Detective Comics (Vol. 2), Issue #2 – “Playtime’s Over”

* Part 2 of 7 of the Faces of Death storyline *

Welcome to Loneliness & Cheeseburgers Presents: Detective Comics (Vol. 2), Issue #2 – “Playtime’s Over”! That implies that playtime had ever begun in the first place. That’s debatable! In the previous installment, Gotham’s police want to take down Batman per the mayor’s orders even though Batman is single-handedly stopping all the crime in the city. What else is new? An uptick of murders in the Joker’s hands brings a nasty stormcloud over Batman, and he needs to figure out this guy’s motives and patterns yet again! How many times can this Joker really pull a fast one? After 80 years? Hang it up.

Batman does catch the Joker, though! But he doesn’t kill him, he just puts him in Arkham Asylum like an idiot. This is exactly where the Joker wants to be, Bruce! You’re playing his game!

Joker arranges for a guy called “the Dollmaker” to slice off his face. Isn’t that neat?

Other than that I don’t know what the hell is going on yet! I’m having a great time.

Detective Comics (Vol. 2), Issue #2 [December, 2011]
Written by: Tony S. Daniel
“Playtime’s Over”

More like “Defective Comics”. That cover kinda makes it look like Batman’s riding a roller coaster. Batman: The Ride is my favorite one at Six Flags: Great America! Make sure to get the front row.

At Wayne Tower, Bruce just happens to be scaling his own personal climbing cliff when some guy named Hugh Marder stops by to talk to him. “No need to cut your workout short. Mind if I join you?” he asks while disrobing. He looks like Fabio, all shirtless and muscle-bound. He starts scaling this cliff without a harness, like a moron, just like Bruce Wayne.

They both exchange pleasantries and are now on a first-name basis with one another! That’s so sweet, you guys. Marder has come to tell Bruce that he has been “outbid by Q-Core in Seattle”, but Marder is still very impressed with Wayne Industries. It’s suspected, after doing some research, that Wayne can get Marder’s company up and running a year faster than Q-Core! With all the bells and whistles and blowjobs that Marder needs! Technology moves very fast, no time for dilly-dallying, hmm?

Marder is curious, though. Why would Wayne Industries take such a big risk in financing Marder’s Pretty Painted Easter Egg Christmas Ornaments startup? “It’s good for Gotham City. It’ll create jobs. Lots of them.”

Lots of Easter Egg painting jobs!

Bruce’s secretary announces the arrival of his 2:15pm appointment, which didn’t exist in Bruce’s clear schedule. No more shirtless rock climbing for now. Bruce excuses himself from Easter Egg Hugh and makes his way to get his dick sucked by some other corporate shill.

Ah! Not a corporate shill, but a sexy reporter! Still, though, Bruce won’t be getting his dick sucked today. Charlotte Rivers has a SCHEDULE to keep and Bruce is late for getting her the EXCLUSIVE that he promised!

Gah! Sorry, my lustfully sultry succubus!

“My viewers want answers, Mr. Wayne.” she scolds while Bruce stands there sheepishly. Answers to questions such as “how are you so fucking rich when it seems like you spend a lot of time fucking around and climbing cliffs in your office and smooching your butler?” and “just what is going on with you, sir?”. Some theorize that he has had himself cloned in order to do everything he does. Others theorize that he has built himself an identical robot! Myself, I think that he was created as a wish-fulfillment object for fat, insecure, sweaty nerds (*cough Kevin Smith cough wheeze*). And furthermore!…

Nah. Bruce starts seducing her and it works right away. They begin to kiss. Bruce shuts off the lights in the room. Bonin’ ensues.

Forty panels are shown of Bruce’s penis thrusting in and out of Charlotte’s butthole. And if you believe that, then you believe Hugh Marder has an Easter Egg empire.

“Mmm. This worked out wonderfully. This might have to be my new tactic with you,” says Charlotte after a passionate (*checks clock*) 49 seconds. Too bad she has to resort to sticking with her Angry Reporter gimmick in order to get past the secretaries for some much-needed (*checks clock*) …uh, quality time.

She asks him if he would like to get dinner at 8pm after her taping, but Bruce isn’t listening. He’s staring out the window of his 8,000-story building, watching the stars. “Sorry– I just remembered I have to be someplace tonight.” Bruce grunts, getting up and walking away like a rude non-cuddler. BUT, hey, don’t worry, he’ll slot out the entire weekend for her! Promise! Heh heh!

Charlotte doesn’t want a weekend getaway. She’s content with just hanging out with him at her own place. She just wants a normal fucking weekend.

Ain’t gonna happen.

BATMAN SPEEDS OFF ON HIS BATCYCLE! NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NANANANA NANANANANANANA–

“Last night someone helped the Joker escape from his cell. And all that was left behind was the skin of his face. Somewhere out there the Joker is free. An insane killer without a face,” he thinks to himself after presumably launching off a ramp since he’s a million feet in the air.

Dr. Arkham and Commissioner Gordon investigate the now-unoccupied cell. “Obviously someone who knew how to bypass our security system is responsible,” Arkham tells a scowling Gordon. Without a trace! Like a ghost came in and morphed through the walls and took the Joker back to its Ghost Hut! So Gordon’s calling all his best detectives over. “So you’re saying I should get used to your stormtroopers marching around my halls, harassing my staff?” Dr. Arkham calmly jabs. Pffft. Whatever. Gotham has like two good detectives. The bat is going to solve this case, idiot.

Arkham reminds Gordon that this is a house– nay, a sanctuary— for the very mentally disturbed. Not a Nazi prison camp. Even though Dr. Arkham does tattoo a number on each patient and he does have about thirty gas chambers. Nevertheless.

“Unless the Gotham City P.D. gets your full cooperation, I will shut it down,” Gordon warns, setting himself up to be fucked with just like he was in Batman: Year One! Don’t you ever learn, Gordon? You’re gonna get hit with a baseball bat again, sir.

Dr. Arkham reminds him that closing his asylum would ruin his political reputation. Plus, regarding the patients, “no one else wants them.”

♪ ♫ Detectives doing detective things! Detective Comics! ♫ ♪

Harvey “Steve Bannon” Bullock arrives to brief the Commissioner. There’s the unmistakable scent of cheap whiskey and street pussy on his breath, no doubt. “Nobody’s seen nuthin’, nobody’s heard nuthin’,” he reports! Sounds like a cold case to me! Let’s regroup in about seven years. Gordon excuses himself for a smoke and steps outside to the roof where his bat butt buddy awaits.

“I know what you want and I can’t help you,” Batman grunts, knowing full well that he can help Gordon…you know… with his… urges. Listen, I’m writing this at 2am and I’m very sleepy. Let’s just–

OK I’m awake! What Batman wants is to see the creepy face. Gordon says NUTS TO THAT. So, next, what Batman wants to see is the creepy little girl Olivia Carr. Gordon says OK I’LL HELP YOU THERE and gives him some surveillance photos. The man who claimed to be her uncle is actually Ray Quimby! And I’m like ohhhhhh! Haha! …who’s that! Gordon says Ray Quimby was an accomplice to a killer that HE HIMSELF brought down over TEN YEARS AGO OOOooOOOo.

Ok, I fess up. I’m still awake and typing. But DETECTIVE NOIR comics deserve some DETECTIVE NOIR atmosphere so I’m listening to Bohren & der Club of Gore and sipping whiskey with Sprite. And wearing a Dick Tracy hat.

So Gordon says he’s already got tons of manpower scoping out Quimby before he does something murderously murderous to the girl. Meanwhile, Batman wants to know more about this killer he’s heard so much about within the last 14 seconds! Wesley Mathis was the name, and cutting up victims and eating them was the game. Mutilated bodies! Sound familiar? (hint: the Joker ain’t got a face).

So Batman doesn’t believe in coincidences. Fine. But that means that the Joker was a victim, the killer is still out there killing, and now what? Huh? Smartypants? Now what? Detective Batshit? HUH? Batman has a simple answer: “The Joker willingly had his face removed.”

THAT GUY CAN FIGURE OUT EVERYTHING RIGHT AWAY, HUH?

Gordon gets radioed: they have a visual on Quimby’s car with the little girl inside. Then Gordon gets only silence after this message. Let’s move move move move! Batman’s already 4,181 steps ahead; he swings into action!

*swing*

Things aren’t adding up. Yesterday this guy was nowhere to be found. Now he’s everywhere to be found! But at least the girl isn’t dead yet, so things are looking up! Batman motorbikes his way to Car 242, the car that radioed Gordon, and discovers no one in the seats. Eep.

Gordon radios dispatch, who tells him that Car 242 isn’t active tonight! Eep!

Batman smells something weird, like a rotting-corpse kind of smell, kind of this putrefaction vibe emanating from the nearby industrial building. He investigates.

Gordon arrives at Car 242’s location as well. There’s a sudden thumping noise. People fuckin’ on the sly? Oh god, we can only hope. Gordon inches over to the car, opens the trunk, and…and… AND…

Batman has reached the top floor of the building. There IS a dead body, so that’s good! I mean, good that the smell wasn’t just his imagination, heh heh. But here’s what’s strange: Ray Quimby is dead! Strange, right? He’s got about five knives sticking out of his torso. Strange. That’s a lot. Most dead bodies have no more than two. Very strange.

All right, sir, joke’s over! Stand the fuck up NOW! You’ve got three seconds, you silly goose.

A nice whiff tells Batman that this stink ain’t coming from Quimby. I mean, he probably pooped his pants, but the whole building is overwhelmed by some other, more menacing stank. And the closer he gets to the source of the smell, the louder the sound of flies becomes. Something here has been rotting way longer than Quimby…allegedly.

He enters a room and discovers the decomposing corpse of a Gotham police officer. Aha! Case closed! Now, if this guy’s been dead for like half a day, then who called Gordon from Car 242, and ALSO, wh–

BATMAN GETS ATTACKED BY A COUPLE OF GREEN GUYS! OH NO! RUMBLE! HE NEVER SAW IT COMING!

These dudes give him a lickin’. Batman barely has any time to think about how much his ass is getting kicked right now, but he does notice these two summa cum laude graduates appear to be wearing meat on their faces like the guy from yesterday that Joker killed.

Helloooooo, Nurse!

After being briefly outmatched, Batman finally starts getting the upper hand in the fight when his whole left side goes numb. The ol’ tranquilizer in the arm! Classic. Then he gets knocked across the dome with a sledgehammer. WHOMPP. And stay down!

Nurse Wretched over here wants to harvest Batman’s eyeballs, as you can plainly see. Orifice, a lovely name if I ever heard one, gets right in Batman’s face and relays his interest in popping dem eyeballs right out of his head. Batman headbutts him in the teeth. The nurse is about to land another sledgehammer blow on the man bat when she is stopped by a booming voice entering the room:

“This is the infamous Batman– Gotham’s very own ‘caped crusader’. We don’t treat him like the common rubbish we’re accustomed to. No, he is special, and more than that, he’s an extremely valuable collectible.”

This man purports to be Nurse’s and, uh, Orifice’s, father. Nurse whines. She found him! She gets to work on him! Nurse’s name is Matilda. Not much waltzing happening, though.

Collecting Batman will put this talkative nutsack on the map! Batman asks who the hell he is, and this new guy with the pube dreadlocks brings out a buddy of Batman’s as an answer.

“SEE? SEE WHAT THE DOLLMAKER CAN DO?!”

Here’s what the doll maker did! Are you ready?

…

I’m going to bed.

*burp*

OK, for reals though. The Dollmaker brings out Commissioner Gordon, who looks all dead and shit. He’s got large stitches traversing his neck and face, as if other pieces of face were grafted on for no reason! He’s also wearing sunglasses because he’s still cool as a cucumber, man.

Batman’s mad.

Final Thoughts

The Dollmaker expressing interest in “collecting Batman” reminds me of another certain storyline from another certain New 52 reboot from another certain iconic comic series from 700 years ago. And that one was stupid! I’m losing faith already!

Now how about that bedtime, eh? Let’s all go to bed. Come, join me.

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East of West, Issue #13 – “Busillis”

* Part 13 of 15 of the The Apocalypse: Year One storyline *

Welcome to Ghostliness & Nerfherders Presents: East of West, Issue #13 – “Busillis”! In the previous installment, a diplomatic session with the world leaders ends with three people dead and a declaration of war. So it didn’t go well.

No one really important died, so don’t worry. More Archibald action is nigh!

East of West, Issue #13 [July, 2014]
Written by: Jonathan Hickman
“Busillis”

“The catalyst of action is intent. It’s the other end of the bullet.“

“We hide things in the sun, for it is blinding.”

Annnnnd, we’re back at the Sea of Bones where Cheveyo got creamed by a rocket launcher. We pick up where we left off there, with Death absolutely fucking furious that this guy had to get killed in front of him right before relaying some pertinent information! WHERE’S MUH SON?! That kind of information.

The hunter guy who Bel Solomon hired to kill every single one of the Chosen (including Bel, who will be saved for last) pats himself on the back for a job well done. “In my whole life, there’s probably been only three or four people I’ve known who could hit a mark like that…”

Those people are all dead now, certainly. Not me, though! I’m still breathing and enjoying life and looking forward to getting back to my knitting and–

THWAP!

Hunter gets a bullet through the shoulder. All like “what the blue fuck?”, he looks through his scope to see who could have countered such a precise hit. It’s Death with his measly little pistol. According to the Hunter’s whiz-bang scope, the distance is roughly 96 kilometers. That’s about 60 miles. That’s the distance from here to Michigan City, Indiana! That’s assuming you’re located where I am right now, which is, of course, Mars.

Shit, there’s an angry white guy shooting at me!

“That can’t be possin–” the hunter begins, but is cut off by another bullet to the other arm. THWAP!

Hunter starts running with his faithful robot dog companion thing. Once he maintains a safer distance (and what’s a few dozen feet when you’re already 60 goddamned miles away?), he recalibrates his aim and gets a lock on the monochromed offender. Death is ready, though. Crow does some fancy physics calculations and, even though it’s one of them high-yield cluster bomb-type dealies, the projectile will miss them by about fifty feet. Death stands his ground and assumes a menacing pose. The kind of pose that would be on the cover of a shitty action movie VHS case.

“That’s right… I see you and you see me,” Death says, alarming the Hunter Man who can hear him I guess. “Get a good look. I’m comin’ for you.”

Death saddles up on his robot bug horse, but Crow urges him to stay put. “We can’t leave– not yet– we’re not done here!” she cries all in a tizzy. Death doesn’t give a SHIT! This rocket launcher-wielding bitch just ruined his best chance at finding his son. Death waits for no man!

Crow says some stuff about Cheveyo’s manner of death being equivalent to paying the blood price. “Cheveyo’s remains mark the trail into this world from the dead lands…” she warns, which doesn’t sound that critical to the likes of myself! “Understand? Wicked things are on the way.”

Death still doesn’t care. Crow can stay put if she wants to. Have fun milling around the Sea of Bones. Who has two thumbs and is blowing this popsicle stand? THIS GUY. *thumbs* Bye.

Oh no! The Hunter guy found himself one of those newfangled Koenigsegg Jeskos!

Death and the Hunger speed toward each other as if in a futuristic jousting match. With Death out of the picture, Crow and Wolf have one of those rare heart-to-hearts. He tries to mourn the death of his completely mutilated and dismembered corpse of a father, but Crow gently reminds him that, seriously, shit’s going to go down immediately. “They…are here.”

The earth starts a-quakin’ and chunks of the ground start separating. Wolf stays put, but Crow is panicking and urging her big dumb friend to get it together. Wolf doesn’t get it together. She lifts his head up and he suddenly looks like he’s wearing KISS makeup.

World #1 is where I rock and roll all night. World #2 is where I party every day.

Meanwhile, Death and the Hunter guy are going full speed ahead at one another. If Train #1 leaves Michigan City, Indiana going 65 mph, and Train #2 leaves Mars going 80 mph, and Train #1 and Train #2 are on a collision course, in which city will they collide? Well, we’re going to find out.

When Hunter gets close enough, he unleashes a barrage of bullets at Death’s direction. Death evades the bullets quite nimbly! And by that I mean, he doesn’t! His robot bug horse gets one of its legs snapped off, and Death is thrown to the dusty ground.

“See, in all my years of bein’ a lawman, I’ve come to accept certain facts regardin’ the criminal mind…” says Dirty Harry Hunter, “Associations, for example – you lay down with dogs…this is the kinda shit that rains down on you.”

Death is completely out of his element. Hunter has his gun trained on him from about seven feet away. Hunter doesn’t even know who this is, does he? He rambles on and on about Death making an honest mistake, thinking perhaps that Hunter was trying to aim at him in the first place, and that’s why Death made all his bad decisions so hastily…however, it doesn’t change the fact that YOU, sir, tried to shoot ME! The Hunter! Mr. Ranger! Mr. Judge-Killing Law Man! Inexcusable! So, he wants to fight like men. Fisticuffs.

Death is happy to oblige.

Enough of that. What’s going on with Wolf and Crow? They look like they’re having fun on this Hell Platform that they now find themselves upon.

Anything that goes “BAA KOOM” can’t be good.

Cheveyo’s ugly dead body starts hovering around the torrent of dust and magical nonsuch. A door is opening, a portal to some ungodly dimension perhaps, or the front door to a Chuck E. Cheese. Very scary in either case!

The dead world and the alive world are bridging. All that time Cheveyo was toeing the line between the two, well, dying while doing that isn’t helping one bit. “True power– the kind my father had… the kind he taught me– means being more than a vessel…it means becoming an exchange. Taking one of theirs and bending it to your needs.” That was Wolf talking, and Crow isn’t following. Crow doesn’t care. A giant, creepy bird-beak angel takes form and starts speaking to her: “Ssisssterss crowwww… Sssissssteerrsss… Ssssisssterss… Misssssed you. Misssssssed yooooou.” Needless to say, Crow is rather unnerved.

“Wolf. Do something.”

Good thing Wolf decides to do something! Probably should’ve done something earlier! Seems a little too late to do anything, but worth a shot, right? Wolf starts yelling some exposition dialogue in the general vicinity of the ensuing chaos. Cheveyo died on his own place of power between the alive and dead worlds, the dead lands technically own his soul and will try to claim the body as well. If that happens, shit hits the fan, the door between worlds remains open, and the entities of the dead lands will try to take oh-so-much more than just a stinky corpse! Wolf WILL NOT let that happen! There, now you know the gravity of the situation.

This is all the netherworld needed to know, since Wolf’s mere DECLARATION of disallowing the tampering from the ethereal realm is enough for the netherworld to go “Rawr! *BOOM!*” about it. There’s a giant burst of light.

I’m your worst nightmare guy: a white man! But seriously! Umm…

Is Death still fighting the mean judge-killer? Yeah, yeah, he is. They’re evenly matched, except for the part where they’re not, and Hunter is getting his ass kicked. Bold of him to try to beat Death – literally – but he’s not backing down. He still doesn’t even really know who Death is! He’s gonna have egg on his face for sure!

Wolf’s thing worked. The bird-beak angel commandeers a more corporeal form and drops like a stone with a THUMP to the dang ol’ ground. Take THAT, bird-beak angel. Now you’re in Cheveyo’s body! You got what you wanted! lmao! Be careful what you wish for, dipshit. So now you get to walk around Earth. I’d start by finding a hobby. Also, when Wolf dies you have to come back for him. It’s the rules!

Bird-Beak calls Wolf a fool. Just like Xiaolian with the art of war, Wolf doesn’t have a firm grasp on exactly what his father understood. “HUAARRK!” squawks the lumbering sorta-god, “In death… he’s deceived us all… He’s eluded our grasp and paying his due… and he’s tricked you in offering up your soul… Be seeing you soon, cub.” He saunters away and disappears into the dust.

And wouldn’t you know it, Death and the Hunter are still fighting! Up close and personal now, they’re practically hugging. “Enough playin’ around! Why’d you care I shot that Chosen? You in with them? Is that it?” Mr. Hunterman slugs Deathman across the face.

Deathman slugs Hunterman across the face. “No! They took everything from me… Made me think my wife was dead, and they stole my son!” And here’s the kicker: Death was a cunt hair away from twisting Cheveyo’s balls into a confession. But NOOOOOO, you had to go and blow him up real good. Terrible.

Now Hunter, this guy had 11 children of his own, probably! They might all be dead of malnutrition and exposure, but he is sympathetic to Death’s situation. “Any good reason you didn’t lead with that, you damn fool?”

Death ruminates on that for a hot second. “I was angry.”

No matter. Hunter’s willing to help now because why the fuck not? Maybe he’ll bump into some more Chosen along the way that he can turn inside-out with his unnecessarily large weapon. They get ready to wander the desert, but a new threat emerges!

“Gods! What… the hell… is…is?” Hunter sputters and drools and gibbers and twitches and stammers and stutters.

Death is like “oh that? Those big stupid box-shaped warships? The Endless Nation is going to war, silly beans.”

Final Thoughts

A bunch of pages of fighting over a dang misunderstanding! Nice sitcom we got going on here. Impossible to follow unless you buy the damn comic. You should just buy the damn comic.

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Sucky Funnies for May 8, 2022

Yo, it’s Mother’s Day. While you were spending the day feeling guilty that you weren’t doing enough for your own mother to make her happy on this fake holiday, I spent the day reading Sunday comics with my phone off! Ha ha ha! Am I being facetious? You’ll never know, will you?

Mother’s Day is a big day for two different types of newspaper comics punchlines: the ultra-sappy ilk, or the mom-does-too-much-and-we’re-gonna-make-her-do-more ilk.

Here are three that I thought broke the mold this week.

Herb and Jamaal

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Herb and Jamaal breaks the mold today because of its complete disregard for the holiday! I’ve personally never seen Herb’s wife and I’m not entirely convinced that Herb and Jamaal aren’t romantic partners. I’ve seen plenty of Father’s Day strips where Herb’s shitty kids make him shitty breakfast in bed, but I’ve never seen anything about Mother’s Day. This strip continues my suspicions in the forward direction.

Moving on from the observation that Jamaal is clearly looking for support from his unempathetic romantic partner today, I’m fascinated by the device Herb is using in the last panel. Is it supposed to be some kind of machine that balances the accounts for their diner? Is it a giant, bulky tablet computer that just plays Scrabble? I want an answer to this immediately.

darcyandsimon: “Too true. I often let my brain wander off when my friends launch into interminable stories…then of course I realize I can launch just like they do! What a service we provide for each other!”
EMGULS79: “If I hadn’t perfected the skill of being able to do that, there would be times when I simply wouldn’t survive! Some people talk WAAAAY too much.”

That’s right, Herb and Jamaal is such a who-cares comic strip that it only gets two comments total! Don’t worry, there’s enough banality there to last a lifetime.

Blondie

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Fuckin’ Blondie. It tried so hard to make the ultra-sappiness endearing but, instead, it’s cloying and idiotic with no self-awareness whatsoever. “Here’s a personalized throwback card,” says Blondie’s robot daughter, who was likely born in 1822 before photography was even invented. Check out Blondie’s 10,000-yard stare on that card. That’s the face of someone who regrets her entire existence.

Someone needs to throw Dagwood off a bridge. He made her a charm bracelet with a bunch of food on it? Does Blondie even eat? Sounds to me like it’s just a bunch of shit he wants her to cook for him tonight.

Also, someone glued Blondie’s middle two fingers together as a hilarious prank.

Do Tell: “Happy Mother’s Day to all the snarkers who are moms and to all the snarkers who are just bad m u th as.”
G Bruce Hollett: “Later on, Dagwood says: ‘I made you a d i l d o from a foot long hot dog’. Blondie says: ‘Ooh, that will go where no man has gone before!’”
Robert Elliott: “I’m sure that there must be some out there, but I’ve never been to a restaurant that had an older bald-headed man as a waiter before! As the Seinfeld group would say, ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that’!”

Thanks for the contributions, you loathsome rubes. The Herb and Jamaal section is looking a little empty, maybe you could try your comedy routines over there?

Family Circus

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Not THIS is funny! The family cat reminisces, just like she does on every Mother’s Day, about the exact moment she was torn from her own mother for the rest of her life by this abhorrent family! Funniest Family Circus in centuries!

Chucky Quartarolo: “What kind of sick, effed up message is this?”
Do Tell: “That night, KittyCat and her friends from all around the neighborhood drag each melonhead out of the house by their blankets, and find them a new home at the local dump.”
Rick Tengle: “If Thel were pro choice, there would be no Melonheads, but now Justice Alito will now allow Lazy Jeffy to recycle more panels from pre Roe V Wade”
agent222: “Nice acting job, Thel. But we all know you wish you could ‘rehome’ the melonheads, if not dispose of them in a more permanent way. (And, maybe Bil as well.)”

Can’t argue too hard with some of this sentiment, except for the weirdo pulling the pro-choice angle into it. Get off the internet for a few days, Rick.

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Ultimate Spider-Man (Vol. 1), Issue #15 – “Confrontations”

* Part 2 of 8 of the Double Trouble storyline *

Welcome to Loneliness & Cheeseburgers Presents: Ultimate Spider-Man (Vol. 1), Issue #15 – “Confrontations”! In the previous installment, Peter and MJ get a little cozy during a pep rally. They meet some blonde goth chick named Gwen Stacy who just transferred schools. That shit wasn’t interesting!

The real meat of the previous story was the Doc Ock stuff. He’s been in a coma since we saw Norman Osborn’s destroyed lab in Issue #4. The explosion caused some metal arms that Ock uses for delicate experiments to be fused permanently to his torso. Not only that, but he can control them too! Far out man! He’s not happy about it, but I’m sure he’ll come around! Any minute now…

Oh yeah, and Kong puts his dick down long enough to figure out that Peter Parker is Spider-Man. And you know how Kong talks and talks and talks and talks, right? So, yeah, that’s not good for the Spidey Boy.

Ultimate Spider-Man (Vol. 1), Issue #15 [January, 2002]
Written by: Brian Michael Bendis
“Confrontations”

See? I bitched about it before, but these covers suck ass. Why I gotta see so much of Spider-Man’s crotch? Am I being punished?

We open with a scene at a house of a young blonde woman exercising in her bedroom while talking on the phone. I have no idea who she is or how old she’s supposed to be. With the way anyone is drawn in this comic, she could be 13 or 58. She is suddenly startled by a loud crash somewhere in the house. She heads to the stairs, where she sees the following sound effects and speech bubbles emanating from somewhere on the lower floor: “SCCRRAAPE”, “THUMP”, “FUMP”, “Gaaaggh!”, “Huggnh”. Next she sees a shadow of, oh I don’t know, a steel octopus tentacle perhaps?

Next she sees the shadows of THREE MORE! Eek! Fump! Now she’s really worried, sweating like a hooker in church? A killer in church? Anyone in church, really.

The last thing she sees is a tentacle going straight for her face!

Fump!

Exhibit A: Parker is spidery. Exhibit B: Parker is a man? OK, maybe it doesn’t check out.

Now we’re at school, and Kong didn’t waste any time at all. “Peter Parker is Spider-Man,” he tells his faithful, bowl-headed friend Flash Thompson. Now Flash, we all know Flash right? Classic Flash, he tells Kong that he’s whacked out of his mind! Flew the coop! Into the looney bin with you, my bald compadre! Kong tells him to stifle and hear him out, but Flash just gets LOUDER! That’s when Liz shows up to join the conversation, and Kong presses on.

“Remember when the dude got bit by that spider?”
“When?”
“On that field trip, last semester.”
“Oh yeah — that was funny.”
“Well…”
“Well what?”
“He’s Spider-Man.”

And it kind of goes on like this for a bit. Good thing for Parker that no one is gonna believe this bald mofo. Flash shows him a bee sting and tells him that he’s not Bee-Man. They all glance at blissfully unaware, smiling Peter Parker across the hall. He looks like a stoned worm. “That is not Spider-Man,” Flash insists with all the evidence anyone could possibly need 20 feet away from them.

Kong ain’t done! “How do you explain the desks he broke?” he asks, and Classic Flash, always the skeptic, he just chalks it up to Parker being a spaz.

Kong still ain’t done, goddamnit! “And what about all of a sudden he can play basketball so good?” This kid’s desperation is causing some grammar fluctuations. Flash says he wasn’t even that good. Kong is like “‘fraid so”. Flash is like “‘fraid not.”

Also remember that time that he flailed around and pooped on the floor in the cafeteria and then he slipped on the poop and then fell in the poop?? Classic.

Kong is NOT FUCKING DONE! “Oh! Hey — What about when he flipped me over? Right here in the hall.” He has him now, there’s no way his friend is going to be able to- “Dude, he got a lucky shot in. Did the same to me that one time,” And Kong’s like yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah YEAH YEAH YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! YEAH MAN! YEAH! He broke your hand! Boom! But Flash isn’t budging. Even Liz has to side with Flash on this one.

Kong is done now.

But Liz nudges Kong, “Well, there he is. Go ask him.” Flash has a better idea than that: kick him in the nuts. “If he’s Spider-Man, you ain’t even going to put in a dent.” And Kong, as salty as he may be right now, positively salivates at the thought of punting the twerp’s nuts to Jupiter. So he makes his way over to Parker’s locker, where Parker has spent the last 45 minutes digging through for, I dunno, ear medicine?

As Kong approaches, Parker (his back turned) starts gettin’ all tingly! Spidey Sense! He makes a face that looks like Kong already kicked him in the nuts, but his nuts are still intact and Kong’s another couple of steps away. MJ is in the hallway too, glancing over. And in those moments, those precious few moments, Parker decides to let his nuts take one for the team to protect his identity.

You had it coming.

Luckily, it’s only Parker’s butt and not his nutz. But man, it hurts! He lays it on thick, starts crying in the hallway and asking why Kong did that. “Ow! Owy ow!” he was known to say. Kong is horror-struck, but Flash is cracking the fuck up. Even MJ seems to be slightly smirking!

Parker’s white knight comes strolling by. “What exactly is your problem, fatboy? You ever do something like that again…and I’ll stick you like the fat pig you are!!” No, it’s not Uncle Ben, he’s dead, remember? No, it’s not Kong, idiot, Kong’s the one getting threatened. NO, it’s not Jon Snow, go fuck yourself! It’s Gwen Stacy, and she pulls a knife on the bald bastard! Right in front of everyone, right there in the hallway, right here in this post-9/11 world.

A teacher pushes his way through the crowd of kids and demands to know what the dealio is. Gwen drops the knife on the floor, presumably by accident, which lands with a clang. It’s more like a CLANG! It definitely wasn’t a fump. Everyone stares at Gwen with what I would describe as “serene, placid worry”. Even Kong doesn’t look THAT alarmed. The teacher drags her away while tut-tutting. “Great way to start at your new school. Second day here.”

Back at the house where Tentacle Man fumped around at the beginning of the issue, a detective named Captain Stacy (*snicker*) investigates the completely trashed bedroom. Gwen’s dad, yo. He gets a call from the school about his daughter’s delinquent behavior. He tells the principal to call his wife, because he’s busy trying to solve Octopus Crimes at the moment. Tough titties, sir, the principal is talking to you anyway, really giving you the business about your teenage daughter’s stabby stabby knife threats. Captain Stacy tells the principal to go screw; put her back in class and it will be dealt with at home. Go fuck a duck.

Captain Stacy steps outside the house, which is mobbed with police and news crews. Ben Urich, Daily Bugle, the guy Peter Parker sent Wilson Fisk-related snuff footage to, wants to ask Stacy some questions. Stacy tells him to go screw! Go fuck a duck! Thanks to him, Fisk is nowhere to be found and now there are hundreds of underlings running around town like it’s the Wild West. Urich is persistent, but he doesn’t get a peep about Mr. Octopus from the likes of Captain Stacy.

We cut to downtown where a big guy, who looks identical to Kong except for a stupid ponytail, is running away with a woman’s purse. Don’t worry, ma’am, Spider-Man’s on the scene! And he’s looking to take his Kong-aggression out on some Kong-lookin’ sap.

When the reaction is “gunk!”, that means we’ve officially run out of pain noises.

Spider-Man does some fancy web work and throws out some devilishly snarky quips and bing bang boom threat eliminated, purse retrieved. “Justice has been done. All is good in the world,” Spider-Man announces as he hands back the purse. The woman, and the crowd behind her on the street, gapes at him silently. She runs away without a word. “Alrighty then…” says Spider-Man, Pet Detective.

♪♪ “This is what it sounds like when doves cry.” ♫♪♫♪

He tries to speak to the rest of the crowd, but he gets no response from anyone. They all look like Spider-Man is going to explode green acid goo all over them any second. Even J. Jonah Jameson is there looking like someone took a big watery dump on his breakfast. “Hey…” Spider-Man gets right up in his doe-eyed face “Aren’t you J. Jonah Jameson, Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Bugle? Aren’t you the guy printing all that totally made up garbage about me…just to sell newspapers? Well…I only have one thing to say to you…”

And Jameson, he doesn’t even blink. He continues staring at the masked teenager as if he’s about to get his mouth fucked shut.

“Love the paper! It’s hysterical.” Spider-Man beams as he does cartwheels and backflips up the side of the building. Jameson unclenches his butthole. He calmly instructs his crew to go back inside the building and- FUMP!

He conks his head tripping over the webbed purse-snatcher still stuck on the street.

Back in Jameson’s office, he tries to get the scoop from Urich about Octopussy. Urich tells him, after a cursory investigation of the background info, that the man who had rented the house before the now murdered woman had rented the house was none other than Osborn Labs’ Dr. Otto Octavius! Woop! He’s dead right? Died in that explosion? Nope! He’s very much alive and tentacled. Urich tries to tell them that he’s not dead, but everyone in the office hoots and hollers their skepticisms. Flash Thompson may as well be here too, he’d be in good company with these naysayers.

I’M LOOKING FOR THE TRADER JOE’S! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME FIND THE TRADER JOE’S! I WANT SOME SCALLION PANCAKES!

“A few weeks ago I came in here and told you that my sources confirmed that Octavius was taken to a government hospital / medical facility somewhere in South Jersey. Code name: Octagon,” Urich claims. And those same sources called him yesterday to inform him that Octavius escaped from there after murdering some jerks. Pah! Jameson says his story is full of holes! Like a Michael Bay movie! He says this! Poor Michael Bay just tries to make movies for really, really dumb 15-year-old boys, let’s not criticize his objectively horrible filmmaking! How unfair!

Urich gets haughty and starts shoving it in Jameson’s face that HE broke the Fisk story. HIM! So eat his turds! Urich’s right about this. There’s something fishy going on here. Something smells. It stinks. It stinks really bad. Time for some journalists to dig it out of the dirt and show everyone.

Meanwhile, action shots of Octavius scuttling around town are shown as Urich and Jameson argue. Scuttling around town looking like a bowl-haired dumbass.

Urich has so many questions that are unanswered: What happened to him? If he murdered the woman, why? Is there something at the house that he needed? Did she kill him to eliminate the witness? For what reason? Where’s my coffee? Is my hair on fire? Where’s my hair? Why? Huh? And so on.

Final Thoughts

The Octopus Man seems to be a villain!

I hope Peter Parker gets kicked in the butt again in Issue #16.

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There Are Simply WAY Too Many Flag Rules (Part 1)

The most beautiful flag you’ll find from ANY country in the whole WORLD…in North America…that’s north of Mexico and south of Canada.

My conservative parents have always been really into American flags. Like, a little too into American flags. They weren’t kissing American flags like Donald Trump (as far as I was aware), but each of them spent more time thinking about American flags than the average American. For example, I consider myself an average American and I usually spend exactly zero nanoseconds per month thinking about flags of any kind, let alone flags of a specific country, let alone the Official Flag of the United States of America and Its Various Oversea Territories™. Does that make me a horrible American? A horrible human being? A horrible oxygen-breathing creature, one who seems to survive on this planet for no other reason than depriving necessary oxygen to the planet’s more worthy creatures? Probably! I hope so!

My mother has a running list of her favorite American flags in the tri-country area. Usually, the larger the flag, the more she likes it. Her level of enjoyment over a single flag is directly proportional to both its size and proximity. You can be sure that if she was completely rolled up in a flag the size of Lake Malawi, she’d be ecstatic beyond her wildest imagination even as she slowly suffocates to death!

Donald Trump Making Sweet, Sweet Love to the Stars and Stripes

The smelly meatloaf man making sweet, sweet love to the ol’ Stars and Stripes.

My father, while not necessarily as big of a fan of the appearance and aesthetics of the American flag as my mother, still reveres the red, white, and blue eyesore as a symbol of unflappable patriotism. Not a military man by a long shot, he is perhaps the most well-informed civilian in the country with respect to the United States Flag Code. His first duty as a citizen is to always, always, ALWAYS, ensure that the many flags adorning his suburban residence are clean, bright, situated correctly, with not one single thread askew or marred by unseemly dust or errant chili stains!

Obviously, growing up in such a household, I was often imparted with flag-related knowledge and required, at all times, to pay the respect that the piece of cloth rightfully deserved, else I’d be shipped off to some other territory on Earth full of American flag-hating heathens, such as Iran or Medicine Hat, Alberta. Suffice to say, I’m not much of a flag enthusiast. I never really was.

One thing did stick with me, though. All the fucking etiquette rules. There are ten sections of the United States Flag Code, all laboriously outlining very strict protocol when handling, presenting, looking at, talking about, or being within 15,000 feet of a flag. I didn’t do much research on the flag codes of other countries, there may be possibly international flag codes with even more mundane and numerous guidelines, but I doubt it. The United States of America is a pretty fucked up country.

Allow me to go over each section of Flag Code so that I can mock them relentlessly. If my mother or father were to stumble upon this post, I would surely be excommunicated from the family for eternity with no chance of rekindling the millions of shattered fragments.

So let’s do this!

§1. Flag; stripes and stars on

Section 1 tells you exactly how many stripes are on the flag, how many stars are on the flag, the colors of the stars and the stripes, which way the stripes are oriented, the widths of the stripes, the size and spacing of the stars, and the permissible dimensions and proportions of the flag.

OK, I suppose all that is important. Otherwise the flag could look like anything! This rule can stay.

Section 1 prevents the American flag from looking like this! Sadly.

§2. Same; additional stars

Hold the phone, the Flag Code has an entire section devoted to “oh wait, what if we add more states?” Not only does that smack of poor planning, but it seems like something that could just be tacked on as an addendum to Section 1! Especially, especially, since Section 2 is only one sentence long! Shorter than this stupid paragraph! Unnecessary. Lose it.

§3. Use of flag for advertising purposes; mutilation of flag

Don’t go mutilating the flag now, son. Section 3 specifically prohibits disrespecting the flag via means of capitalistic gain or even just plain ol’ degrading the flag physically or emotionally! As in, don’t use the flag to sell your shit, and don’t be mean to the flag. You are not even allowed to verbally insult the flag or throw any shade with respect to its design or its color scheme.

Of course, Section 3 is a big block of text full of thorny verbiage to wade through such as, and I quote:

“…or to which shall be attached, appended, affixed, or annexed any word, figure, mark, picture, design, or drawing, or any advertisement of any nature; or who, within the District of Columbia, shall manufacture, sell, expose for sale, or to public view, or give away or have in possession for sale, or to be given away or for use for any purpose, any article or substance being an article of merchandise, or a receptacle for merchandise or article or thing for carrying or….“

And it just keeps going on and on! I had a stroke reading it. There’s a good chance I didn’t interpret it correct, but perhaps it’s the government’s fault not making the law easy enough for a dumbshit American like me to be able to decipher. Ignorance is always a defense!

§4. Pledge of allegiance to the flag; manner of delivery

Here’s a rich one. Not only do you have to say all the words of the interminable pledge that we all had to learn by heart and recite robotically in public school every morning, but you must say them while standing at attention with your right hand over your heart. Anyone wearing a hat must remove said hat and drape it over the left shoulder with the same hand that is being used to also clutch your titty, so good luck with that. Military personnel get special privileges and can render their corny military salute in lieu of titty-clutching. Anyone caught jerking off while reciting the pledge of allegiance will be rewarded with a Medal of Honor and a coupon to Outback Steakhouse.

Yeah right, buddy. Perhaps this kind of horribly offensive salute would fly in the likes of Tajikistan, but not here.

§5. Display and use of flag by civilians; codification of rules and customs; definition

You want to fly your own flag, hoss? Well, you can’t just do whatever you want with it. You can’t pour glitter on it, run it up a flagpole covered with Spongebob stickers, and shoot it with a gun a few times to break it in. You gotta follow all the rules! If you don’t follow all the rules, the Flag Brigade is going to be notified via transmission chips implanted in each flag by Vietnamese five-year-olds in decrepit sweatshops, wherein they will administer punitive measures in an ironic fashion. For instance, if you decide to put bullet holes through your flag, the Flag Brigade will declare that the flag can put bullet holes through you. It’s only fair.

If you follow all the rules with pitch perfect precision, then the United States law protects your freedom to fly an American flag on your property. No one can tell you not to. Not even your neighbor Brad, that fucking pinko commie.

§6. Time and occasions for display

Here we go! This is a nice and meaty section! I’ll have to break this one down, there’s just too much gold here:

You’ve got to be kidding me. Have you read ANY of my words? Off to jail with you.

–It is the universal custom to display the flag only from sunrise to sunset on buildings and on stationary flagstaffs in the open. However, when a patriotic effect is desired, the flag may be displayed 24 hours a day if properly illuminated during the hours of darkness.
Well, then! If it’s the universal custom, one that the entire universe is on the same page about, then who am I to argue? I also wasn’t aware that the American flag is frightened of the dark, but at least there’s a rule written in place to keep the flag from freaking out “when a patriotic effect is desired”! Be sure to grab a group of buddies in order to take turns shining a flashlight on the damn thing during the evenings. Work out a schedule if you must.

–The flag should be hoisted briskly and lowered ceremoniously.
Under no circumstances shall you hoist the flag ceremoniously, nor shall you lower the flag briskly. Doing so will alert the Flag Brigade, who will perform brisk hoists and ceremonious lowerings of your skidmarked underpants. Wedgie-style.

–The flag should not be displayed on days when the weather is inclement, except when an all weather flag is displayed.
Why not make every flag an all-weather flag? Perhaps I live in Seattle, where there is inclement weather roughly 440 days out of the year! Why did the local Wal-Mart even sell me a crepe paper American flag? Seems kind of rude.

–The flag should be displayed on all days, especially on New Year’s Day, January 1; Inauguration Day, January 20; Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, third Monday in January; Lincoln’s Birthday, February 12; Washington’s Birthday, third Monday in February; National Vietnam War Veterans Day, March 29; Easter Sunday (variable); Mother’s Day, second Sunday in May; Armed Forces Day, third Saturday in May; Memorial Day (half-staff until noon), the last Monday in May; Flag Day, June 14; Father’s Day, third Sunday in June; Independence Day, July 4; National Korean War Veterans Armistice Day, July 27; Labor Day, first Monday in September; Constitution Day, September 17; Columbus Day, second Monday in October; Navy Day, October 27; Veterans Day, November 11; Thanksgiving Day, fourth Thursday in November; Christmas Day, December 25; and such other days as may be proclaimed by the President of the United States; the birthdays of States (date of admission); and on State holidays.
Hey, did you read all of that? Jesus Christ, someone should tell the government code writers that when you say “the flag should be displayed on all days”, you don’t have to name additional days! “All days” implies “ALL days”! Ugh! Grrr!

–The flag should be displayed daily on or near the main administration building of every public institution.
What if a public institution doesn’t have a main administration building? What if the institution is a campus of 200 smaller administration buildings? What if the institution is an ant farm?

–The flag should be displayed in or near every polling place on election days.
Why? Just in case the average dumbass citizen forgets which country he or she is voting in?

–The flag should be displayed during school days in or near every schoolhouse.
I need to hear more about the specifics regarding displaying something in the building. What constitutes a proper display inside? Does it meet requirements if it’s not visible to most people? What if the school hangs it in the boiler room?

My main takeaway from this is that if you live in Utqiaġvik, Alaska, where there is 66 straight days of polar night, flying the flag with proper illumination becomes a dangerous gamble! You better just say “fuck it” and move to another country at that point where you can fly a flag with less micromanagement.

You think we’re done? Hell no. There are still five more sections to go! And the next couple are a doozy. Stay tuned for Part 2, when I really dig into the anal retentiveness of USA’s flag worship! It’s been quite a ride already.

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