Mnemonsemble

Late last night, a flying robo-messenger crashed through my bedroom window. Without a word, it dropped a bulky envelope onto my furry chest. And then, in typical Lallorian (i.e. crappy) fashion, it spun into the wall and exploded into its component parts. A small oil fire broke out. Cootie, bless her, doused the flames by urinating on them.

Turns out, the missive was from my old nemeses, the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad (or as I like to call them, "The Nancy Street Gang"). They had indeed slipped some kono juice inside my jello salad, as Bill S. and I had hypothesized. Not only that, but a Nancy Street Ganger had trailed after me with a camera, to make a journalistic record of any asinine behavior on my part. They claimed to have taken a whole passel of photos! As proof, they had enclosed a couple of samples. Including this one:

(I'd show you the ones taken from the front, but they're obscene.)

So, I'm giving a hearty, back-slapping "congratulations" to DOCTOR TECTONIC! The clever Doc rightly guessed that my juice-warped brain would gussy up my rude, hairy form in a Storm Boy original gown (the shoes were mine) and make a bee-line for the most conservative pub in the city.

The Revenge Squad wants me to wire them an entire wheel of space-cheddah, or else they'll upload all their photos to the Intergalactic Intraweb. As though I would be embarrassed by any of this. Screw that shit! I've always said, it's one sorry-ass Bear who's so insecure about his own masculinity that he's afraid to "get pretty" once in a while. And you know what? I think I worked that tulle gown! I'm like Ruby Keeler, only hot! And sure, the edges of the gown are razor-sharp, which is admittedly quelle butch, but you wouldn't know that until I got you in a sloppy-drunk Bear hug. That's why I'm uploading all the photos they sent me to the Intergalactic Intraweb, myself! Hell, here's a larger version of the above photo, just for you guys! I WIN, MOTHERFUCKERS! AGAIN! HAW! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA *inadvertently hiccups, then belches* HA HA HA HA HA HA HA...

Now, That's a Tall Drink of Lawyer

"Attorney Thomas Troy was disbarred today, on the grounds that he is actually four eight-year-olds stacked up on top of one another, and disguised by a cartoonishly voluminous trenchcoat. Troy's coworkers first grew suspicious when they noticed the 16'3" Troy in the mens' room, urinating out of a hole in the knee of his trousers..."

VH1's "I Love Tub's Origin Story"

Loni Love:

This kid, it's like, it don't take much to make him happy. Just sit his ass down on a bench, and like, give him, like, a calculator and an ice cream cone. He good. Like, he don't even push the buttons on the calculator or EAT THE DAMN ICE CREAM, he just SIT there, he-- *dissolves into giggles*

Hal Sparks:

Okay, so let's say you're a skinny thirty-something cokehead or whatever, and you're hanging out with all of your thirty-something cokehead pals, and you -- I mean, there's nothing else to do, right, because you're all out of blow or whatever, so you decide to locate some dumbass to push around, you know what I'm saying? *eyes pop from skull* Are you gonna choose that five-foot-two weakling in the "Happy Days" t-shirt or whatever, or are you gonna, are you -- *gesticulates wildly* You want a challenge, you know what I mean? You pick the one dude who's as big as all you skinny cokehead douchebags combined, and you... urghlblurgh... eurgh... *stares helplessly at camera*

Rachel Harris:

General Angst? Is my dream man? It's like, my fantasy? For a man to show up, out of the blue, and say, "I want to take you away with me? And have you live with me? And let me make you over into a superior being? And all I want from you? Is the occasional back rub.

Michael Ian Black:

Doctor Moon. A pioneer. Truly. His mother wanted him to be a dentist. But no. Because here was a man with a vision. And that vision was to hook up with a crazy old man in a Sherlock Holmes hat, and insert plastic into fat guys. *nods, solemnly* His name will never be forgotten. *breaks into toolish grin* ...Aw, shit. I forgot to be funny, again. Fuck it. Give me my paycheck.

Michael Colton and John Aboud:

Colton: *shakes finger at Aboud* You have to fight Batman!
Aboud: But I don't--
Colton: Do it! Fight him!
Aboud: But--
Colton: Don't sass me!
Aboud: But I don't hate him, see, I--
Colton: That is an order!
Aboud: What's in it for me?
Colton: I don't kick your ass, that's what's in it for you!
Aboud: Not good enough! You--
Colton: I--
Aboud: We--
*Colton tackles Aboud off of his crappy folding chair, and procedes to fist the bejeezus out of him*

Glamnesia

Ah, Max's Bar and Grill, the finest dive in Lallor's famed "Paper Dollar City" (a stunning recreation of 20th century Milwaukee, constructed by an insane space-cheddah-billionaire for no good reason).

I remember this night. Kind of. I mean, I have some idea of what happened from a few clues:

• I know I must have trashed the joint, because today Max sent me a bill for replacing both the windows and the doors; most of the booths and tables; the plumbing in the mens' room; and even the ceiling, which he claimed had suffered "extensive pipe smoke damage."
• I woke up the next morning with the fashion critic's face nestled securely in my crotchal region, alternately sobbing and asphyxiating. Sadly, sex with me had left the man a blubbering wreck (as it so often does) and he's currently residing in a mental hospital. So he is no help to me at all.
• Whatever I did, it must have been spectacular, because whenever I enter a hover-biker bar now, there's sure to be a couple of tough hombres who point at me and whisper, "It's that guy from Max's!" and then they run out the door screaming, waving their arms theatrically about.

I just can't, for the life of me, remember what I was wearing to set off the whole incident. I know it wasn't one of my costumes. They were all at the sonic cleaners.

So help a dude out, okay? We'll do this in contest form. Describe my apparently shocking and/or kooky outfit for me. (Only one guess per person, please.) I'll post a picture of myself in the winning --er, I mean, "correct" ensemble -- on Friday. Sound cool? Thanks! You're the best.

Implosive Decompression

"So, these two guys walk into a reservoir..."

It's not just a great start for a filthy joke; it's also a pithy summary of page twelve of "The Perfect Fighting Machine." Which wouldn't be so bad, if it wasn't a seventeen-page story.

The top third of the page: "Bye, Alfred! I'm goin' to the reservoir!"

The middle third of the page: "Here comes Batman! To the reservoir!"

The bottom third of the page: "And there goes our guy into the reservoir!"

You're right, Incredible Melting Alfred. He could've turned out like Green Arrow or Iron Man. "Better the douche you know," as they say.

Ugh... a floppy-rimmed Old Man Hat. Those things give me the willies. But then, so do floppy old-man willies.

And it looks like that "jacked-up mummy hand" disease has jumped from Alfred to General Angst. That pretty much confirms for me that it's an STD.

The hell with internal logic! Denny O'Neil learned a new medical term, and he's gonna insert it into the dialog if it takes a crowbar and a sledge hammer.

I mean, all Moon did was give Tub a little silicone enhancement and then have him work out twelve hours a day. If that turns a guy into a moron, then... oh.

Point taken.

Soles of the Damned

It's Batman vs. the Spook, in my dramatic reading of a scene from "Detective Comics" #435 (June-July, 1973). Thrill as the Dark Knight defeats the Ghost Who Walks (On the Ceiling) by... getting him to brag about his shoes? Then, brace yourselves for the twist ending!

Once More, With Follicles

Star Boy freaks out over Darkling's unbridled sexfulness: take two! By special kind-of-request by Bill S., I have a whole passel of alternate reaction shots, not by the timid and beardless mid-teens Star Boy, but by the confident and slobber-worthy bearded late-teens/early-twenties Star Boy! (I'm not sure how old he is in these. Damn sliding timeline!) Sadly, only the above picture features his mustache in handsome "handlebar mode."

Let the multi-stage spooge-fest commence!

Stage one: Sits violently upright, spilling absinthe.

Stage two: Imagines doing the horizontal Shurg with Darkling. And then with both Darkling and current girlfriend, Dream Girl.

Stage three: Realizes was talking aloud about stage two. Ignores catty comment from friend who doesn't even have his own penis. I mean, seriously. What the hell?! Cram it, space-eunuch!

Stage four: Logical portion of brain held down and mercilessly pummeled by own horniness.

Stage five: Gives up fighting, "enjoys the ride."

Stage six: Symbolic ejaculation.

Stage seven: Body spontaneously fractures in four-hundred places.

Stage eight: Lengthy recuperation. Tries to rub bits of shattered pelvis against cast.

The Ancient and Deadly Art of Shaking What Your Mama Gave You

In "The Mighty Crusaders" #10 (Archie Comics, December 1984), Darkling explains how it took years of practicing in a remote dojo before she could "work it" without inadvertently killing somebody. It's like kung fu!

Hey, Star Boy! You're into curvy dames. How do ya like them tomatoes?

Diagonally! Pretty Sneaky, Don Newton!

Take that, Michael Golden commission artwork! Always taunting me--!

But wait! How did General Angst get Tub to finally go batshit over Batman? For the answer, we'll have to move northeast on the page. Because Young Don Newton had an annoying habit of playing "pin the tail on the donkey" with his panels.

In the upper left-hand corner, we have Tub and General Angst reenacting half of a Beatles album cover, or maybe they're in a Bergman film. Next to that we have a dynamic shot of Tub, The Mortal Plastic Fist, letting fly with a plastic-reinforced, severed-nerve-trunked haymaker. (And say what you will about Tub's dopey mug, I think he has a pretty mouth. A real pretty mouth.)

And in the lower right-hand corner, Alfred's had no luck with his attempts to keep Batman entertained, which include playing "air piano" and wearing a big novelty bow-tie -- that spins! Nope, even though Batman's mysterious illness -- a syphilis-style STD caught from a dalliance with Doctor Double X -- has eaten away at his left eyeball, he's still going out to battle crime. And sure, he'll end up flying the Batplane around and around in a big circle, and he'll crash into walls and gargoyles and giant props and shit. But at least it's better than watching Alfred perform "Crocodile Rock" for the seventeenth time.

Dreamgorks

[Fade in on the cavernous and sparsely-populated headquarters of "Mercenaries, Incorporated." Tub stands,facing a glossy 8x12 "glamor shot" of Batman, while General Angst and Doctor Moon watch Tub.]

Tub [points at photo]: But I don't hate him!

[General Angst nods at Doctor Moon. Doctor Moon silently moves across the room and pulls a giant lever. In response, the bland fluorescent lighting of "Mercenaries, Incorporated" dims, and is replaced by a slowly spinning kaleidoscope of lights, with a blue-white spotlight falling on General Angst. Music rises in the background.]

General Angst [sings]:And... I... am... telling you
Fuck up Batman
You're the best man I'll ever hire
No way Bats can make me retire
No, no, there's no way
No, no, no, no way
I'm living in Arkham
I'm not living in Arkham
No, I'd rather be freeeeeee
I'm staying
I'm staying
And you
And you
You're gonna help meeeeee
Oooooh, ahhh
You're gonna helllllp me
And I am telling you
Fuck up Batman
Even though you are dumb, I'm sure
I'll make it good, good for you
I'll give you some ice cream
Some cherry-vanilla
And maybe some sprinkles
And I'll pour some fudge on
And time to time
I'll take you to the fair
No, no, no, no, no, no way
I'm not waking up tomorrow morning
And finding that the Batman is there
Tubby, there's no way
No, no, no, no way you're not fighting Batman
You'll be stomping his head in
With your, with your bare-ass, smelly feet
Please just go away to the
Reservoir
Reservoir
Go, go and fight him, AYAYAYAEAH
Go, go and fight him, AAAAHOOO
Please, go and fight him
You're so big
Fight him, mister
Fight him, mister
I know, I know, I know you CAAAAAANNN
You're like a spastic, yeah
Full of plastic
You can take what he'll bring
And not feel a thing
Tear both his ears off
Bitch-slap his belt
He's not gonna dent ya
But you'll leave a welt
AAAAAAANNNNNDD IIIII AAAAAMMM telling you
FUUUCCCK up Batman
You're the best man that I can see
Plus our only remaining employee
No, no, there's no way
No, no, no, no way you won't fuck up Batman
'Cause you will fuck up Batman
You will fuck up Batman
I'm just sick of his face AAAAAAAAYYAYAYEAH
He's going
He's GOOOIIINNNG
And you
And you
And you
You're gonna help me
AAAAAAYYYEAH
You're gonna HEELLLLPP me
Yes you are
Yes you are
AAAAAAY
Tubby
Help me
Help me
HEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLPPPPPP
You're gonnnnna hellllllllllllllllllllllp
*gasp*
MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

[The music rises to a crescendo, and then it fades. The lighting returns to normal.]

Tub [looks up from a calculator he'd been playing with]: Oh, I'm sorry. Were you talking to me?

[Fade out.]

Love and Kisses, Batman

"You don't have to understand! Just let me climb up on your back!"

So there are glossy pin-up photos of Batman circulating about Gotham, Old-Enough-To-Know-Better Denny O'Neil? Really? (You can't tell just by reading this, but my face looks so sarcastic and imperious and shit right now. In fact, some random dude passing by my window glanced at me and he immediately looked all humiliated and ashamed, plus I'm pretty sure he popped a boner.)

Where did General Angst even get that photo? Did he go through Vicki Vale's garbage? Did he order it from an ad in the back of "Tiger Beat" or the super-heroic equivalent thereof? Is it autographed? Did Batman advise General Angst to "reach for the stars (or else)"? Did he dot every "i" with a little bat? Did he slather on some lipstick (Revlon's "Noirish Night", which is a bloody crimson with an undertone of royal purple) and give the photo a big sloppy kiss?

Or did he make Robin do that?

Dial Angst for Anxious

What is he doing with his hand?! 'Cause I'm pretty sure only Doctor Strange and Spider-Man can hold their fingers like that. Is Steve Ditko pitching in on the art chores, all of a sudden?

Or maybe this is the first symptom of "bone-itis."

And here we see the luxurious headquarters of "Mercenaries, Incorporated," located in an abandoned "Curves" health club. I can't help but notice that "Mercenaries, Incorporated" now seems to consist entirely of General Angst, Doctor Moon, and Tub. But that's okay. Because they only have the one barbell to go around.

Er, alrighty. So... no barbells. Well, maybe Tub can get his exercise by carrying General Angst around on his back.

Which may have been Angst's plan all along.

Naughty Butler Seeks Same

This was in the good old days, when the Wayne Foundation building had a promotional tie-in with the National Broccoli Council.

And yes, "the summer days drag by"...

...Along with this storyline, which somehow requires Batman to be sidelined for as long as it takes Tub to get in shape to fight him. And what does everyone's favorite tight-lipped workaholic do with all this free time? You're probably thinking, "He'd continue his investigation of General Angst from the confines of the Batcave, using Robin and Batgirl as his field operatives."

But that would make sense, and this is a Denny O'Neil story. So you're wrong.

Dead wrong.

"Your back-issues of 'Honcho' have arrived, sir..."

Poor Bruce. He still doesn't have any strength in his wrists.

Also, it looks like Tub ain't the only one who's getting hormone therapy! 'Cause Brucie-boy is looking less like a brawny adventurer and more like Janice Dickinson.

Yes, thanks to this extended rest period, Batman is now the world's foremost authority on mink farming, humidifier repair, and Ricardo Montalban. And Alfred? Alfred is reduced to trolling the personal ads. So we can add "hernia" to the list of Batman's ailments!

So, Tub... How Are You Likin' That New Haircut?

Suck it up, Tub. You just have a couple of "razor bumps." Admittedly, they're each the size of a Storck Chocolate Riesen. But still.

Now, you just have to grow out your body hair and adorn your pudgy mug with a killer biker 'stache, and the people from Colt Studio will be knocking down your door! (Also, you might want to get a pair of nipples grafted to your chest. In size XXXL.) Of course, you'll need a trustworthy agent to manage your affairs. Here. Take my card.

Hey, this ice-cream tastes like high-powered rifle!

The blocking here baffles the hell out of me. Angst was holding a rifle just a couple of panels earlier, with no indication of him being anywhere near a refrigerator or kitchenette, and then he's suddenly holding a solid gold cafeteria tray with a heapin' helpin' of ice-cream on it. Where did it even come from? And is he still holding the rifle? Perhaps, between his legs? Lovingly? Because -- barring the addition of a caption box that reads "Five minutes later" -- I can only imagine one way for this panel to make any sense at all, and it requires the rifle to be a kick-ass "sundae gun" that discharges cherry-vanilla ice-cream.

Kee-rist. O'Neil's writing gives me a headache. An ice-cream headache. I think I'll let my gaze wander over to the Hostess ad on the facing page.

Ah! Much better.

In Which All Is Explained, Stupidly

Right, because who even uses guns? Aside from everybody who isn't a super-hero or a super-villain? Er, except for the Punisher. Okay, so General Angst must be planning to use Ultra-Tub as a super-henchman. I guess. Still, he could've just bought a kevlar vest for about 1/bajillionth of what this surgery must've cost.

Meanwhile, in the offices of Roger Clemens' personal trainer...

Y'know, I went to a posh English boarding school with a Sever Nerve-Trunks. Rummy chap.

Except that armies use guns! And these guns occasionally fire "high-caliber bullets"! Gah! This whole operation is actually a tax shelter, isn't it? (And I wish I could have heard the conversation between General Angst and his loan officer. "You want to invest the money in WHAT?!")

Helpfully, letterer "Karisha" (no last name, because they're a Bowie-esque androgyne with a big, tousled hair-do; intense, kohl-smeared eyes; and a puffy-sleeved, silk blouse open down to here) provided a word balloon in the lower right-hand corner to indicate the reader groaning at Denny O'Neil's inane storyline. "UNNN--" Thank you, Karisha! I'm sending you a gift basket with a selection of bronzers and scented oils and hypo-allergenic lubricants.

It's the least you deserve.

Assume the Exposition

Oh, so General Angst wanted to be surprised.

And I love that Don Newton didn't shy away from drawing an arrow towards the best-known vulnerable* part of the male anatomy: the groinular region. It's just a shame Dr. Moon's elbow is in the way.

*And therefore exquisitely sensitive, as well. That's why I like to plaster the walls of this town with "travel posters" that feature slogans like, "Visit Blockade Boy's Breathtaking Groinular Area" and "Blockade Boy's Groinular Area: You Belong There."

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley's Pillsbury Doughboy

"Despite the initial prognosis of all the king's horses and all the king's men..."

Okay, so I'm no doctor. I mean, I like to play doctor, but technically I'm not one. But is it a common practice to drape a white cloth over a patient's entire body, like they're dead already? Or is it meant to keep "Tub" from collecting dust, like he's an unused sofa? Or is this just 'cause Dr. Moon thinks "Tub" is that goddamn homely? Is this a magic trick? Will Dr. Moon yank the cloth away, revealing his curvy female assistant, who will hop off of the table and prance about in her spangled showgirl costume, while General Angst claps his hands and hollers and wolf-whistles?

'Cause I'd pay to see that shit.

For Bill S.

Requestprobe

General Angst: Wait -- what do you mean, "more than tests"?

Doctor Moon: It's all very simple, my dear General Angst! The dim-witted lad you procured for this experiment rated perfectly in the initial round of examinations, so I went on ahead with the bio-augmentation.

General Angst [blustering]: You presume too much! Mine is the ultimate authority here!

Doctor Moon: Calm yourself, my dear General Angst! All is as you had planned! The tractor-tread feet, the disco strobe eyeballs, the Popamatic bubble implant, the Mr. Pibb cannon...

General Angst [furious]: Madness! I never asked for any of those things! You speak treason!

Doctor Moon: Perhaps, my dear General Angst, this will refresh your memory...

[He reaches into his lab coat and produces a small device. At the press of a button, it plays a tinny recording of General Angst, speaking in a slurred voice.]

Recording of General Angst: --annnd mayb-be some o' them cattypillar tractory treads fer the dude's feetsies, and his peepers, his peepers, we could go 'n' replace 'em with these lights, mannnn, an' they'd be all BEEP BOP BOOP BEEP BOP oh! An' on his big ol' titties, I say we mount thisss plasticky bubbley thing-a-ma-bob like I seen once, you know, it's like, it's like from a board game or some shit, and you press on it, and you go "Popamatic pops the dice!" and like "Whoo! I win!" only ours, only ours, the dicey things, they all gots like skulls an' shit on 'em, and then our dude, he says to Batman, "Popamatic says DIE, motherfucker!!!" Ha, ha, ha, oh, oh, I allmosst fergot, wait, waitaminnit, his arm, we just chop that shit off, an' then we install this gun, an' it sprays out Mello Yello allll ooover, like BOOOSH!!! NO! NO! Scratch that shit, change it to Mr. Pibb! Yeah, and then we--

[Doctor Moon presses another button, stopping the playback.]

Doctor Moon: Those were your express orders, my dear General Angst, as of 9:26 yesterday evening.

General Angst: You mean, about halfway through our "Barnaby Jones" drinking game?

Doctor Moon: Correct, my dear General Angst.

General Angst [defeated]: Quit calling me "my dear General Angst."

Doctor Moon: Whatever you say, darling.

Things That Haven't Happened For the First Time Seem to be Happening Again

7/600 of One Trombone

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have to finish conducting the world's tiniest marching band."

Also... "malnutrition"? Hey, Old-Enough-To-Know-Better Denny O'Neil, while you're busy padding out your dialog with highly improbable ailments and conditions for a muscular adventurer to suffer from, you might as well consider tacking on a couple more, like:

• Rickets
• Elephantiasis
• "The jim-jams"
• Hysterical blindness
• Mange
• Leprosy
• Gout
• Incontinence
• Liver spots
• Ingrown toenail
• Deviated septum
• Gingivitis
• "Turkey neck"
• Scoliosis
• Ringworm
• Bulimia
• Peanut allergy
• Trichophagia (look it up)
• Lazy eye
• Parasitic twin
• Diaper rash
• Ear mites
• Diverticulitis (I prescribe macaroni-and-cheese)
• Third nipple
• Autism

Oh, you're quite welcome.

Emergency! Come Right Away!

Huh. Well, if he's anything like "Doctor Bombay", this should turn into one hell of a story! Bombay was always doing bad-ass shit like climbing Mount Everest and getting into shark fights, and he was the hardened veteran of many a tussle (with his own nurse, anyway). So if anybody could put Batman's stubborn tuckus in a bed and keep it there, it's him.

And I see that the mysterious extra arm is pitching in, by dialing the phone for him. Thank you, Thing!

(In the background, Batman removes his itchy woolen top, in preparation for giving Alfred the pimp-slapping of his life.)

Even a Batman Who Is Pure at Heart

Alfred looks downright terrified in this panel, and I can't blame him. His arm looks to have totally detached from his body and started fondling Batman's feverish form with a mind of its own. Or maybe Alfred is just a germaphobic nutcase, and he carries around a fake, telescoping arm with which to touch his fellow humans. Or perhaps there's a second butler in this panel. Alfred can see him, but Batman cannot. This mysterious figure exists on a vibrational plane that only manservants can detect. You and I would only notice a faint buzzing sound, and the odor of silver polish. Or -- and I like this explanation the best -- that's Batman's own arm, and he's sweating because he was bitten by a savage were-butler during the last full moon, and now he's transforming into a were-butler himself! Alfred's evenings will be filled with unremitting horror, as Batman and he trade dryly amusing passive-aggressive insults, and tangle over the proper way to launder a cummerbund or prepare a watercress sandwich.

Why is Batman Sweating?

There's something the modern Batman never does: perspire.

"But that's absurd," you scoff. "Batman doesn't sweat! He's the rootin'ist, tootin'ist hombre east of the Pecos!" And then I realize that I have my transchronobloggacommunicamator set for "Ye Olde Weste" instead of "2008" (a.k.a. "the Dawn of the Apocalyptic Era") and I adjust its various dials and levers accordingly. There. Can you hear me now?

So as I was saying -- and the older, even-shlubbier comics fans will back me up on this -- Batman did, indeed, previously possess the ability to sweat. But the question remains: why is he sweating? Why here? Why now? If I may float some (kick-ass) theories...

1. He's watching a shirtless Robin clean the giant penny with a sponge and a bucket of soapy water.
2. He's getting a sensuous foot massage from Dr. Phosphorus.
3. He's got "twenty big ones" riding on the Gotham Knights in the big game tonight, but Poison Ivy is dating their star quarterback, and she's always showin' up at games and shit, screwing things up.
4. He's quietly riding out, like, his fourteenth consecutive heart attack.
5. The lava dome that comprises the floor of the Batcave is cracking open.
6. The Joker surreptitiously dosed him with his latest toxin, or, more likely, senile old Alfred undercooked the fucking porkchops again.

Well, I'm spent. How's about you guys? Do you have any idea why Batman is sweating?

Gray Nightmare

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"The Plainly-Seen Playmate", by Robert Louis Stevenson

When heroes are fighting to make Gotham clean,
Out goes the playmate who plainly was seen.
When heroes are scrapping and kicking some ass,
Out goes the playmate face-first through the glass.

Somebody heard him, and somebody saw,
His is a wound that is bloody and raw,
And his mouth gives a warning, with whispers and squeaks,
To outlaws who hole up in shops for antiques.

He lies in the alley, he rests in the grime,
He cries when you kick him the seventeenth time,
Whene'er you are angry and cannot tell why,
The hero's best Whipping Boy is sure to be by!

He loves to be cold-cocked, he hates to give in,
'T is he whose left knee-cap is set with a pin,
'T is he whose right ear is a roseate clump,
And he walks with a limp (his right leg is a stump).

'T is he, when at night you drive by in your car,
Bids you to jump him and add a new scar,
For whoever he is, be it henchman or thief,
'T is he assuages your feelings of grief!

Don't Lose That Humber

Sorry, but my outrage is rather disjointed today.

• Welcome to Gotham City, where the moon is not only full every night of the year, but also careens about the sky like a freaking pinball, in order to keep Batman's big, chunky head in silhouette. Sure, the constant earthquakes and tidal waves are a bitch, but at least the city's number one hero can look way cool!
• I can't believe "Humber" is an actual brand. And yet it is. I'm still pissed off about it, though.
• "Blasting away like an Apollo Missile"? Huh. Do they even make those anymore? The name itself takes me back to my time traveling days, when the Cold War gave every romance an undercurrent of existential doom. Kind of like a Hemingway novel, but with synthetic fibers. Wow. I have nostalgia for a nuclear warhead!
• That poor, desperate dope in the foreground? No, it's not the baddie who got punched through a window. It's just the last dude who tried to make sense out of Don Newton's page layouts. All y'all, do yourself a favor: give up on that shit now. Before it destroys you.

Out You Pixies Go!

Okay! So it turns out the whole "you've always smelled peculiar" thing was just an office joke, engineered by Storm Boy. And I had unknowingly turned the tables on them by showing up with Ox's musk still in full effect. Haw! Storm Boy was gonna tell me right away, but I sort of didn't let him. (When I told him to shut his goddamn pie hole. Er, oops.) At any rate, things are cool between Storm Boy and me now. I've even arranged a date for him, with this Bismollian Bear I know. Former child actor, named Darzil Hek. Maybe you've heard of him! But probably not, because he never got any starring roles. Alright, enough of this jabber. Let's hop back into the story of "The Perfect Fighting Machine!"

FREEZCH! The sound effect that dares you to pronounce it!

But of course, this isn't a sound effect at all. It's a cleverly-hidden political statement.

A forgotten scandal of the 1970's involved the Carter Administration's secret arrest and imprisonment of 5th Dimensional imps. The feds worried that an America that was already suffering from "stagflation" might be further destabilized by wish-granting djinns, leprechauns, and fairy princesses. By the closing months of 1977, a steady stream of imps was flowing into the government's containment facility (Lamport Detention Center, called "the Lamp" by its prisoners). This spurred the formation of a resistance group: the Multi-dimensional Imp Liberation Force, or MILF for short. MILF's efforts started with a simple letter-writing campaign, but soon escalated to spectacular acts of tomfoolery, such as levitating the Pentagon, the replacement of several thousand gallons of "regular coffee" with Folger's Crystals, and the production of the movie version of "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band." The FBI raided the imps' main hideout -- the Haunted Shack at Knott's Berry Farm -- and the ensuing showdown ended with the deaths of nearly all involved. Most of the imps were reasoned out of existence, using the controversial (yet amazing) Randi Method. The FBI agents were, nearly to a man, either tickled to death, or inflicted with critical pie-to-the-face injuries. At the end of the day, a lone lawman staggered out of that house of death, dragging with him a single imp. The prisoner's name was Zch.

In-depth coverage of the case by Rolling Stone and the Village Voice turned Zch's plight into a cause celebre. Vanessa Redgrave funded and narrated a documentary about him. Country Joe and the Fish announced plans to record an entire album dedicated to Zch, but music producers declined to work with them, on the grounds that they actually sound pretty crappy once the acid wears off. It's rumored that Jim Henson attempted to smuggle Zch out of his cell, by concealing the imp within his own beard. And, of course, Denny O'Neil mischievously wrote the message "Free Zch" into an issue of Detective Comics. (O'Neil hadn't counted on Don Newton's overwrought panel compositions requiring the "hidden" message to be broken back down into its component words.)

By 1979, however, the world had forgotten about Zch. Other than a few retro-vintage Gap t-shirts and a brief mention on VH1's "I Love the '70s", Zch has disappeared from the national zeitgeist. But Zch is still here. Not in our hearts, perhaps, but in a soundproofed cell somewhere in the Mojave desert.