Superhero Diaries

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: 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: 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. 

Read more…

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

By Batman

NOTE: This entry takes place during DC’s ‘missing’ year, chronicled in ‘52′.

I would like to say something, for the record:  I am an open-minded guy.  I don’t discriminate based on race or gender, and I welcome people into the Bat-franchise purely on their qualifications.  To date, I’ve had two Batgirls (one Asian), a female Robin and a Huntress.  (If the Bat-franchise was Wal-Mart, Huntress would be Sam’s Club.)  I’ve also had a Batwoman, but that was in an alternate reality, so let’s say I’ve had a Batwoman and we’ll put an asterisk on it.   I’ve even had a Bat-Hound, so I think it’s fair to say that I am definitely an equal-opportunity employer, even when it comes to species.

Keep that in mind, because when I say that there is a new Batwoman and I am PISSED, it’s not because she’s a woman. 

Read more…

The comic blogs: written by those who truly wear their underpants on the outside.

By Batman 

It seems like becoming a parent involves a brief mistake followed by a lifetime of regret, but maybe I’m being cynical.  I wonder if all new fathers feel this way.

See, I decided to adopt Robin after his father was murdered by Captain Boomerang.  (Apparently ‘Captain’ is the only rank in the Boomerang Army.  When the original Captain Boomerang died, his son immediately became the next Captain Boomerang, without any sort of basic training or ROTC.)  I am now officially the father of a teenaged boy in a house with explosives and a large collection of rocket cars.

Technically, nothing has changed in our relationship.  After all, I have been endangering his life on a daily basis for years.  But when he was someone else’s son, I was like the cool uncle who showed up with a box full of fireworks and left before fingers got blown off.  Now that I’m his father, everything is different.

Read more…

The Comic Blogs: Written by those who truly wear their underpants on the outside.

Today’s blogger: Batman

When you wear tights, friendships can be very strange. Take me and Superman. We’ve saved the world a dozen times, but I’ve also kicked the crap out of him on more than one occasion, and a few months ago I had his wife thrown off of a building. (I can’t remember why, but I’m sure I had a good reason. Whatever it was, it was worth it just to see the look on his face. Priceless.) I think that when the bulk of your relationship involves standing around with your package prominently displayed it tends to make guys a little competitive.

I also don’t have a lot of friends in the first place.  In fact, I’ve never had  lot of friends.  Back when most kids were signing up for little league, I was busy training to avenge the murder of my parents.  (On the other hand, I know eight ways to kill a man.  So, y’know…plusses and minuses.)  Now I spend all of my time around my butler and a teenager whose life I regularly endanger, but can I really count them as friends? One is on my payroll and the other needs me to buy him beer.

Read more…

The Comic Blogs: Written by those who truly wear their underpants on the outside.

With everything that went on between me and Jason, it reminded me of another friend of mine who wasn’t such a fan of staying dead:  Hal Jordan, everybody! A bunch of years back, Hal was a Green Lantern, which is like an intergalactic cop with a ring that makes shapes out of green light.  As always, the “please don’t question what I say” policy will be in effect.  If I say that there’s a guy who makes solid objects out of green light with a ring, it’s going to be easier for everybody if you just nod your head and hope I don’t hit you with a boomerang.

Hal Jordan was Green Lantern back with me in the Justice League, and we always got along well.  When Hal was a kid he watched his father die in a plane crash, so we’re dead-dad buddies. (It’s not a conversation that comes up a lot, but we always get together on Father’s day with a handle of scotch and watch Field of Dreams.)  Back when I’d throw barbeques at the mansion, Hal and I were the two guys drinking beer by the cooler.  Superman started the coals, Green Arrow brought a quiver full o’ shish kabobs, and Aquaman brought salmon, even though he’d cry whenever we threw it on the grill.  I don’t care what the fish’s name was; I’ll call him Delicious.

Read more…

The Comic Blogs: Written by those who truly wear their underpants on the outside.

Hi Everybody! I know you’ve been dying to hear how everything turned out with Jason. Sorry to keep you waiting, but even Batman has to do his taxes, and if you think Batarangs are deductible, you’ve got another thing coming.

When I left off, I was on a rooftop with Jason, the Joker was in a room surrounded by explosives, and a very large bomb went off in Bludhaven, where Dick Grayson lives. If that weren’t enough, I was also breaking in a new pair of boots, and my feet were killing me.

Read more…