Superhero Diaries

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.

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.

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. 

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

Today’s Author: Batman

When I was a kid, I wanted a family so badly that…well, I can admit it: I used to play house. I’d sit around, imagining what it was like for all of the other kids, with their, y’know…“parents” and all.   Sometimes I’d set the dinner table with extra places, or I’d play Scrabble against my imaginary younger brother “Chuck” (who always cheated.)  I wrote lists of names I’d one day give to my kids, and a lot of days when I was down in the cave “practicing with my batarangs”, in my head I was playing catch with my dad, like some subterranean Rockwell scene.

Go ahead and laugh if you want.  A kid in my boarding school did once.  Then I broke his jaw.  By the way, I was eight.   Now, if you want to hear something really funny, Green Arrow’s favorite movie is “Beaches”.  We’re all a little screwed up. 

I’m reminded of my childhood obsession with family because it was always tougher for me around the holidays, particularly Christmas.  Sure, I always got the best presents, but you have to understand that basically I was buying them for myself.  Yes, my butler wrote the cards and wrapped them, but he’s on the payroll.  He’d “give” me a Slip N’ Slide or a mass spectrometer, I’d give him his bonus and a week’s vacation.  (I can’t imagine what it was like for him, reading all of those letters I wrote to Santa where the first two items were “My Mom” and “My Dad”.)

I only mention it because, while I know reality never manages to live up to expectations (for example, I always expected to have a living set of parents,) when I think of how desperately I wanted a family, I’m shocked at how horribly mine has turned out.

To recap:  I impregnated Talia al’Ghul years ago, yet had no idea despite the fact that I’m the world’s greatest detective.  (I thought she was just getting a little fat, and I learned not to ask that question a few years ago when Catwoman’s leather jumpsuit looked a little tight in the waist.)   Now I’ve missed the formative years of my son’s life: his first words, his first steps, the first time he incapacitated a grown man.  Talia didn’t even keep photo albums.  What kind of mother is that???  It makes me feel awful.

But still, I have two sons now, and I should be grateful for that.  It’s what Thanksgiving is all about.  Except this kid is a son of a bitch.  I understand how he could have some legitimate resentment and parental issues, but no matter what his feelings were, it’s pretty inexcusable for him to beat my butler unconscious and kick my adopted son (Robin) hundreds of feet down into the cave.  He’s going to have to learn that that’s not how we do things in this family.   Unfortunately I can’t get too mad at him; not after all those times I beat up Green Arrow.  And Green Lantern.  And Superman.  And Dick Grayson, my ex-Robin.  And Jason Todd, my other ex-Robin.  Still… not cool, especially because he beat up Alfred, who’s now going to ask me for the thousandth time to put him on some kind of health plan.  (It’s not like I can’t afford it, but if I cave on this issue, next thing I know I’m matching his 401(k) contributions and offering him discounts at the local health club.  I didn’t get his rich being a sucker.)  I had really had it up to here with the kid. 

It turns out this was all part of his mom’s plan.  She dumped him off with me so that I’d be distracted while she and her army of ninja Man-Bats (remember those?) took over the rock of Gibraltar with a submarine.  She says it’s because Gibraltar is a vital European military outpost.  Sure, if this is 1714.  I know she’s immortal, but apparently in the last three hundred years she forgot about the advent of missiles.  It’s like planning an attack on China and making your first step “Occupy Taiwan.”

I grabbed the kid and a booster seat and we took off in the Bat-Rocket for Gibraltar.  Yes, I said the Bat-Rocket, but I want to say for the record that while I know there are a lot of single dads who buy their kid’s love with lots of cool stuff, this is completely different.  I need that rocket for work.  (Still, I’d like to see his mom top that one.) 

But there was a great surprise waiting for me at Gibraltar.  I don’t know what it was I said that got through to him, but all of a sudden I saw Damien fighting the Man-Bat’s with me, and words can’t even describe how good that felt.  Oh wait, there’s one: AWESOME.

Of course there’s nothing that can ruin good old-fashioned male bonding more than a sexy woman.  In a classic example of the impeccable timing of women, I’m knee deep in Man-Bats, the British Navy is about to sink the submarine I’m standing on, and she asks me to marry her.  She says she’ll never threaten the world again if I agree.  Now, we’ve had this discussion before.  Ain’t no room on this finger for a wedding ring AND brass knuckles, and you know the brass knuckles aren’t going anywhere.  Then she tells me that all of her future destruction will somehow be my fault, just because I wouldn’t marry her.  Except guilt trips don’t work on me, because I’m not Jewish.  We would have continued the discussion, but the submarine blew up.

Now that I can look back on it through my writing, I realize that while Damien and I did have some special moments, overall, he really was a shithead, and I’m glad he’s gone.  Maybe family isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, because honestly, if that’s what parenting is all about, then I’ll stick to humping Catwoman through two layers of spandex and a Kevlar codpiece, thank you very much.

This Bat-Blog was brought to you by Batman #658, by Grant Morrison.  He’s an awesome writer, and I imagine that it would have taken him less than two weeks to write a post like this.

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

Today’s Author: Batman

Y’know, I told myself before I even sat down that I didn’t want to write another post about the Robins. I’ve been sounding like a whiny little girl lately, and what’s worse is that I’m whining about my family, the very thing I’ve wished for ever since my parents were gunned down in front of me. But maybe I should have taken the hint that bachelorhood was the way to go.

As I mentioned in my last post, my “son” Damien recently came to stay with me. Now, I’ve seen “Annie”, and I won’t lie to you: I was kind of hoping it’d turn out like that. I’ve been humming ‘Tomorrow’ for the past week and a half. But I swear sometimes he makes me so mad I could just drown him in the river if it didn’t mean I’d have to administer some kind of vigilante ass-kicking to myself.

The kid is a nightmare. Now, I know how hard it can be on families when there’s only one parent in the child’s life. I’ve seen a ton of specials on Oprah about it, and they always break my heart. But until he watches his parents get shot in an alley I really don’t have that much sympathy for him. Yet from the first moment he got here he’s been throwing some world-class tantrums that have made me wonder if teenage boys and hand-to-hand combat training are a good combination. It’s less like he was raised by the League of Assassins…more like the League of Assholes! (Hah! I have to remember to use that one.)

I tried locking the kid in a room, but he broke out. Then he tried to impress me by killing one my weirdo villains, the Spook. It’s cute when a kid wants to be like his old man, like when you see a kid putting on his father’s suit, or learning how to shave. It just loses a little something when the kid beheads a guy and wants to get a pat on the head for it. Admittedly, one part of me just wanted to give him a big ol’ hug, but this was one of those times where I had to be ‘the dad’, because we have a very strict “don’t kill people” rule in this house, and as long as he’s living under my roof he’s going to do what I say. (I also wish that, as long as he was going to kill a guy, that he’d have killed a better one. I mean…the Spook??? The guy was as dangerous as an ingrown toenail. If you want to make dad’s life a little easier, kill Two-Face next time. I mean, I don’t even really want that, but… nevermind. I’m just tired and I’ve got a lot going on at work these days…)

Then he and Robin apparently got into a little spat in the cave. You know how boys are. But it would appear that Robin got his ass handed to him, and I can’t help but be disappointed in Robin. I’ve read that you’re not supposed to tell your children that, but Tim is Robin, for cryin’ out loud. I don’t care if Damien did grow up with the league of Assassins, Tim’s the one wearing the mask, and he let down the entire bat-family. I hate to say it, but this never would have happened to Dick.

Now, obviously I’m concerned for Tim. He’ll live, but he’s obviously banged up; Damien kicked him about a hundred feet down the Cave. And I’m sure he only let his guard down because he wanted to be nice to the new member of our little family, but I have warned him about compassion before. (Also, this really reinforces my whole “family equals pain” thing, much to the happiness of my therapist’s checking account.)

The worst part is that I have no idea what to do about this. I hit them both with a couple of tranquilizer darts and tied them up in different wings of the house, but it’s only a matter of time before explosives start flying. Meanwhile Alfred’s been too busy looking after Bratty McShithead to do his other work, and if he doesn’t get to the laundry soon I’m going to be fighting crime in sweat pants.

Obviously parenting is hard. If it weren’t, there wouldn’t be so many self-help books on the subject. But those books suck. I bet a lot of people say this, but none of them seem to address my particular issues. For instance, I went on a message board and posted the question, “my teenage son beheaded a guy and kicked my other son into a cave. What do I do? (Just for the sake of accuracy, they’re not my sons; they’re adopted.)” Now I’ve got Social Services breathing down my neck. Obviously I need to turn to people who really understand the unique type of situation I’m in

Superman seems like he’d have good advice about raising a kid, but the other day I asked him and he said, and I quote: “Well, my Pa used to always say that when you’ve got gophers, sometimes you can’t grow wheat.” It really helps if you try not to think about it. Meanwhile Wonder Woman was made out of clay and still doesn’t quite see the difference between human reproductive organs and the Play-Doh factory. The only guys who I can talk to as Batman and have kids are Commissioner Gordon and Green Arrow, and Gordon only has a girl. When I need to know how to braid hair, he’s my go-to guy, but I have real problems right now, and that leaves Green Arrow. Green Arrow, who was dead during his son’s formative years while the kid grew up in one of those kung-fu monasteries. Green Arrow, whose advice is always, “I don’t know… maybe you should just die for a year or two until things blow over.”
This is why there’s no daycare center in the JLA’s moonbase.

This Superhero Diary was brought to you by Batman #657, written by Grant Morrison.

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

Today’s Author: Batman

Ah, the joys of parenthood.

A couple nights ago I decided to go on a vacation.  I flew to London to attend an art opening where there happened to be several attractive ladies wearing very attractive dresses that made their boobies stick out.  Yes, Batman says boobies.  I also call a you-know-what a hoo-hah.  In my defense, my parents died when I was a kid, and studies have shown that type of trauma stunts one’s emotional growth in all kinds of ways.  Any guy who likes having his thing-a-ling kicked is free to make fun of me.

Anyway, I was working my “game” (as Robin calls it) on a girl with a nice pair when Man-Bats came through the window.  Man-Bats with swords, no less.

Note: The original Man-Bat was a man by the name of Kurt Langstrom.   Like many scientists in the 1960’s, Langstrom had some very advanced theories, but not a lot of patience.  He developed some serum based on bat genetics (I think he was trying prevent balding) but rather than wait for lengthy and costly FDA approval, he just up and injected it into himself.  As a result he was turned into a giant bat-creature (with thick, luxurious fur) that everyone named “Man-Bat.”  Get it?  Batman, Man-Bat…we’re like the green-yellow and yellow-green crayons: one of us is really superfluous.

Dealing with multiple Man-Bats with samurai swords was certainly a new twist on things, but luckily Alfred always carries a Bat-suit around in a briefcase, and after a quick costume change, I was ready to kick some arse. (Alfred’s teaching me to talk more “English”.)  Unfortunately, Arse (in the form of thirty flying ninja Man-Bats) was more than ready to kick me back.  I’m big enough to admit that I lost, but I also want everyone to point out again that there were thirty or forty of them, while I didn’t even have a Robin with me.  I also think I was still a bit jetlagged. 

Whatever the reason, I woke up in a cave in London’s sewers, captured by Talia al-Ghul.  She’s the daughter of Ra’s al-Ghul, a man who discovered a fountain of youth and over centuries formed the mysterious and powerful “League of Assassins”.  I first met the al-Ghul family when Ra’s discovered my secret identity and kidnapped Robin in order to force me to mate with his daughter and provide an heir for him.   From his hard-sell approach I always thought his daughter a real she-beast, missing some limbs and weighing in at a deuce and some change, but it turns out she’s smoking hot.  I’d have gladly done it if she had just walked up to me in a tight t-shirt and asked nicely (or just asked… or just made out with me…), but when an old man with a hairless manservant named Ubu tells you to have sex with his daughter, you say no, because that’s Pulp Fiction type stuff, right there.

Standing next to Talia was a small boy, probably about eight or nine, who she introduced as my son.  Then she asked me if I remembered the night we “shared under the desert moon under the Tropic of Cancer.”  (I certainly don’t remember her being such a chatterbox.)  Yes.  We slept together once.  She thought I would forget because at the time she had drugged me and raped me, but the only part I don’t remember is the moon, because I don’t look at that crap anyway.

As it turns out, when you sleep with the daughter of the head of the League of Assassins, there are about twenty guys with swords in the room with you.  It’s kind of a memorable experience.  Not only did I not forget it, considering the drugs and THE GUYS WITH SWORDS, just getting it up has got to be one of my most incredible achievements.  Ever. Just hearing her mention it made me want to give everybody a round of high-fives.

I’ll admit, the kid was handsome, but I was skeptical.  Modesty aside, I am rich, good looking, and I keep myself in shape, which means I get false paternity suits the way other people get the newspaper.  I may have been drugged that night, but I distinctly remember her saying she was wearing a diaphragm.  Unfortunately, before I could demand a DNA test, Talia took off and just left me with the kid.

And do you know what the first thing he said to me was?  “Father, I imagined you taller”.  What a tool. Who talks like that?  I was like, “Yeah, well, I imagined you as a single-celled gamete floating in a pond of Nonoxyl-9.  Life’s full of disappointments.”

This sucks.  As some of you may recall, I just adopted Robin like a couple months ago.  In less than a year I’ve gone to carefree billionaire playboy to Mr. Mom, and now I’m looking at twice the number of soccer practices, dentist appointments, runny noses…

This Superhero Diary was brought to you by Batman #655, #656, written by Grant Morrison, one of the top names in comic writing, and the author of one of my favorite Batman books, “Arkham Asylum”.  The story is great so far, though it’s odd how Batman immediately accepts the kid at face value as his son. 

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

By Mitchell Hundred

Introduction: Since Ex Machina is not a pop culture phenomenon like Batman or Superman, allow me to set the scene a little bit.  The comic takes place in the “real” New York.  The hero is a man named Mitchell Hundred, (yes, that’s his name).  He was an engineer, investigating an alien-looking device at the bottom of the Brooklyn Bridge when it blew up and somehow it gave him the ability to talk to machines.

Hundred tried being a superhero.  With a jetpack and sort of a raygun, he went around calling himself The Great Machine, which apparently is a Thomas Jefferson reference, and I bet it’s a big step up from his childhood nickname, Nerdy McKnow-It-All.

Now that’s all in the past.  In the present, Hundred has given up crime fighting, publicly revealed his secret identity, and become the mayor of New York City, largely because (and here’s quite the twist) on September 11, the Great Machine saved one of the twin towers. 

If this sounds weird for a comic book, that’s because it is.  But it’s one of the best-written comics out there.  On with the blog…

It’s 3am and the alarm clock keeps telling me to go to sleep.

That’s one of the things most people don’t realize about my powers.  Everybody focuses on the positives, like being able to change the channel without a remote, but when you talk to machines you find out they don’t exactly excel in people skills.  You want to know why you always lose socks in the washing machine?  Because washing machines are assholes and they think it’s funny.  (Though if I spent all day chewing on underwear I’d probably be testy, too.)

As you might imagine, alarm clocks tend to be annoying, anal-retentive bastards.  Right now it’s reminding me that it’s 2:49 AM and I only have three hours and eleven minutes left before I’m supposed to wake up.  Thanks, mom, but who could sleep after the day I’ve had???  For days, someone has been terrorizing the city, robbing people’s houses dressed as a fireman.  I’ve been having weird ass dreams involving a talking, pun-making dog, and on top of all that, a woman sat down on the steps of City Hall and lit herself on fire, because when I was the Great Machine I busted her son for selling weed, and this week he was stabbed to death in prison. 

So why am I smiling?

Because I finally have a superpower, that’s why.  I don’t know how, but just when things were at their worst this afternoon, I got really pissed and all of a sudden…KABOOM!  Lightning came through the window!!!! 

Up ’til now I was never a big fan of my so-called “powers.”  If I’m at a party and people hear that I’m a superhero, the first thing they want me to do is lift something heavy. “Hey Mitch, bench press my car.”  “Hey Mitch, move my refrigerator.”  Then I have to explain to them that I’m not super strong and if I move their refrigerator I’ll throw out my back, but if they’d like I can talk it into making the freezer compartment a little colder.  Suddenly I’m not so popular, and I spend the evening gossiping with the bathroom sink.

Wait ’til they get a load of me now.  Press conference not going so well?  Kaboom.  Some asshole makes a crack about me dating a vacuum cleaner?  Kaboom.  I just got promoted from The Great Machine to the Incredible, Outstanding, Fantabulously Stupendous Machine.  Write it down.

The only problem is I can’t get the lightning thing to work again.  I can’t figure it out.  I’ve done everything I can think of.  I even shouted “Shazam!”, though I felt really stupid doing it.  (The light bulb, who thinks he’s a goddamn comedian, flickered.  I told him to go screw himself.  It’s about as good as light bulb humor gets.)

I’m being told that I only have three hours and two minutes before I’m supposed to get up, so I’m going to try and get to bed.  I just had to tell somebody.  Also, if there’s a weird talking dog in my dreams, he better look up and hope there aren’t any clouds overhead.

This Superhero Diary was brought to you by Ex Machina #23, written by Brian K. Vaughn, who writes some of the best comics in the business.

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

By Batman

I want to go on record saying that I actually kind of like fighting the Riddler.  Unlike most of my enemies, he’s a harmless weenie whose “riddles” aren’t much more difficult than knock-knock jokes.  To be honest I spend most of my time looking puzzled just to keep from hurting his feelings.   It’s almost like he’s my nephew. But that doesn’t mean I’m always glad to see him, particularly if he shows up unannounced like he did yesterday. 

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