Superhero Diaries

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 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: by those who wear their underpants on the outside.

By Captain America

Now I know what it feels like to be a Washington General.

A few weeks ago, Congress passed the Superhero Registration Act, and I for one think it sucks.  First of all, I don’t need to carry any more cards in my wallet; it’s already like three inches thick.  The Act also seems like a bad idea.  How am I supposed to get a mortgage loan if the bank knows I might be fighting the Skrull Army in a month?  Pretty soon I’ll be paying eight grand a month in car insurance, and I can’t afford that.  Avengers are government employees; I make about as much as a public school teacher in Baltimore.

Besides, how are we going to define what constitutes a “superpower”?  I’ve got a buddy who does the NY Times Friday crossword in pen.  I know another guy who can juggle.  Are those superpowers now?  After all, they both impress me and I can drop kick a fire truck thirty yards.

Of course everyone expects that since I’m Captain America I’m automatically going to toe the party line.  Yeah, right!  America is my country, not my girlfriend.   (Captain America doesn’t have a girlfriend.  Captain America dates lots of women.  E pluribus unum, or something.)

Read more…

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

By: Prometheus

For the past couple months, Lex Luthor has been organzing all of us bad guys into a group he calls “the society”, in an effort to combine our skills and strength and take over the world.  It didn’t work, and people have been having some trouble adjusting.  The last time I saw Captain Cold, his costume was covered in frozen Jagermeister, his fly was open and he was asking everyone who came near him what they’d do for his Klondike bar.

Then the Crime Doctor went AWOL a couple days ago.  He was our resident doctor/torturer, and I was sent to get him back.  Before I get into that, I want to raise one possible reason why we are always losing to the good guys: they don’t combine “torture expert” and “health care advisor” into one job position.   The low monthly premiums were nice, but the Doc used to get tired at the end of the day and an otherwise normal afternoon checkup could suddenly include a cattle-prod colonoscopy. 

But while he may not have been a great doctor, he was our doctor, and if you went to see him with a bullet wound you left with a lollipop.  

Read more…

Batwoman’s a (hot) lesbian, and I’ve only got three words to say about it: Ho. Lee. Crap.  She even kinda looks like Wonder Woman… assuming Batwoman fights crime in nine-inch heels.

And speaking of Wonder Woman, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I have a responsibility…no, a DUTY, to call her immediately and propose a Batman-Batgirl-Batwoman menage-a-trois, regardless of how many times she has already refused that request.

I wonder if Fredric Wertham would disapprove?

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

This week’s author: Green Arrow

Sometimes it seems like no matter how much I spend planning something, it only takes one small mistake to ruin everything.  Like the time I threw Superman a surprise birthday party but forgot the candles.  We had to use some emergency flares we found in Batman’s utility belt.  They kinda worked, but I felt like an ass during the entire party.  And no matter how many times this kind of thing happens to me, I never learn.

Last week, I ended my post with Deathstroke, master assassin, surprising me in my office.  But I actually knew Deathstroke was coming and had set an ambush for him with some seriously cool surprises I’ll get to in a sec.  But after all my planning I went and forgot what day it was, so instead of going into my office alone I had my chief of staff with me.  Deathstroke hit him in the neck with a nerve-toxin dart, and I’m finding out the hard way there’s no worse bring-me-down at your I-captured-the-world’s-greatest-assassin celebration party than a guy in a coma.   I’d even remembered the candles this time.

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

This week’s author: Green Arrow

What in the world have I gotten myself into?  A few months ago, I thought it’d be really funny to run for mayor.  I’m already a billionaire and a member of the Justice League of America, and besides, about a year ago I took three arrows through my chest, which is usually a good sign that you need to take a break from the superhero business.  I didn’t even think I’d win the election; I only got the idea because I’d been drinking with Plastic Man until three in the morning and we saw a story on the news about the mayor’s retirement.  Plastic Man was like, “Dude, you should run for Mayor.”  Then he kept pouring me shots and calling me “your honor”.  There are two things you should always remember about Plastic Man: one, never go drinking with him, because he can make his liver the size of a boat.  Two, never have a thumb war with him (same reason), with a bet that you’ll run for mayor if you lose.

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

By She-Hulk

I feel like I should be writing to Dear Abby. This morning, a good friend of mine asked me to represent him in a civil suit.  Unfortunately, my firm is already representing the plaintiff, so I had to refuse him because it represents a conflict of interest.  Then he saw the plaintiff in our offices, and he’s understandably insulted.  It’s not that I don’t support him, but the requirements of my job have to come first.  What makes things a little more complicated is that the friend I’m referring to is the Thing.  I’ve seen him skip Buicks across a lake.  I know he’d never hurt me, but if he gets mad enough he’s likely to put my car into orbit. 

And if that were the end of my problems, I’d be grateful. 

Another friend of mine wants me to defend him on a rape charge, and I don’t know how to handle this either, because I’m pretty big into feminism.  I can leg press sixty tons, which means I’m like Gloria Steinem’s wet dream.   Back when I was on the Avengers, Hawkeye and Captain America used to always joke about having me clean up after them, make them dinner and get them beers.  Then I folded Hawkeye in two and shoved him in the washing machine.  When I turned it on, I could practically hear the glass ceiling shatter.  (Turns out it was his tibia, but whatever.  The jokes stopped, and that’s the point.)

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

Brought to you by: Superboy

When you’re Superboy, the highs in life are real high. But the lows are real low. This morning I woke up in a tank, and I’m a test-tube baby, so that’s, like, not cool. Even worse, Wonder Girl was standing in the room with me. At first I was embarrassed, right? I’m thinking, “Fuckin Robin and Beast Boy.” Those guys know I hate being teased about being a test-tube baby. (I keep telling them I’m a clone, but they never listen to me.) Every time I get drunk with those guys, I always pass out and wake up in a tank somewhere, usually with the word “Dick” written on my forehead. (It’s alright; sometimes when Beast Boy is sleeping, he’ll turn into a dog or a cat or something, and then it’s fun to shave him. When he wakes up he says it actually really hurts, but I’m like “shouldn’ta put me in a tank, dude.”)

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