Mine is Better

Okay, boys... whip 'em out! Er, your costume and hairstyle designs for Rainbow Girl, that is.

On the left, is (the vastly more skilled) Gary Frank's cover for "Action Comics" #862, which just showed up on the internet this month (your time). To the right, is my makeover for Rainbow Girl, which I published on my blog last July (your time). In an amusing coincidence, both Mister Frank and I thought Rainbow Girl would look nicer with shorter hair, dyed purple. However, he forgot to layer it, and as a result it's hella limp. Mister Frank also thought Rainbow Girl's appearance would be improved with skeletal Barbie doll arms. You're alone there, buddy. Unless... are the arms a plot point? Does she suffer from an eating disorder? Will the shocking ending feature Lois Lane holding Rainbow Girl's hair as she throws up in the Daily Planet ladies' room? Maybe we can get Tina Fey to do an intervention for the Action Comics Rainbow Girl. "These are Princess Projectra arms! We want you to have Rainbow Girl arms!" But enough tomfoolery out of me. I thought I'd ask Rainbow Girl what she thought of her otherdimensional doppelganger's new look. And here's what she said:

Hey! I'm trying to work here! Why are you always shoving crap in front of my face? What is this? Another birthday card for Nightmare Boy? Didn't we just have a party for him last October? What? Fine, I'll look... what the hell?! Is this supposed to be me? Who drew this? I look like I haven't washed my hair for a month. And why am I in my gym socks? And who slapped ginormous rainbow stickers all over my jogging outfit? And what's the deal with my arms? Is this a joke? It's not? Huh. I don't know who modeled for this thing, but she needs to eat a food pill, STAT. Criminy. Yeah, I'm a real scream. ...Sorry I snapped at you. It's just that Eyeful Ethel has me working four different cases right now... at once! I barely have time for all my charity work! And I'm only sleeping two hours a night these days, instead of my usual three. No, I'm sorry. Can I get back to work now, Blockade Boy? I promise, we'll go out for space wine after work, and we can talk about it some more, then. Yeah, that little place on Gurn's Grove Parkway would be great. Okay. Goodbye... I said "Goodbye, already!" Criminy! ...I'm sorry.

There you have it. I win!

Happy Thanksgiving, or Whatever

As previously stated, we don't have a Thanksgiving holiday here in the glorious 30th century, but I figured I might as well "give thanks" for some things... y'know, as a gesture of solidarity with (some of) my 21st century pals.

Let's see...

• I'm thankful to all of my readers, with a special shout-out for everybody who took the time out of their lives to work up costume designs for yours truly. You didn't have to do that, and I really appreciate that you did.
• I'm extremely thankful to my identical ancestor, Stockade Boy, for giving me his body. Especially the dingus part. No more robo-dingus! From now on, the only oil for my pecker goes on it, not in it!
• I'm thankful that Eyeful Ethel helped me evade a draconian United Planets law about space piracy by creating a new civilian identity for me. Even if it's pretty much turned me into "Mike Murdock" and none of the hipster doofuses out there (i.e. Phantom Lad) respect me. Eh, screw 'em.
• I'm thankful to have a regular job. Again, that's thanks to Eyeful Ethel. Sadly, my grief over Weight Wizard's demise has manifested itself as a rampaging sex spree... which, in turn, has maxed out my credit cards with charges to all the best man-whore brothels on Lallor. But that's hardly Eyeful Ethel's fault.
• I'm thankful that Storm Boy has cleaned himself up, dropped a ton of weight, and has gone from being an irritating rival to a merely exasperating pal. And I'll be thankful if this "Ox" guy he's allegedly dating turns out to be a real person and not a blow-up droid, or -- the Luck Lords have mercy! -- an actual ox. I asked Eyeful Ethel if she knew anything about "Ox". She told me that although Storm Boy is quite explicit about their sexual encounters, she can never glean any information from his babblings in regards to Ox's real name, occupation, home address, or physical appearance. The suspense is killing me! The Blockade Boy, he is frustrated! Grrrrr...!

That's not a bad list. I mean, I'm still hurtin' for cash, but other than that, I'm in terrific shape. Especially physically! *peels off top of costume and strikes several weight lifter poses for your edification and enjoyment*

Happy Thanksgiving! Or whatever!

...And Next, the Lady Natural Underarm Turn

When your panel layout requires more arrows than a mambo instruction chart, that's a good sign you should just erase the damn thing and start over.

...Admittedly, the way I've cropped this picture makes it resemble one of the instructional pamphlets* that I give to a date whenever he seems to have no clue as to how our foreplay should go. I prefer using the pamphlets, really; it saves me from having to strain my voice screaming commands at them. ("NOW RUN YOUR HAND OVER MY BEARD! SLOWER! SLOWER, GODDAMN YOU!!!") Mind you, a lot of my dates seem to enjoy getting screamed at, but one doesn't want to wake the neighbors.

*Popular titles in the series include "So You Want to Make Love to Blockade Boy", "Blockade Boy's Junk for Dummies", "Three Hours to a Happier Blockade Boy", "The Little Cub Who Could", and "How Did I Get Here, and What's Going On?"

My Other Tank Top is a Porsche

To quote Crow from MST3K, "He's an idiot savant. Minus the savant."

Jeebus, but these 1978 fashions depress the heck out of me. From the racing-stripe tank top worn by the balding douche in the back ground, to the Dennis the Menace/Incredible Hulk/Pirates of the Caribbean tribute ensemble sported by the balding douche in the foreground, it's all one big, ugly blur to me. A big, ugly, purplish blur. It makes my retinas throb. No wonder everybody in your country became addicted to cocaine!

...Er, that is what happened, right? Aside from my time travels, most of my knowledge of your era comes from one of my planet's grade school text books, "Amadus Is Way Better Than 20th Century Earth." (Apparently, my home planet is way better than a lot of places! How fortunate I am to have lived there!)

So THAT'S How Deathstroke Lost His Eye!

Today in science:

1977: Baskin-Robbins announces that it has partnered with Lockheed Martin to produce a "frictionless" ice cream cone, capable of breaking the sound barrier. ("WOOOSH!")

Say It Ain't So, Sack

Hey, gay stoners! Feeling blue because you don't have a "treasure trail"? Just sew a fabric version onto that smelly tank top you're always wearing! Voila!

(You're welcome.)

Marge's Little Lulu's John Stanley's Bob Kane's Batman

BRACE YOURSELVES, DEAR READERS, FOR A WEIRD, SCANDALOUS, SPINE-CHILLING, AND ENTIRELY FABRICATED TALE OF COMIC BOOK HISTORY!

True* fact: In 1978, veteran cartoonist John Stanley was asked to take over the writing chores for "Detective Comics!" Stanley was a master of pacing, and had written some classic stories for the horror genre, so he should have been a perfect fit for the "weird crime" milieu of "Detective Comics." And yet, something, somehow, went horribly wrong.

Stanley pitched an idea for a story about a mute juggernaut who would mercilessly pummel Batman in a reservoir until the wily detective discovered a way to defeat him. Editor Julius Schwartz loved it, and asked Stanley to submit a full script. Stanley complied, and even included penciled layouts, just as he had done on the "Marge's Little Lulu" books. However, his confidence in his own ability to write a straightforward super-hero story had evidently faltered in the interim. The script's tone was wildly divergent from the one set by the book's previous writers. Stanley had even gone so far as to change Bruce Wayne's surname to "Van Snobbe," and to depict most of the protagonists as children -- or, at least, midgets.

In brief, the story focuses on "Tubby Banekins", who is kicked out of a "Tuff Fellers Club" for being the best pal of orphaned "rich kid" and "world champion softie" Bruce Van Snobbe. Incensed, Banekins boasts to the club that he's "the perfect fighting machine." He extracts a promise from the organization that he will be readmitted to their society in exchange for winning a fight with whomever they deem to be "the toughest feller around." The club agrees ("Just to show 'im up!") and demand that he fight Batman. Banekins is internally rattled, but makes a go of it, even donning his mother's sleeveless pajamas and swim goggles in an attempt at a costume. Batman -- who is, in reality, Van Snobbe -- sees through Banekins' disguise immediately. ("Tubby's gone bonkers! I'd better humor him 'til he comes to his senses!") Unwilling to do serious harm to his friend, Batman throws the fight. The success goes to Banekins' head, and he decides he is now the Number One Crime Fighter in Gotham City. Batman finds himself trailing behind Banekins as a sidekick, in order to secretly rescue him from a number of mishaps. Banekins' growing ego and his barrage of flippant remarks wear on Batman. In front of the "Tuff Fellers Club", the seasoned detective finally gives Banekins "a poke in the nose", flattening him with one punch. The "Tuff Fellers" readmit Banekins out of sympathy, and even offer to give a trial membership to Van Snobbe (into whom Batman had changed while off-panel). Van Snobbe declines, saying it would take valuable time away from his hobby of collecting butterflies. Everybody groans. The End.

Upon reading the script, Schwartz fired Stanley on the spot, and handed the assignment over to the more malleable Denny O'Neil and Don Newton.

Below: a penciled panel from Stanley's version.

*And by "true", I mean "grotesquely false."

Weirdest "Montclair Moment" Ever

Down, boy.

In close-up, we now can see that "Tub" is being bullied by a gang of thirty-something sophisticates.

He's Not the Perfect Fighting Machine; He's Just Big-Boned

"Tub"? So that's where I've seen him before! It's just that I didn't recognize him, without that undersized sailor cap hovering over his noggin.

Yes, the Perfect Fighting Machine is, in reality, one Mister Tubby Tompkins... a.k.a. Little Lulu's special friend.

(A special thank-you goes out to Michele Maki's "Little Lulu" page, which was the original source of all these covers.)

The Sphinx in Pink

Big Pink up there is throttling Batman so hard, his head is emanating pork gravy! It's a manly miracle!

So... who is this guy, anyway? Since he refuses to introduce himself, it makes his mystery all the grander. Is he a refugee from one of those freakadelic new PBS kids' shows? An early adopter of the German "industrial pop" aesthetic? A once-handsome pajamas-and-goggles model, mutated by a gamma bomb into an engine of pastel destruction? I'm tantalized!

I personally think it would be awesome if he turned out to be the DC Universe cousin of the John Byrne Marvel villainess, Pink Pearl. Remember her? She was a radical Québécois separatist and circus "fat lady", and she wore a pink dress? And later on, when Bill Mantlo took over writing "Alpha Flight", he kept referring to her as "Pretty Pearl", probably because Marvel's lawyers finally realized that "Pink Pearl" is a brand of eraser?

Or maybe he's just a metaphor for Catwoman's clitoris.

Big Men Aren't Usually Fast

"Men that big aren't usually fast--"!

That's what Storm Boy is counting on! (I once told Storm Boy about a gas station/convenience store I saw back in the 21st century, called -- I shit you not -- "Kum & Go." His reply: "Sounds like every date I've ever had! Nobody wants to cuddle anymore!")

I mean, I presume this "Ox" character he claims to be dating is a "big man." Unless he's some spindly, pot-bellied Ivy League intellectual whose full name is "Oxnard M. Nancypants (Jr.)" and he spends every evening just doing Storm Boy's hair, instead of, y'know, doing Storm Boy. Huh. But I digress.

It was just last week when this all (allegedly) started.

I was at the detective agency, comparing tentacle-print records, and Tusker was regaling Dentata Damsel with that story about the time he crashed his hoverboard into a pair of mating camelephants and was trapped underneath them for two days while they finished their business. Dentata Damsel was smiling vacantly at him and nodding, while nibbling delicately on a piece of rebar she'd found somewhere. Then she giggled and put her hand on his, and said something to him in that whispery, mumbling voice I've grown to despise. The next thing I know, Tusker has plopped his chunky ass on my desk.

Tusker: It's going really well!

Me (annoyed): What is, buddy?

Tusker: You know. Me and Dentata Damsel. I think it's time to make my move!

Me: You're kidding, right?

Tusker: What? She really likes me! I make her laugh, I'm always fetching stuff for her when she's too tired to leave her desk, she tells me all her personal problems, and I rack my brain coming up with solutions for them...! Just now, she said to me, "Tusker, sweetheart, could you grab me a box of staples?" She called me "sweetheart"! The next step is, we go out! Um... isn't it?

Me (smoothing out the plasto-film sheet Tusker creased by sitting on it): Nope.

Tusker: WHY NOT?!

Me (hoisting my enormous metal tankard of space-java): Because, genius -- setting aside the fact that an office romance is a horrible idea -- all that shit you just described isn't sexy at all, and it sure as hell hasn't made you into a potential lover in her eyes. It's made you into a pal. (takes a swig of the powerful coffee-like subtance -- which is black, natch)

Tusker (hopefully): Like a... "fuck buddy"?

Me (spits out space-java): Bwah! Sorry. Tusker, amigo... if Dentata Damsel is like most people, she wants her boyfriend to be somebody who makes her forget about her problems, not somebody who solves them, and who suprises her with things she never realized she wanted, not someone who retrieves crap for her like a dog.

Tusker: Dang it. I'm an idiot.

Me: Rookie mistake. Don't worry about it. There's plenty more ladies out there.

Dentata Damsel (breathily shouting): I'm still waiting on those staples, Tusker!

And just as Tusker trudged away from my desk, Storm Boy breezed into the office. Gadfly Lad looked up from his desk, glanced at the clock, and hollered to him that he was "14 minutes and 3.297 seconds late." By way of a reply, Storm Boy thwacked Gadfly Lad's forehead with his thumb and index finger as he passed by. The feather-light l'il Imskian toppled backwards, chair and all. Storm Boy was positively glowing. No kidding, he looked like he'd been polished. Everything was shiny. And he reeked of cologne. It was stifling. Making a note of Tusker, who by then had emerged from the supply pod with tears streaming into his mustache, Storm Boy bustled over to my desk.

Storm Boy: Mornin', Blockade Boy! So, what's the matter with our own private Henrik Egerman this time?

Me: I had to shoot down his hopes and dreams again. For his own good, of course.

Storm Boy (with a hint of mockery that makes me want to punch him): Oh, of course!

Me: You stink, by the way. What, are you moonlighting as a perfume spritzer?

Storm Boy: No! This is just how my new boyfriend likes for me to smell!

Me: Feh. You're drunk again, aren't you?

Storm Boy: I am not--!

Me: Yup. You're off the wagon. Let me check your breath.

With only nominal protesting on Storm Boy's part, I grabbed his head, pried open his mouth, and took a good long whiff.

Me: Jeebus! What've you been eating? Garbage? You might want to look into some mouthwash before your next big date there, killer.

Storm Boy (flushed): Oh! But I thought--! Balls.

Me: So, who's the lucky guy? Assuming you aren't just making this all up.

Storm Boy: His name is "Ox" and he's everything I've always dreamed of in a man.

Me: Like?

Storm Boy (grinning): Hmm... no. I don't think so.

Me: What? I'd like to meet the guy! I can't have you wasting your life with somebody who's unsuitable, y'know.

Storm Boy: That's the problem. No, Blockade Boy, I'd like to keep Ox to myself for just a little while.

Me: I don't understand...

Storm Boy: Oh, how can I put this...? Blockade Boy, you're great. Honestly. You're the absolute best. You're like a big brother to me, or like a really overbearing uncle, or maybe just a psychotic gorilla that kidnaps you and won't let you leave its cave, but...

Me (impatient): But what?

Storm Boy (squeezes my shoulder, warmly): ... and I mean this in the nicest possible manner, but... you ruin everything.

And with that, he flounced into Eyeful Ethel's office. There was a lot of high-pitched squealing and giggling for about twenty minutes, while I stewed at my desk.

So, even though my life is already complicated enough, I've decided I'm going to find out what I can about this "Ox" guy.

For Storm Boy's own good, of course.

Spare Tire Kicker

"Like kicking a bulldozer"?!

Really, Batman? Kicked a lot of bulldozers in your time, have ya? Or are you thinking of that souped-up Zamboni that Mister Freeze used to tool around in, and which I have just made up?

Also, I think you'd have better luck stopping this dude if you aimed your feet just a smidge lower.

(You're welcome.)

"He's Creaming Me -- and I Don't Even Know His Name!"

Yes, every Gothamite is either at the beach, or closeted. With fans. Specifically, delicate little Japanese fans, which they flutter, coquettishly.

Heh. I was going to type, "Sound familiar, Storm Boy?" but I just remembered, he's the one with the (alleged) fancy new boyfriend ("Ox"), and I'm the one who's nearly bankrupted himself with an addiction to man-whores. Hmm. Maybe this "Ox" guy is a man-whore. He's got the name for it, and -- aw, hell! What if I've slept with Ox? That puts me just one slab o' beefcake away from sleeping with Storm Boy!

...I don't feel so good.

Basically Anything That Is Awesome

"Gotham City belongs to the Mutants!"

Wait, I'm thinking of that other big bald dude who slapped Batman around in a junkyard. But anyway, there it is, folks! PINK MUSCLE SHIRT! Although the ensemble, when taken as a whole, looks more like hospital scrubs. He's a disorderly orderly! No, Mister Wayne, you may not have an extra helping of Jell-O! *SLAP!* For realsies, guys! With the sleeves chopped off (to better showcase his "guns"), the Perfect Fighting Machine has the air of a Hulked-out "Dr. 90210." (Yes, Dr. 90210 = Bruce Banner, with surgically-enhanced dimples.)

But then I see the bare feet, and I wonder if the Perfect Fighting Machine going for a martial arts thing, instead. And his mom accidentally washed his karate pants in the same load as her red blouse. Now all the other kids at the dojo are gonna laugh at him! The big, dumb dope.

Wow. The Batman really needs to quit smoking.

He's Just Mad Because the Spray-Tan People Forgot to Do His Head Again

THE MEGA-POST IS DEAD! For a while, anyway, because I really need to spend more of my free time fending off total financial ruin. What does that mean for you, the Blog Consumer? Merely that I'll be approaching this crappy Denny O'Neil story from "Detective Comics" #480 (Nov./Dec. 1978) not in a couple of big, steaming chunks, but panel-by-panel... Gravity Girl-style! *pauses, waits for thunderous applause to die down* That's also the reason I took the "D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land" thing off the title, because everybody, myself included, would've gotten sick of looking at it after its sixtieth installment, or whatever.* And for the morbidly curious, I'll occasionally post little tidbits about my own life. For instance, Storm Boy finally snagged himself a new boyfriend! I know; I can't believe it either. I still haven't laid eyes on the guy, so he might be fictional. I don't even know his name... Storm Boy only refers to him as "Ox." (Haw!) I may have to run a "background" check on the dude. Y'know. As a friend. I'll tell you more about the situation next week.

So... let's get this damn thing over with started! Yay!

Lookin' good, Hugo Strange! You been workin' out? ...Kidding. It's not Hugo Strange. I wish! Nope, this big dumb slob doesn't even get a name -- although Doctor Moon calls him a "gork", which is medical slang for a vegetable, and which allegedly stands for "God Only Really Knows." Nice, huh? And yes, I know I promised he'd be wearing a pink muscle shirt. And he does, in the actual story. But they couldn't put something like that on the cover. It wasn't 1985 yet. Remember 1985? That was the year when everybody wore pink muscle shirts! Everybody! Even the Reagan Administration! Even the Pope! See, the Perfect Fighting Machine was a trendsetter! Only he didn't realize it. 'Cause he was a gork.

Regarding Batman's tantalizing "dude in distress" pose... it's funny, but I have a similar sawhorse-type setup in my home. Only I make the guys scooch up a little, so it's centered more under their waists. Huh. Maybe Batman's just tuckered out, and slid down a tad. Did I travel to Gotham in 1978...? Maybe. I can't remember.

You mean, besides all the DC heroes with actual super-powers?

Nope.

Nothing at all.

*As of 12/29/07, all posts on this story have their own tag ("Perfect Fighting Machine"). There, now. Isn't that better?

D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land: The Origami Monster, Part Four

Welcome back! So... Batman's and the Creeper's plan of surprising an uptight middle-aged bachelor in his own bedroom--? It doesn't work the way they'd hoped.

Rather than being "scared spitless", as the Creeper so cutely put it, Watley boots them out on their sorry asses. Still, that whole "I'll call the police" business had to be a bluff, given that Watley lives in Gotham, where the police own a massive spotlight with Batman's symbol on it. I suppose the Creeper is a "wanted man" (by a very narrow definition of the term), so they might hustle him out of there, but all Commissioner Gordon would do is hold Batman's cape for him while he rummages through Watley's underwear drawer.

...I'm trying to imagine what kind of "Creeper Symbol" the Gotham P.D. might develop if they ever wound up cooperating with the irritating little queen. Maybe a cannon that shoots red fur boas a hundred feet into the air?

What's wrong with this picture?

...And why does it piss me off so badly? Is it because it's a cheap, pointless gag that borders on complete incomprehensibility? Yeah, that's the ticket. Also, it's a "background joke", but Jim Aparo has drawn the panel from a perspective that points directly at it. Holy balls!

And if something as minor as that can send me into a frothing fury, you can just imagine how I feel about the Simon Pegg-alike in Garth Ennis' "The Boys." Or any gratuitous appearance in a super-hero story of the Three Stooges.

Anyway, Batman has an idea to draw the Origami Monster to them by creating "an irresistible target." Perhaps he could arrange for Bela Abzug to do nude jumping jacks on the roof of an abortion clinic, set to the greatest hits of Elton John. But no, the Creeper has figured out how he can implement the Batman's plan, whilst simultaneously torpedoing Vera Sweet's chances to advance her career!

Check it... Ryder's new show is directed by the Frankenstein monster! Good for you, dude! It's never too late to get your degree from the DeVry Institute!

"America: Get Your Freak On!" That's what it says on all your currency, right?

I'm sorry, but I have to draw the line somewhere. And it's at Vera Sweet's unending collection of "Dogpatch Chic" polka-dotted business wear. My eyes can't take it! Why, Vera? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?

"Minutes later", Ryder heads out into the streets, where Batman swings over his head and offers up a compliment -- before asking him "Don't you worry taking stands like that will endanger your secret identity?"

Yeah! Suck it, pre-Crisis Clark Kent! Of course, I'd like to think that a real hero would've noticed that the entire city of Gotham has floated up in the air and flipped upside down. (Seriously, what the hell is everybody walking on?!)

Batman has no time to figure out if he should be happy or mad about Ryder's dig at his barrel-chested alien buddy, because he has to go shanghai Watley -- in a disturbing panel, which shows him muffling the spindly demagogue with a blue-gloved hand, and telling him, "Easy, doctor! I just want to show you something! Hope you're not afraid of heights..." Sounds like Watley's going to join the Batplane Mile High Club. Whether he likes it or not. Still, I have a feeling he'll like it, if you know what I mean.

Their business concluded (entirely off-panel and within my own imagination), Batman deposits Watley on a roof, with a crisp new hundred-dollar bill between his butt cheeks. And then The Golly-Gosh Batman kicks some origami monster ass!

Batman calls that a kick? Feh. Cyd Charisse could've done the same thing, standing perfectly upright. Plus, she'd have executed some cool, sexy maneuver where she leaps up in the air and does the splits and then a scissor-lock thing on the origami monster's head, and sexfully crushes it to death. I dunno. Maybe Batman's saving that for his "finishing move."

Wait, so was there a squeaky-voiced, toddler-sized origami monster back then, too? Tracking down that kid in Watley's kindergarten class who ate paste, and giving him a wedgie? 'Cause that actually sounds quite adorable.

Y'know, if it wasn't for the placement of the bat-symbol, I'd think Batman had somehow absconded with Ma Hunkle's rack in this panel.

Conveniently for all involved, issues of religion, race, sexuality, or economics never even came into play with regards to Watley's motivations. To be honest, I'm not quite sure what to make of that. It was probably done to avoid offending people -- although, folks with extreme political/relgious views are pretty much incapable of not being offended. And while I think a lot of humanity's basic motivations can be boiled down to fear (or greed), the idea that Watley is merely a "scared little boy" seems rather condescending. The hidden message here is that all Watley needs is a little psychological therapy (and a good lay) and then he'll become a Democrat, like any sensible individual. And might I add, yikes. (I wasn't terribly fond of either of your major political parties when I was stranded in your era. Er, no offense. But don't worry; once Ralph Nader becomes President-For-Life, you'll all be much happier -- oh. Oops. I guess that counts as a "spoiler." Forget I said anything.)

Yes, if there's one thing Republicans and Democrats enjoy, it's burning paper!

So every time somebody watches "The O'Reilly Factor" a wino is murdered?

That sounds about right.

Tomorrow: Batman vs. the Perfect Killing Machine!

D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land: The Origami Monster, Part Three

At the end of my last post, Batman had set the paleo-conservative origami monster ablaze, like so many copies of "The National Review." The monster merely reformed itself out of more 8.5" x 11" sheets of plain white paper (which were conveniently stacked nearby), and ran away, shaking its little paper fist. Meanwhile, Dr. Clayton Forrester Watley continues to preach from his bully(ing) pulpit:

The montage has spoken! That night, the sexy young brunette broods in a chair by a ginormous window. "Liberals are a cowardly and superstitious lot," she thinks. "How can I strike fear in their hearts?" Just then, a slutty black cocktail dress and a bottle of hair color in "Piss Blond" #17 crash through the glass, slicing her face to ribbons and necessitating some cut-rate plastic surgery. "That's it!" she declares. "I shall become a total bitch."

Also, Jack "the Creeper" Ryder decides it's time to confront Watley.

Wow, a statue of a gazelle (or what the hell ever) taking a dump? That is elegant! But where the heck is that smoke emanating from? Does he have a hotplate back there? 'Cause I'm telling the landlady.

Is he checking out her (admittedly ample) ass, or does he just covet that skirt? With Ryder, it's a real toss-up.

Later, at the Batcave -- which the Creeper visits so often during this story that he might as well just move in -- the jaundiced juggernaut of justice does his best impression of that clingy dude who has no other friends and tries to fill the awkward pauses in your conversation with awful jokes.

Creeper, you're pissing off The Dadgum Batman, here! Do you want him to punch you in the face? Because he totally will.

Oops, my mistake. I was thinking of the post-Crisis Batman. This one just politely asks you to stop. And if that doesn't work, he'll send you a strongly-worded letter. And if that doesn't work, he'll use his "Bruce Wayne" identity to secretly drive you to financial ruin. Also, you can stop checking your mailbox for any invitations to the Justice League, 'cause they ain't comin'.

Action sequence! Batman and the Creeper follow a bilingual and sloppily punctuated distress call ("Ayude! Help me! Ayude, por favor!") and discover the origami monster attacking either a mother and her little kid, or a hooker and a midget.

Batman shouts at the lady to vamoose. ("Vaya la policia, señora! Ahora!") The Creeper, forgetting what "Bats" had asked him to do three pages earlier, goes on the offensive.

Yeah, I don't think that insult really deserved the "SNAP!" sound effect. (Was that sound produced by the fire escape breaking off, or a really appreciative off-panel beatnik? "Crazy, daddio!" *snap, snap* Or maybe it's a road company of "West Side Story.")

The Creeper nails the origami monster in the noggin, and tears its head off, because it's only super-strong when the plot calls for it it's concentrating, like a paper doll version of Ultra Boy -- er, not that I own any of those.

Again, we see how the pre-Crisis, Dang Ol' Batman was prone to gaping like an EC protagonist at anything even slightly out of the ordinary. Once, a Denny's waitress forgot to charge him for his orange juice. He went into a fugue state and burned the place to the ground.

And now, A Shocking Twist! (If you're not Scipio or Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator, anyway.)

Wait for it...

Aw, hells no! Get the fuck out of here!

How's about you practice cramming it, huh, nerd?

Tomorrow: the stunning conclusion!

This Just In: Rob Liefeld's "Captain America" Model Located

D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land: The Origami Monster, Part Two

"The Brave and the Bold" #178 (September, 1981) opens with Batman assaulted by a windstorm of paper, while on the trail of a serial killer. "Ten victims in three weeks -- ranging from junkies and derelicts to a few college kids who had a bit too much to drink!" thinks Batman (sternly, natch). And in each case, a chain of paper dolls was draped around the victim's torso.

A caption box then informs us that "Nearby, at the studios of WHAM-TV" (all George Michael, all the time), this is happening:

September, 1981, folks. Thank goodness people stopped subscribing to that paranoid nonsense by your own year of 2007, huh? Am I right? Who's with me, people? ...Guys?

*crickets chirping*

One citizen who's filled with outrage (at Dr. Laura's Clayton Watley's ability to score his own TV show) is Jack "the Creeper" Ryder, whose manager informs him "Lotsa people want to hear what he has to say, Jack! Besides... that could've been your show! You're the one who gave up newscasting to work in security, remember?" And while Ryder's regretting that bone-headed career choice, made for him by another writer (probably not Ditko) back in an issue of "World's Finest", he's nearly run over by a gal in polka dots big enough to psyche out Deborah Domaine -- not to mention, she probably has the Don Henley song, "Dirty Laundry", playing in her brain, 24-7.

Anyway, I'd never seen this Vera lady before or since this comic, but I think she's just the bull's balls, as we say in 2987. And, of course, I love how the purple-suited "Ryder" engages her in some grade-A, catty repartee, before ducking out to put on stripey green Speedos and a red fur boa. Subtext? You're drowning in it!

Thanks to Watley's skills as a rabble-rouser, his audience members have apparently switched off their massive 1981-style television sets (approximately the size of an oven and weighing in at just a few grams lighter than a dwarf star) immediately after the end of his program, and have moved into the streets looking for somebody to pelt with debris.

Granted, the Creeper may be exacerbating the situation by allowing Batman to roger him on top of that roof, in plain sight, right across from that playground.

He's skipping out of danger!

Naturally, his impish gadding-about leads him right into a confrontation with the Origami Monster.

The origami monster is all about the environment.

The monster uses the term "pollutant" a lot, and while it does have a dehumanizing ring about it, it's also vague and off-puttingly euphemistic. I mean, who talks like that? Outside of supervillains, religious fascists, radical socialists, and -- okay, so I guess there are some nuts out there who do talk like that, but here, for some reason, it seems rather toothless. I'm torn over it, to be honest. The origami monster and Watley are both intolerant reactionaries, but it's hard to pin down exactly what they're reacting against, because their terminology is so goddamn toothless! (Although the origami monster seems to have a major grudge against winos.) I'm sure this intellectual shilly-shallying was a necessity in the mainstream publishing world of 1981, but it doesn't make it any less annoying. On the other hand, most politicians, pundits, and religious leaders don't really say what they mean, when they express a view that they're certain will encounter any amount of opposition. For instance, fear mongers (and their fearful followers) will say that they oppose gay marriage, not on the grounds that they don't understand gays or that they think gays are weird and gross, but because they're certain that the very existence of gay marriage will somehow stop heterosexuals from getting married. Which doesn't even make any sense, but it gives the homophobes something to latch onto that sounds like a positive (helping to preserve an institution... that was never in any danger from that quarter, but whatever) instead of a negative (trying to oppress a group's freedom). So in that sense, the origami monster is just as self-deceptive and prevaricating as the people it parodies. It's just that I can't imagine this aspect of its personality was intentional.

Okay! So anyway, the origami monster at this point has the Creeper bundled up like so much ground chuck, and it launches a fearsome attack on Batman... that could be duplicated by any rowdy third grade class:

Thankfully, Batman's keen mind recalls that FIRE BAD.

Fahrenheit 451: the temperature at which goofiness burns!

That's not the end of the origami monster, though. Check back tomorrow!