Author: Brendan McGinley
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Punching Day: Baby Boxing
By Jove, boys, by Jupiter! We have dwelt in dark corners of late. Let us remove to nobler escapades. You all recognize honor and sacrifice by their blood-name. If not the sport of kings, then certainly the sport of inconsolably bawling dauphins. I speak, of course, of baby boxing!
Unlike our modern baby boxingâin which two strong men duct-tape babies to their fists and stare into each otherâs eyes to gauge whose soul has grown cold enough to throw the first punchâthe classic baby boxing squares toddlers against babies in the ring. We consider it cruel sport these days, but maybe youâll feel better knowing all of these children were reclaimed from the polio pile.
In 1942 society gathered to answer a question: How young an age can we instill mankindâs propensity for destruction? Our grandfathers knew that nothing developsânor disruptsâmotor skills faster than a combatitude of fistulatory mayhem. For the only thing softer than boxing gloves are a sweet babe’s still-pliable cranium! When these gladiators were done with the razoo, they would either stand as men or die as babies. Let us salute they who were about to die âere they had yet truly lived.
Look at Basherâweaned from his mommaâs breast an hour ago and hoppinâ mad about it.
Basher Bill vs. Tornado Tim was the title bout in the Annapolis baby boxing championships, sponsored by âNAVY.â It began somewhat normally: two hopelessly inept putti swinging hammer strikes at each otherâs wrists and preying a sane adult would deliver them from the alien art of wholesale violence. Alas, the admiral merely watched, presiding like Shang Tsung on his throne of skulls. Soon one boy would be a Babality, and the other would begin a lifelong regimen culminating in 1962âs first SEAL graduation.
But until that day, the average toddler throws bitch-hooks. Cancel me if you must, but it’s simple biology that a two-year-old can’t punch straight even if Mother Russia is offering him a bounty of one extra salt-beef to kill the American Apollo Creed. The aptly named Tornado came at Basher like a flywheel that decided an avalanche was the perfect time to learn snowboarding, and for a moment, they were equals.
As the combatants squared upâdespite neither being able to identify a squareâthe brutality began. Basher spun around to deliver a deadly nursery rhyme to the ribs, but made the mistake every child boxer learns: never turn your back on your opponent and trot in the opposite direction, you stupid baby.
While conking his opponent on the not-yet-sealed head the way weâve all wanted to try, Tornado seized upon a new idea to draw out this murder movie: the jab.
Like all baby-harm innovations, it was crudely inspired, it was developed in a military contract program, and it was legal in Maryland. Tim faked another overhead thump, then stepped forward to let gravity deliver the punch his talent could only promise. Basherâs mouth caught a fist that would make âGoogoo, gagaâ technically his first wordsânot as babytalk but his blinkered brainâs dying efforts to describe what was pouring out of his face and how it felt. For one brilliant second, his body contained 214 Newtons, and only three of them were fig. YES, BUDDY, I HAVE DONE THE MATH.
Basher came up crying with all the fight knocked out of him, alongside what would have been his adult teeth. And it was only going to get worse. He had no time to look around for grown-ups to protect him before their lusty cheers erupted at the sight of his confused suffering. Dazed, crying, and still a wounded baby, he managed to put his hands up long enough for Tornado to continue coloring red outside the lines.
It was a two-fisted shove to a skull so flimsy that egg farmers consider it useless as packing material. The blow was fulsome enough that we had to invent freeways just to get use out of the seatbelt law it necessitated. Even today, neurologists ring up Level-6 CTE as âtwo Basher Bills over hard, hold the recovery, shug.”
Displaying the instinct for self-preservation common among professional battered babies, Bill stayed down, crying. It was the safest place for him, and it was all going to be taken away even faster than CPS should have removed him from his parentsâ custody. The round ended, and he had one minute to pray for a kind reception from a God who had already shown no interest in letting him reach First Communion.
The second round started with Tornado tap dancing with glee. At last, he would employ fatherâs cruel methods for his own glorification. I have no words to describe the natural footwork of a violence-bent toddler given permission to attack a baby. Bill was a head shorter even before he got his block knocked off, but itâs entirely possible he started this fight the taller child before he was railroad-spiked into the mat a dozen times.
With merry staccato, Tim speedbagged Billâs face all the way to the ground, then tripped over his victim in the berserker throes of a gut kick. Or as the coroner wrote in his report, âSeldom have I written that cancer would have been a kinder end for this childâs pancreas.â
I donât want to accuse the ref of being crooked, but he teed up the littler kid for Timâs deadly diametrics like heâd never forgiven Mrs. Referee for stepping out on him with a crying bag of sausage meat and road gravel. This is the worst defense the Navy has put up since that radar operator in Hawaii got up to get a sandwich so that FDR could pull off his inside job.
Reader, this child trusted adults to keep him safe, and now the entire world as he understands it is cheering for him to be harmed. He does not know how to violence, he knew only play. Everyone laughs at the worst fear and pain of Billâs tiny life, even the British announcer. He is historyâs loneliest human being until the priest who has to speak at Bill Cosbyâs funeral.
Round three, and Tornado had mastered the craft of punching with a stiff-armed leap. He tumbled Basherâs toes to the mat behind his head in a gentlemanly gesture to let the small child kiss his ass goodbye. Sadly, the referee hoisted the corpse of what had once called itself Basher Bill to its feet so it could complete its certification as a late-term abortion.
Displaying survival wisdom once again, Billâs body strode off, not realizing yet that it was dead. After five steps, the death punch was triggered, and the fair-haired kid crawled under the rope to expire with as much dignity as anyone wearing a diaper can do.
Years later, a reporter would ask Bill if he wasnât grateful for the defeat that shaped so much of his life and bone structure. Having already faced the worst, was he prepared for every lesser challenge in life? From seven decades of experience, he pondered a long, quiet while. Finally, he spoke.
âMurmble staffish snoo pie,â he mused. âJellyman. Jelly. Real plong.â
…
Hey, fuck you if you didnât retweet Brendanâs most lighthearted joke this month.
Hello, and I hope youâre enjoying all the new apocalypses since we last spoke. Personally, I feel both Doom Cloud and âCodename: Alectoâ got shorted by the Lindsay Lohanaissance, but I hope youâve been able to find your own favorite eschaton.
The one I donât want you to worry about is a madman extinguishing all life on earth with the push of a button. You see, we stopped him in 1979âs Legends of the Superheroes: a two-part special airing on NBC, in which DC superheroes defend the globe from Mordru the Mystic and sundry supervillains. And we did it without superpowers.
Legends was deliberately corny, a barrel of silly fun that remains one of the most faithful comic adaptations Iâve ever seen. Itâs unbelievable that a comedy showcase hosted by Ed McMahon is loyal to costumes and continuity with more accurate detail than 7 out of 10 of the Spider-Man movies released last year. Itâs so accurate to the comics that Huntress is introduced, then immediately forgotten.
The only character this show canât detail in its two-hour time limit is the evil wizard Mordru, whose backstory is âEternity.â All you need to know is heâs the personification of chaos, canât be vanquished, and dresses like the thunder god of any country that still suffers at least one goat-related dueling death a year.
Heâs a lame-ass villain fit only to challenge the Legion of Superheroes, and this show is proof of why I am wrong to say so wait WHAAAAAT?
We open on your parents in aerobics gear, plotting the end of the world:
Dr. Sivanaâs doomsday machine will go off in one hour, âkilling every single living creature on Earth.â How? They donât say, which is a tacit admission itâs oligarchic capitalism. Youâd think theyâd save penguins, pizza ingredients, and people with strong sex moves, but nope: all life except these six dudes and a woman hyper-evolved from a zoo ape. Game on.
The villains taunt the heroes with clues, and you are completely forgiven if you blame The Riddler for this part of the plan. But he complains that heâs been given no notice to craft his clues. Mordru had literally forever to plan this properly but still didnât give his generals time to prepare.
Meanwhile, here in this great hall of justice, the superheroes are toasting Retired Man, a.k.a. Scarlet Cyclone. Heâs an original character who was a two-fisted pulp slugger in the â30s, and itâs fine if you want to confuse him with Red Tornado.
–and theyâre off to scour the earth up to 30 miles from the studio lot. Black Canary kicks ass, as per her character sheet.
Mordru puts a magic hat on Solomon Grundy that disguises him as a regular human gas station attendant. Personally I canât remember the last time I was at a gas station that didnât have a methed-out Grundyface stealing aluminum, but I guess the â70s were a more innocent time, when only attractive people huffed leaded fumes by the roadside.
The ruse collapses in seconds because Grundy is a swamp toddler, but he hands Batman his bat-ass and sends him packing.
Playing the role of DCâs version of The Watcher, Roz from Night Court gives the best running commentary from a phone booth. Itâs emblematic of how great this adventure is, and adults mocking childrenâs entertainment will always be Americaâs highest form of humor. Upgrade your subscription to 1-900-HOTDOG today!
Sinestro disguises himself as a fortune-teller to distract Green Lantern from ending this chase in seconds. For this, he gets knocked ass over giant noggin in as much power-ring SFX as this film can budget. Yeah, the 2011 Green Lantern film is looking pretty good now, isnât it?
But imagine you were just having a picnic and saw a superhero laserblast an elderly lady? Youâd have so many questions youâd join a monastery or something. And God wouldnât answer you. What you thought you saw never happened. Is anything real?
Weather Wizard pretends to be a used car salesman to delay Batman & Robin. He tries to sell them a lemon, but billionaire Bruce Wayne only carries $50 because itâs all he can afford to lose. Thatâs objectively funny, but I was distracted by the first canonical appearance of bat-nipples on a costume:
Harried to pick a vehicle, Batman browbeats the importance of responsible purchases into Robin 40 minutes before the end of the world. Despite that, the strange rules of this universe say the villains are only allowed to prankishly stall the heroes. Itâs almost like none of these lunatics really wants to get into an extinction event and theyâre subtly undermining their bossâs awful plan with calculated failures.
Meanwhile, Grundy is stacking bird-themed B-listers in his garage like heâs lining a nest.
Captain Marvel follows Riddler clues that suggest he subconsciously knows where the machine is. (Wisdom of Solomon, I guess?) Desperate for a psychiatrist to crack open his noggin and spill out the juicy thought-meats, he settles for Riddler actor Frank Gorshin taking us on a walking tour of accents he can do.
Whereâs Flash? The show gets around the problem of his being a god by not using him. Heâs in one very odd bit before he loses his speed, and he doesnât even do that part onscreen.
But how, you ask? Dr. Sivana disguises himself as a child and sells the heroes tainted lemonade that strips their superpowers. All of them hate this twerp much more than they hate the actual mad scientist.
Soon, Gothamâs runaway protectors cascade into the lake surrounding villain HQ. And it is there that we getâŠ
Hold on, are you ready?
We get the greatest visual in DC cinematic universe history:
Yes! YESSSSSSS! This is what it was all building towards! An extra-dimensional wizard who exists outside of time is ripping wicked doughnuts on one of our Earth lakes!
âFollow me for fun!â he bleats at the heroes, but they cannot hear him over the motor, the waves, and the hydrocube-gleaming. This is the greatest thing humanity has ever done, and somehow Batman is only perpendicularly involved!
Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit oh fuckshitfucko shiiiiiit Mordru is so rad! How have I slept on his greatness in more than three decades of nerdology? Look at him ride that steed of the sea! Hahaha, I bet that little hop is when he outboards Aquamanâs brainpan. This is raw propaganda for Mordruâs greatness, and Iâm coming back for seconds.
Where do we go from here? Nothing we achieve will live up to this. Let the machine run, and take us out on a high note, heroes.
Sadly, the powerless crusaders save the day through an ancient technique known as violence. Itâs fun, and Mordru gets dragged out by his ankles. But this was not the end! The following week, NBC dropped:
Ed McMahon is your MC, and things are already weird. Ed McMahon could not possibly have read a comic book in his life because Ed McMahon was born 53 years old.
He introduces Weather Wizard, whose first joke is to list types of extreme weather and whose second is a Johnny Carson impression that probably cost McMahon twenty lashes for permitting it. There is no third joke.
Hawkmanâs mom jokes about how disappointing it is to have a hawkson. This is accurate. People make fun of Aquaman, but heâs amphibious Golden Age Superman plus telepathy. Hawkmanâs weakness is not being able to walk straight through doors.
Ed jokes about Arnold Schwarzeneggerâs vainglory, which will always be Americaâs highest form of humor. Upgrade your subscription again, but higher, at 1-900-HOTDOG today!
Thatâs when actor Brad Sanders makes his celluloid debut asâuhâŠOh boy.
Here comes Ghetto Man.
It goesâŠnot badly? Most of the other comediansâ jokes amount to acknowledging that some things are weather and other things are birds. Ghetto Man actually indicts the heroesâ lack of diversity. The Super We Have Black Friends laugh it off, but you know theyâre going to examine their starhearts for ways to decolonize their utility belts. The best comedy is a golden lasso compelling us to speak uncomfortable truths.
Dr. Sivana does horny crowd work by giving superheroes their physicals. He mashes up on Black Canaryâs chest, but does not joke about her being a screamer, and that was in 1979, so I donât know what battles the feminists think theyâre still fighting.
Retired Man returns with the same jokes, and heâs not leaving. Donât get me wrong, heâs perfectly funny for a production like this, but did you ever get a bowl of Lucky Charms thatâs way too many orange stars and not enough purple horseshoes? Retired Man is that bowlâs oat kibble.
The Ghost of â80s Future shows up in Rhoda Rooter, a gossip columnist covering Gigantaâs romance with The Atom. The premise of their conversation: How big girl and tiny man make fucky?
The answer, Atom smirks, is so hard sheâll be lucky to survive. I would remind you here that Giganta is a genetically modified gorilla.
Robin confesses that he smashed the Batmobile, and Batman lets his mask slip to reveal the domestic abuser within. Goodbye, your childhood:
Look, I know things are dark right now and for the rest of our lives, but never forget you live in a world where Solomon Grundy once menaced Ed McMahon. Thatâs a real moment we can share with our parents and grandparents andâŠwell, letâs be honest, nobodyâs in a position to have our own kids. Just enjoy this.
Hey, itâs SinestroâDCâs best villain! Thereâs an actual bad guy named Hitler-Devil, but somehow Sinestro is more compelling at being both of those things. Anyway, letâs see him do some stand-up.
Comic Charlie Callas is a funny guy, but he wrote his material for this gig on the ride here, and his ride was a horse-drawn ice cart. All of his jokes start in Depression-era NYC and end with the punchline âRing-blast rim shot!â That might fly at orgies, but not here.
Picture youâre at a dinner club in whatever year it stopped being acceptable to make fun of peopleâs race but was still okay to mock the intellectually challenged, and youâve got the gist. I know Grundyâs a petrified mushroom zombie, but heâs still sitting right there listening to these cruel baits.
Also, Sinestroâs wearing a more comics-accurate costume this week. Itâs appreciated.
Ruth Buzzi shows up as Aunt Minerva, and uses her crackshot skills to threaten the only people on earth to whom bullets mean nothing. Captain Marvel hosts two villains tonight, while Huntress just barely catches enough spotlight to be the butt(?) of a vagina joke.
And then we come to the end. The big finale. The crescendo. Mordruâs back, baby! And heâs singing âThatâs Entertainmentâ with the lyrics changed to types of misery. He did that two years before The Jam did!
Mordru, you madman. This show was supposed to be warmed-over late-night jokes and lemonade stand skits. Who is this unstoppable force inventing mod punk and x-treme sports? I thought Iâd be writing about how bonkers-fun this odd production was. When did it all go Hot Dog?
He wrecks the set like the rockstar he is! Nobody follows Mordru onstage. Like all tyrants, he must be the best and the final. All hail Mordru, who was never born, and can never die! Lord of Chaos! Emperor of Evil! Mordru! MORDRâ
The caped crusader pulls the perfect weapon to defeat tyrants out of his utility belt: a pie to the face.
Mordru, you loser. You overflexed and it cost you everything. How can you rule in terror when the entire world has seen Batman creampie you on Jumbotron? You canât. Because the only thing more immutable than an evil wizard is this universal truth: Batman always wins.
If you want to support a real-life superhero, comic writer David Gallaher has some medical costs after stepping in to protect a 13-year-old girl from violence.
…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme, Yossarian: whom former lovers describe as “like Mordru on a jetski” in bed.
Red Shoe Diaries wasâŠman, how do I describe this? A 1992 erotic-ish TV drama wherein David Duchovnyâs fiancĂ©e cheats on him with a construction worker (who was also a shoe salesman?) then kills herself in guiltâbecause at peak AIDS panic, we eroticized death as the ultimate orgasm. And sorry to soak your shorts before breakfast, but thereâs moreâŠ
This film begat a Showtime series about Duchovnyâs character running a classified newspaper ad that solicits womenâs most erotic tales so he can read them to his dog. Okay. We all grieve in our own way, but it still feels like a betrayal of strangersâ intimate secrets to mope at a bus stop in Van Nuys. No oneâs saying donât cry, Jake, but could you at least masturbate while you do it? Thatâs what bus stops are for.
Do you want to know the secrets of â90s seduction, turgid reader? Your answer is irrelevant; weâre already sliding gently into Season 2, Episode 4. Entitled, uhâŠoh, oh shit: âKidnap.â
Tom Cody is a smoldering sexpot whose old-fashioned thievery makes no sense in this modern world. His gang robs Los Angeles banks on horseback, then flees to that part of the San Andreas map where youâre a 20-minute jog from everything.
Also heâs a disarmingly good actor. For a premium cable softcore, Red Shoe Diaries hired a lot of broadcast talent. We could easily pick a random episode and watch bike messenger Matt LeBlanc absolutely rail a secretary in an elevator. But we wonât.
In this one heâs a cowboy.
The word adonis gets thrown around a lot these days, particularly in my Friends fanfiction â Lovelife D.O.A.: A Raymond Chandler Bing Mystery âbut itâs entirely appropriate here. Look:
Itâs Joey, but younger, scruffier, and cowboy. Heâs the sexiest LeBlanc on record until 2014âs courtly Sir Matthew the White, in my Fanny Award-winning novella, âWhen the Thane Starts to Fall: A Friends Timeslip FanFic.â At 1.285 Anistons heâs objectively the hottest Friend but heâs not even todayâs smokeshow of choice. The camera follows Sarahâs first sight of Tom like an arrow to his saddle-sore seat:
Maybe beauty doesnât excuse Tomâs crimes, your honorâbut can you truly kidnap the secretly intrigued?
Fleeing the scene of the crime to the scene of the next crime, Tom espies Sarah McCloud, an investment banker with a competitive streak. The only games she canât win are ones of the heart, which lack Congressional bailout. Tom is smit!
Sarah keeps saying she has an important meeting in ten minutes, but sheâs hanging outside the branch staring at it. I guess for investment bankers, thatâs like picking your own lobster at the restaurant: the formality before you steal from everyone elseâs plate.
With practiced obliviousness, she ignores this complete stranger on a horse asking her to marry him. Or it might be LA women blank you if you arenât in a Lambo, I donât know how your stupid car culture works, Americaâa horse, you guys!
Even minus the horse, shotgun-toting cops, and screeching bank alarm, this is a bonkers way to offer a woman your penis-heart. Sarah is politely trying to have a phone conversation, and Tom demands her attention because, you see, he is actively criming.
Itâs like how youâre reading this article right now while ignoring a TV show, even though youâre technically working remotely at the Friends fanfic factory. In both cases, distraction makes failure out of what started off as a guaranteed orgasm.
Women love horses, which represent everything society denies them: power, public bodily functions without judgment, and unbridled freedomâunless the horse is wearing a bridle.
But see, just like a banditâs horse secretly wants a bridle for the train heist, even the most accomplished power-suit-wearing bankeress wants a bridal train. The show has led you here with something called symbolism, which you can use to subtly manipulate women into a sexual mindset. For example, riding a horse is pleasurable to the female because it symbolizes dry-humping and no hand stuff with a man who smells like hay and canât interrupt when sheâs talking.
And did you know that guns can be an alluring phallic symbol if you point them at her head? Thatâll set a ladyâs heart racing!
Taking Sarah hostage, Tom gallops away on his mustang like a manly man and not a stupid asshole whoâs going to get someone killed. By the time those lame cops are in their vehicles, the escape animals are cleverly boarded into a horse trailer waiting a full marathon outside of town.
Of all the unrealistic aspects of this fantasy, the story only balks at a truck and trailer making a quick exit from downtown LA. Someone calculated it was more realistic for a horse to outrun the entire LAPD than a vehicle to make a left turn.
Iâm not saying producer Zalman King shouldnât plan your bank heist. But he definitely shouldnât plan your sexual congress because he thinks both end in success once youâre crouched under a horseâs rear. Thereâs a reason heâs known as the Zalman King of erotic thrillers, not the Zalman Ringleader of bank heists.
More disturbingly, every choice Sarah makes from this point is seductively suspect, because her first erotic thought is sexy self-preservation.
Sarah tries to bribe, bully, and beg out of bondage, but our handsome leads laugh at her fears. âYou frighten men away!â lecture these frightening men. Though their ways may seem strange to those of us with emotions, total domination is exactly how you seduce financers. However, these methods would be absolutely terrifying to other humans.
Tom and Jed tell Sarah their real names as bank robbers descended from Wild Buffalo Bill Hickody. Itâs like they want to get caught, yet I still canât compete with twin sexpots who own their own business.
Them Cody Boys take Miss McCloud on a romantic camping trip in the hills. Like most Red Shoe Diaries, this episode was written by a woman, and I am just lost trying to find the sweet spot of audacity and atrocity a man should occupy in these here hills.
Sarah gets to know these cowpokes, and I promise you that nothing they reveal would change a womanâs mind about her kidnappers. They say they donât want to hurt anyone, but donât seem to care about traumatizing them. As for stealing? Itâs not for the money. More of a tradition in the family of monsters sheâs been asked to join.
Iâm rapidly learning I donât have what it takes to be a bad boy. I canât seduce on this level, and now I have to fly back to Kansas City to return my leather jacket because my horse is in the shop.
Sarah steals Tomâs gun and pulls the trigger! The men laugh at her. In a deranged plot to conflate the sweaty palms and rapid pulse of terror with desire, the guns were never loaded.
This poor woman. Still, it must be a relief to know the posse of delusional outlaws she thought had her outgunned in the woods merely have her outnumbered.
After reciting her gambling addictions, Sarah plays poker with these straight studs. She proposes freedom as the ante: if she wins, Tom takes her home and goes to jail. If he wins, she marries him. High stakesâbut sheâs used to those as an abducted woman who would probably do or say anything to survive!
The show takes pains to show the audience Sarahâs agency in proposing a bet and cheating to lose it. But how does Tom know that? Out here in hill country, the politics of desire are the exact same as survival.
Anyway, they have a folksy wedding.
The newlyweds bang up against the marriage oak. Iâve never been married, so youâll have to make your own âDeadwoodâ joke.
Sarah wakes up alone.
Matt LeBlanc leads some convincingly panicked hostages in âRow, Row, Row Your Boatâ to calm them down. Weâre meant to fall for these crazy Cody boys, a couple of fun-loving criminals. But look around them! Itâs gonna get weird, man. Hereâs your Hot Dog Moment:
These people have no idea theyâre in an erotic fantasy for cowboy-loving professional women to jill off to. Every one of these characters is terrified the song is a sick game whose final note is the tom-tom hammers of a Smith & Wesson. One woman cries. A man stares dull-eyed at the floor, confident he has kissed his neighborâs wife goodbye for the final time. All Matt LeBlancâs Jed had to do was say, âRelax, this is an erotic bank heist,â but nooooâŠ
Sarah finally makes it to her meeting. Nobody asks about her kidnapping! She confesses to cheating at the card game to get what she wanted. Tom strides in, and says âYou break the law, you get caught,â which is untrue 100% of the time in this universe!
The boardâs staid faces tell us this is highly irregular, but Sarah explains Tom is their new security consultant. Then they mash face, and everyone else wanders out of the room with an unspoken shared disgust.
The entire world turns sepia! What is happening? Sex magick is reshaping reality around us! You did it, you twoâthe ultimate heist and gamble in one: you stole consequences right out of probabilityâs grasp! Youâll never die, youâll never get caught, youâll never get AIDS. You have beaten the â90s!
Seems to me you stand at a crossroads, pardner. You can go like this picture of Brendanâs puppy, or you can go straight to hell.