Sunday, September 1, 2013

Hi. Bruce Wayne.

Man of Mystery?
Your favorite hero might say a lot about you. Does he fly in from the sky and is born of another planet, or is he simply the seemingly random person you just met online who gives you a couch to sleep on? Or is your hero even male? I wasn't into superheroes growing up, but I do like Batman. He doesn't have superpowers and he isn't an extraterrestrial. He just has great tech gadgets, style and lots of money. Essentially 007 in tights. But as with any great crusader, there's the inevitable underlying darkness that compels and precedes the do-gooding. And, naturally, vigilante slappings (usually against perceived evil) ensue.

My smokey ass Bat/Fap Cave
I'm not so into heros. I think they're ultimately about having someone else fix your life and do all the things you don't have the patience or balls to do. Nobody's stopping you from standing up and making a citizen's arrest. No one's going to stop you from getting a citizen's ass whuppin' either. But hey, you can step up. I do, however, find the love interests of heros to be compelling. Vicky Vail, Lois Lane, Mary Magdalene. If you really want to know how super a man is, don't read the Twitter feeds. Just ask the one who's sucking his dick. I've created so many script ideas over the years and, in almost every single case, I've written myself as the love interest. Besides the inevitable fact that romantic interests always get kidnapped and usually end up dead, it's nice to feel wanted :)

Another facet of being a hero is having to hide all the damn time. I don't mind having an alter ego/stage name, but I don't want a secret identity. I'd want people to know to whom to address all the thank you cards, presents and personal porn videos. And presents. As this very transparent blog will attest, I'm not very good at hiding myself. I like to let it all hang out.

Not. Shy.
I'm also no good at being nice to ungrateful motherfuckers. If I save your ass from a burning building or rescue you from the possibility of a real ass beating, I bet' not neva have to pay for another beer in your presence again. Ever. Period. And would it kill you to name all your children after me? Would it? I really don't think that's asking for much. Additionally, ixnay on being a martyr, which is oftentimes a huge part of being The Savior. Things would've been very different if I'd been Christ at the Inter-Dimensional Quik-E Mart:

"Sup, dude? Yeah just this watermelon Slushee and these Macaroni and Nacho-Cheesier Curly Fried Pork Blasts. What, bro? Can you repeat that? I'm high as shit right now. Oh yeah. Sure. I'll be charitable and make a one-time contribution to the Save the Human Race-a-Thon. All right. You say that's two dollars and I GOTTA DO WHAT? Uh-hell no. Good luck with salvation, bitches. I'm out." Sluuurp

No one can deny that martyrdom does make for a great story, though. Joan of Arc. (Those bangs have gone down in herstory. But still nope. You're not setting my ass on fire. Not even for a bunch of musky, erect, I meant enraged townsmen.) Martin Luther King, Jr. (Nuh uh. He could've just said, "Look. Y'all ni**as need to chill. And stop aggravating all these white people!") Vladimir Putin. (Oh wait. He's still alive and he's still an asshole.)

So maybe I wouldn't care to be a superhero. Super rich would be nice, though. I'd love to have someone clean up my apartment after all my friends leave. Because as of right now, I am cleaning up after me and all my friends. I swear they all must share a secret checklist that clearly includes, but is damn sure not limited to, the dirtying of every dish and towel in sight; the wearing of my clothes ("Yo, can I borrow a pair of shorts to chill in? It's hot in here." Yeah it's summer, ni**a. I live on the second floor and you come here all the time. You already know it's hot. sigh Here."); the drinking of every beer and drop of liquor in the house (I've taken tequila shots before 11a in my kitchen a few times); the ordering of food and not paying for it; and the smoking of all my damn weed!!! On second thought, I don't need anybody else to clean up after these knuckleheads. These are exactly the people and situations that make me happiest and give my life the most meaning. I haven't saved anybody's kitten from a tree today (yet). But I feel pretty incredible because I've got amazing friends. And I think that's what it's all really about.

I'm singing here September 21st ten minutes past 4:20.

Miss Manners Says:
Don't talk with your ass full. It's rude.