go on the offensive. Hurtubise charges while Steel challenges, “I understand you used to be an alcoholic – let’s get you hammered!” Iron Man easily dodges both while chiding Steel for the awful pun.

Iron Man takes to the air. Steel follows while Hurtubise is helplessly stuck on the ground. Iron Man kicks him in the head, and while the blow doesn’t hurt Hurtubise, he is tipped over onto his back and unable to turn himself over. He spends the rest of the round praying he never meets a flying bear.

As for Iron Man, he seems bizarrely unwilling to engage Steel. He only defends, and no blows are exchanged.

Intermission: After helping Hurtubise off the ground, Steel and the inventor take their helmets off to discuss strategy. Across the jar, Stark shouts, “Wait a minute! I though I was fighting Superman and that redheaded life partner of his!”

Hurtubise suggests they mark Iron Man’s territory with their own urine – Steel ignores him. He then suggests they stand on two legs so as to seem bigger and more aggressive – Steel disdainfully shakes him off. Hurtubise then says, “I got it! Let’s play dead!” Steel agrees, Hurtubise falls to the floor, and Steel turns to fight.

Round 2: Iron Man and Steel hover several feet off the bottom of the jar. Steel attacks again, but a sledgehammer is unwieldy and slow, and Iron Man dodges easily, talking all the while: “So wait…I still don’t understand why you have the S on your chest. And what’s with the cape? That’s just plain stupid.”

The banter infuriates Steel. He backs away from Iron Man and growls, “You may be Iron Man, but I’m Mr. Irons,” and hurls his hammer. Iron Man’s eyes roll with disgust as he sidesteps the attack.

Suddenly, Steel’s hammer veers off-course. Having analyzed Iron Man’s armor, the hammer’s software determined that Tony Stark himself was the suit’s biggest vulnerability, and given his well-known weakness for women, the hammer concluded that Iron Man’s Achilles’ heel is, in fact, his junk. Iron Man is unprepared; the hammer collides with a tremendous crash as he collapses. Fortunately the round ends before the referee can count to ten.

Intermission: Steel shouts apologies across the jar, saying he had no idea the hammer was going to do that. Iron Man does not reply. Hurtubise mentions that he would never kick a bear in the nads, then goes back to playing dead.

Round 3: Even with a limp, Iron Man looks imposing as he stands in the middle of the jar. Steel attempts to reconcile, saying, “Listen, I can’t tell you how sorry I a-,” but he is cutoff when a clear liquid jets from a hidden compartment in Iron Man’s midsection. Steel shouts, “Holy – did you just piss on -,” but again he is cut off. The liquid was Loctite, freezing the joints in Steel’s suit.

Iron Man unleashes a flurry of punches on the helpless Steel, as Hurtubise, lying as still as possible, shouts, “Play dead, dude! PLAY DEAD!!!” The outcome of the match is clear, but Iron Man insists on adding insult to injury. While singing “If I Only Had a Brain”, he poses Steel in a series of compromising positions involving Hurtubise, who can only lie there muttering, “I’mdeadI’mdeadI’mdeadI’mdead,” as Iron Man takes photographs.

The Winner: Iron Man and his last functioning testicle. For the record, Steel doesn’t actually use such awful puns. Maybe I was a bit rough on him, but to be honest, I always thought he was a terrible character born out of an awful Superman storyline. No superhero who isn’t a Norse thunder god should rely on a hammer.

*Yes, one could argue that Batman and the archers (Green Arrow, Red Arrow, Hawkeye, and probably a bunch of other dudes I can’t think of) also represent normal people who became superheroes based purely on effort. But even a thirteen year old boy knows that

1. They don’t have the money, charm or testicular fortitude to be Batman, and
2. The archers have ZERO job security, and they are a pink slip away from being attractions on the Renaissance Fair circuit.

**I have no idea why I’m on such a Star Wars kick today.

***I think this is because the grizzly suit seems like something my friend OG would build, leading us to the following conversation:

Z: Why on Earth would you want a grizzly suit, dude?
OG: Because it’s high time we stopped being afraid of some punk ass grizzly cub that weighs less than my Labrador. We have opposable thumbs. I am going to build me a grizzly suit, and make some grizzly cub my bitch while his mom sits there and does nothing. I’m gonna take his lunch money.
Z: You’re insane.
OG: Whatever, dude. Chicks dig guys who have punched grizzly bears in the face.
Z: …do grizzly suits come in size ‘small’?

The Superhero Diaries: by those who wear their underpants on the outside.

Today’s Author: Batman

Ugh.  I have to go to the doctor today.  I hate going to the doctor.  Admittedly, it’s not the most convenient pet peeve to have when you get shot at on a nightly basis, and routinely fight superpowered space aliens.  The thing is, I don’t have a problem getting bullets removed or having my shoulder popped back into its socket - I’m sorta tough, as it turns out – Alfred takes care of all that, though it means the floors go another week without sweeping. 

What I hate is the “normal” doctor things: peeing in a cup, getting X-rays, etc.  Why?  Because I can’t punch cancer in the face and you’d better believe that bad boy is coming for me.  Think about it:  I have been exposed to Scarecrow’s Nerve Toxins, Joker’s Smile Gas, Poison Ivy’s… um, let’s skip what Poison Ivy has exposed to me.  I also get X-rayed about 50 times a month by that oversized Kryptonian a-hole.  He thinks it’s funny.  My mask and codpiece may both be lead-lined (there are many good reasons for this), but I keep telling him, “Dude; it’s RADIATION.  Not cool.”  Half the time he’s not even using his X-ray vision; he’s just squinting at me because it makes me squirm.  For the umpteenth time, I wish I had Kryptonite breath.

(And yes, I hate needles too, but I want it on the record that use after years of training I have difficulty just LETTING someone stab me.  It is in no way because they are EXTREMELY scary and totally gross and they make me feel all nauseous to look at them.) 

So yeah, I hate going to the doctor, and now I have to go because in the future, people fight like dicks. Allow me to elaborate:

A while back Superman wrote about the band of nitwits and pseudo-strippers that make up the new Justice League of America.  Well, we’ve got ourselves a doozy of a case now.   Without warning, seven members of the Legion of Superheroes arrived in the present, in some sort of hypnotic trance with no idea of who they were or what they were doing here.  Think Twelve Monkeys, if Bruce Willis could fly.

About the Legion of Superheroes:  Sometime in the future, a band of intrepid youngsters from across the galaxy will join forces to create the single lamest group of people in human history.  First of all, they have the boundless, annoying enthusiasm of honor students; The Legion of Hall Monitors would be a more appropriate title.  Second of all, here are several examples of their codenames: Sun Boy, Ultra-Boy, Saturn Girl, Cosmic Boy, Lightning Lad (way to go off-script there, LL), Chameleon Boy and…I kid you not…Karate Kid.  Let’s ignore Karate Kid for a second; I need to point out that these guys have been in the business for several years.  What I mean is that it’s cute when an eight-year old decides that the chameleon is the coolest animal ever, then puts on a cape and calls himself Chameleon Boy.  When “Chameleon Boy” is thirty-five, you don’t get the feeling that his tree house is the safest place to be.  Someone should tell them that it’s okay if they want to rename themselves, though I don’t get the feeling that’s what they want.  They say “sprock” instead of swear words.  Again…they’re middle-aged.  They give me the willies; I won’t lie.

The Legion originally appeared when Clark was a young teenager.  He was moping around Kansas, feeling sorry for his superpowered self because none of the other boys could fly and he couldn’t play games with them for fear of…well…obliterating them.  What a baby.  Around here in the Batcave, we have a rule: No sympathy for anyone with parents.  Anyway, one day these kids showed up in dopey outfits and told him that they came from the future, and that he would grow up to be a hero whose legend is their inspiration.  For some reason, this didn’t depress him, and they all went off to the future and had a bunch of adventures that make Lassie episodes seem edgy. (Clark doesn’t think it’s funny when I call them the Ghosts of Lameness Future, but Green Lantern cracks up every time.)

Earlier I mentioned Karate Kid; he was one of the seven who appeared the other day (along with his blatant copyright infringement).  Black Lightning, (whose name seems downright MYSTERIOUS next to the Legion of Dorks) caught him dressed up as a villain named Trident, knocked him unconscious, and brought him back to the Batcave so I could figure out what was going on.   I started by hacking into Clark’s files.  I bet you can’t guess what his power is.  Did you say “karate”?  Oh.  Damn it.  HOW DID YOU KNOW???

In Clark’s files, Daniel-san is listed as a “class 15” fighter.  For comparison, I’m a “class 12”, but I’m not too broken up about being rated lower.  It’s an arbitrary rating system; Superman made it up.  More often than not, your rating indicates how much he likes you.  (Pa Kent is rated “a kabillion.”)  So when I heard Mr. Miyagi waking up behind me, I wasn’t exactly pissing myself.

I also wasn’t about to warn Black Lightning, who had yelled at me a couple days earlier when I called him, “my brother from another mother.”  (I don’t even know why I said that.  I never say that.  I just get uncomfortable around him sometimes.)  Karate Kid chopped him in the neck, which I figured made us even.  It was time for me to hand down a blast-from-the-past ass whooping.

Remember what I said earlier about having to go to the doctor?  You probably can guess how the fight turned out.  I got in one good punch, then before I knew it, my face is bleeding, my Batsuit is ripped to hell, and the cocky mothersprocker is wearing my utility belt over his shoulder.  I also notice my right side kind of hurts.  That’s when he says, “Your stance just shifted to your left leg.  That pain you feel in your right? I gave you a hernia.”

What. The. Sprock.  A hernia??? What kind of bitch-fu is that?  I swear to God, if I ever heard of one of the Robins doing that, they’d spend a looooooong time-out in the most guano-deep corner of the cave.   Luckily Black Lightning woke up and shocked him from behind before the kid could start pulling hair and scratching.  (Of course when I tried to give B.L. a “thank you” fist pound he just snorted and shook his head.  Prick.)

So that’s why I have to go the doctor – a hernia.  In case none of you readers know how a hernia exam works, the doctor puts his fingers right above your testicles, then pushes in and up like he’s trying to sneak up on your esophagus.  But I got my revenge: I gave Karate Kid AIDS.  Before you start calling me a monster, remember, the guy came from the 30th century - AIDS to them is like syphilis to us.  He’ll have to go on antibiotics for a week and everyone will assume that he slept with a hooker.  (At least, that’s what I assume.  They’ve GOT to have a cure by then, right?)

Whatever.  The guy is a sprocksucker.

This Diary was based on JLA #8 by Brad Meltzer.  I THINK the writing is good, but admittedly I”m distracted by the level of uncomfortable-fantasy-hotness in both the covers by Michael Turner and the art by Ed Benes. 

Something tells me that both of them have interesting stuff in their locked desk drawers.

One of my favorite fanboy hobbies is sitting around asking, “what would you do if you had so-and-so’s powers?” For the most part, answers consist of either exacting revenge on some people or very contrived methods of seeing girls naked. But if I was given superpowers, I’d be using them for EVERYTHING. So what would happen if I had the powers of…

Black Bolt

Black Bolt is king of the Inhumans, a group of super-powered humanoids who live on the moon. The Inhumans are a weird looking bunch, some of them misshapen, others with cryptic markings on their face. They also have a sense of cooperation that borders on hive-mindedness. Supposedly their powers come from their coming-of-age ceremony when every Inhuman is exposed to the “Terrigen Mists”, but now that I’ve been to Burning Man, I imagine the ceremony is the same as what would happen if I took a bunch of Ecstasy and planned a Bar Mitzvah.

Anyway, Black Bolt is king of the Semitic Ravers. He has the standard superpower extra value meal of flight, strength and nigh-invulnerability, along with some “energy-manipulation powers” which seem a lot like the same “powers” I get any time I wear a wool sweater and walk on carpet. But beyond that, his voice is a super-powered weapon. A whisper is enough to knock out the Hulk; with a shout he could level a planet.

Turns out this is great news for his wife, Medusa, because while Black Bolt may be king, since he can’t exactly go around making royal proclamations, he stands silently by while his wife orders everyone around on his behalf. But while Black Bolt has undergone “extensive mental training” to keep himself from yelling “son of a bitch!” every time he stubs his toe, I can’t shut up. So what would happen if I had his powers?

Read more…

The Superhero Diaries: by those who truly wear their underpants on the outside.

Today’s Author: Superman

Maybe this is going to sound vain of me, but no matter how many statues they build of the Supe, I still get a kick out of a little reminder of how much the world needs me.  For instance, I recently went into hiding along with Batman and Wonder Woman, and proceeded to watch as dozens of second-tier superheroes ran around stopping crime with a ruthless efficiency that reminded me of watching Krypto try to hump a doorknob. 

Don’t get me wrong, the B-listers are great… to a point.  I mean, there’s a lot of not-so-supervillains out there -  half the time I can’t even remember their names - with powers derived from some sort of garden mammal or something.  And when Vole-man is holding up the corner store, believe me, I’m glad to have people like Booster Gold and Huntress around.  People are into that sort of thing – that’s why there’s a market for minor league baseball games and Go-Bots. 

As long as the world is this low on competent superheroes, there will always be a need for me, Batman and Wonder Woman, and to coincide with our triumphant return, we’ve decided to reform the Justice League of America.  In our absence, it had come to look more like a Cirque de Soleil act than the defenders of the universe.  It was also a great opportunity to get rid of some previous dead weight (see: Huntress), and while some college team might call this a “rebuilding year”, it feels more to me like we’re picking who gets to sit at the cool-kids’ table. 

Right now the team looks like this, besides the three of us: 

Green Lantern: Naturally.  Not only is his ring is the most powerful weapon in the universe, it’s like the ultimate Swiss Army knife.  You want a giant green snow cone maker?  Done.  Giant green nail clippers?  Boom.  You don’t overlook added-value like that.

Red Tornado: Red Tornado is an android.  What’s odd about him is that he’s an android with a wife.  Any other android and I’d wonder what she saw in him, but what you have to understand about Reddy is that his appendages make whirlwinds.   I may not have a G-spot, but something tells me that if I did, having a two-inch dust devil touch down on it would feel pretty damn good.

Black Lightning:  Despite what some people think, this isn’t some sort of Affirmative Action thing.  Sure, he’s black, but BL can throw lightning bolts, and while you might not think that would come in handy, for some reason it does. A lot. Trust me.  Still, I really hate that name.  I always feel so uncomfortable saying it; I mean, the new Atom is Korean but it’s not like we call him “Asian Atom”.  But when I try and get around it, like “Hey, Lightning, can I get one of your fries?” he’ll just stare at me until I say, “Sorry.  Can I have a fry, BLACK Lightning?”   What you have to understand is that he came up with that name back in the seventies, and he was a lot more militant back then.  I suppose I should just be glad he stopped calling Wonder Woman “Wonder Whitey”. 

Arsenal…or Red Arrow (I don’t know what we’re calling him, but either way it’s a step up from his old name “Speedy”):  Now here’s our Affirmative Action hire.  I don’t know how it happened, but somewhere along the line it became a rule that every superhero team needs an archer.   Personally, I don’t understand how someone manages to not feel stupid combating laser beams with Stone Age technology, but I guess it takes all kinds.   I just hate them because every time we need to go somewhere, they need to be carried by one of the fliers, usually me.  (I just had a great idea – I’m gonna call him “Luggage”.  It’s still better than Batman’s name for him: “Quota”.)

Black Canary:  Her above average karate skills and ability to scream loudly are so useful in the fight against evil that it really chaps my super-hide every time someone says we hired her because she’s blond, hot, and wears a leather one-piece with fishnet stockings.  That has nothing to do with it at all.  How dare you, sir.

Hawkgirl: Her ability to fly and hit things with a club, while redundant and subpar when compared to my powers, have nevertheless been so useful in the fight against evil that it really chaps my super-hide when people say we hired her because she’s got a smokin’ body and wears nothing more than tights and a tube top.  That has nothing to do with it at all.  How dare you, sir.

Vixen: Actually, I don’t even know if she’s on the team, but Batman says she is.  I haven’t seen her all day.  She has the ability to mimic the powers of animals.  I know I disparaged that earlier, but in the past she has been so useful in the fight against - ah shit, she’s just on the team because she shows a lot of cleavage.  But you never know, maybe one day she can coat herself in some sort of mucous membrane that will somehow save the day.  In any case, Batman and I have a twenty dollar bet about which part of her body a spider web would come from.  I figure even if I lose, the show itself will be worth the twenty bucks.

When we’re not breaking criminal’s noses, we’ll at least be giving them blue balls.  Beware, evil-doers.

I forgot to mention that I based this on the new Justice League of America, written by Brad Meltzer.  It’s by far my favorite comic right now; his stories tend to be pretty far-reaching, but never disappoint.  That being said, there are always one or two lines in each of his books that make no sense to me.  It’s the only complaint I have.