In 1977, the Super Friends introduced brother and sister teen aliens who had the ill-defined ability to transform into any kind of animal and any kind of water when they touched. The “Wonder Twins” had a sidekick space monkey clearly operating under the rules of the wrong cartoon universe, and one last thing: they were stupid as fuck. Welcome to Everyone Who The Wonder Twins “Rescued” Should Be Dead, Episode 001: “Tiger on the Loose.”
Before we begin, there are some governing laws I follow when producing an episode of EWTWTRSBD. I am not allowed to modify screenshots or change the plot in any significant way. When it was broadcast, the events of “Tiger on the Loose” unfolded exactly like this, and all I did was change the dialog to be more appropriate. You’re going to think I’m lying, that there’s no way anyone made something this goddamn dumb, but I promise they did.
Anyway, I’ll get started carefully Photoshopping these jokes onto, oh fuck, 70 images!? I guess I’ll see you in about three days, world!
What is comedy? Is there a learnable architecture to making others laugh? Yes, of course. Comedy is one thing to all people: elements of the game Minecraft scattered without reason among the last words of a dementia patient. It’s JOKES FOR MINECRAFTERS.
Michele C, Jordan P, and Steven M Hollow are the three human names given by the swarm of malfunctioning nanobots who spent 172 pages moving letters around without ever accidentally making a joke. There’s no failure condition for a book like this and yet here we are discussing the Hollow Family’s failure. Jokes for Minecrafters is a humorless cough into the mouth of a baby promised ice cream. It is so perfectly nothing more than the grift of talentless hacks hoping to trick uninvolved grandparents into buying a birthday gift for their little Mind-Raft(?) fan. You’re either an idiot or you already knew all of this the moment you heard JOKES FOR MINECRAFTERS existed, but it’s so much worse than it has any right to be.
Courageous hotdoggers, let’s look at some of these joooooookes!
Well, sure. He touched lava in a video game. Or touched lava outside a video game. You know we know lava kills you when you touch it, right? You look stupid as shit acting like anyone will be surprised the guy covered in lava got destroyed. A real joke might have been “What do you call a guy covered in lava? Toast! A hearse! I’m not sure, but he’ll never synchronize swim again! Dead Trevor! A volcano getting to second base! Dead Carlos! Hawaiian barbecue! Anything you want; no one will ever know what happened here!” I mean, I’m an internationally recognized genius, but that took me 20 seconds. You’re three entire people, Hollow family. Have some fucking dignity.
This is a small note for something that deserves a full tear-down, but I don’t really think it’s fair to your riddle receiver to give melted rock intent. And nice word choice. “Numerous?” I thought this was a joke book. You sound like a fucking nerd. You could have said buttload. Or tittyload. Can you imagine if you asked the reader “What starts a tittyload of forest fires?” They’d say, “Smokey the Bear’s wife and oh my god, that’s how he always knows where to be.”
Hollow Family, that bullshit you wrote (Lava!) is just sort of an obvious, sensible answer to a deranged question. And no one would bother guessing it because jokes are supposed to have at least some element of irony or surprise. Maybe you’d know this if you’d ever tried writing one bef– hold on, wait. This is at least the 278th joke you assholes have written. How do you not know this? If I was watching the 19th season of a hospital drama, I wouldn’t expect one of the doctors to say, “My job is called a librarian because I steal hamburgers! Welcome to our: the place where grandma died!”
Boy, I tell ya, I feel like I’m looking at a foot in the game Street Fighter II Turbo: Hyper Fighting after Player One has selected “Chun Li” and used her “Kikoken special move” but Player Two is “Dhalsim with alternate costume” and they stayed very far back and did a “standing FORWARD attack,” because this video game pun is a real streeeeeetch.
Okay, this has the potential for cleverness. I’ll just keep reading, and see where they go wi– oh, there’s no punchline? That’s the whole goddamn thing!? Hollow family, “synchronized swimming” just means people are doing the same water dance at the same time, so no, the others wouldn’t drown. Unless you think they would break their carefully planned routine, ignore the signs of their friend drowning as experienced swimmers, and finally try to copy his movements in real time? Then sure, they would also die. But I think it’s asking a lot of your audience to imagine such a chain of unlikely events.
I feel like the survivors would probably stop their swimming and mourn the loss of their fellow athlete. Is that the joke? The absurdity of death in a joke book during an improvised sport inside a video game? Is the joke picturing a fake computer trying to generate grief three layers of abstraction away from what we know as “real?” That, on a fucking cosmic level, might be the most opposite of a joke that has ever been attempted.
What an inelegant pun. Like virtually any other choice would be better than blurting “I lava you,” while she, what, burns alive? Is destroyed!? And is the illustration showing her calmly existing waist deep in the lava… do you think that helps the shitty, lazy pun land or does it create an entire new element of confusion? Hollow Family, do you see the thought I’m putting into this? This is the kind of effort a professional puts into throwing little girls into lava. You unfunny cows gave up trying after your brilliant idea to fleece 9-year-old Minecraft fans out of $7.99. If I met a kidnapping cartel and the publishers of JOKES FOR MINECRAFTERS at a party I’d say, “You guys have already met, right? I figured you would have run into each other during your vile exploitation of children. You fucks. You equally loathsome fucks.”
So you’ve stopped trying entirely, Hollow Family. You simply rested your hands on the keyboard and let your minimal understanding of language, science, and video games flow into vaguely sentence-like word arrangements. And this “joke” is the dim echo of what only the most generous observer would call a mind.
First Hollow Family Member: “Selfie sticks are lightening rods aaaaaand done with another one! Jokes are when one person says something after another person does, right?”
Second Hollow Family Member: “Frog lawyers when you think about it, cowboy pancakes! Aiieeeee!!!!“
Third Hollow Family Member: “Lava! Lava! Lava! Lava!AIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!“
Q: Is there anything you can say to prove you’re mentally incompetent to stand trial?
A: If there was a national anthem for Minecraft, what would it be? “I Will Survive!”
So he starved to death like your setup very pointedly led us to believe would happen? Or are you referencing something else? Is “didn’t end well for him” wordplay because there was a well in the cave and he died in it? If that’s the case, and honestly it’s the only thing that would make this anything other than a joyless statement about someone’s death, you forgot to include that part. This isn’t a joke or a riddle or an anything. At best, it’s coy hints on how to play Minecraft delivered to an audience for whom rabid enthusiasm for Minecraft is taken for granted. It’s like finding Michele C. Hollow on Twitter and saying, “Did you hear about the joke with no punchline? It was disappointing!“
She knows! She has to watch the flowers around her die every time she reads one of these to a child!
The lights of St. Neri’s orphan hospital flicker. The last toe falls off the rotting foot of its last boy. Father Opus Hallahan, like he does every night, watches helplessly. Through the pain the child asks, “Father, d-did the Hollow family write another Minecraft joke?”
“Aye, they did. But you’re not one of the dead yet, lad. Rest.” He knows the boy will need to be finished with a silver blade, but he hasn’t turned yet.
Half a world away, Steven M. Hollow dumbly shouts with his stupid fucking mouth, “How’s this one sound, gang: ‘Did you hear about the player who trapped himself? What a noob?’ Guys? Oh, they must be watching blood spurt from the pustules of the damned. I’ll hit save and call it a night!”
Q: Great joke?
A: Great joke!
Sure, that seems reasonable. You know, it’s actually a pretty common joke structure to set up an expectation of absurdity and defy that expectation with banality. If ten of your riddles ended in puns and wordplay and then one ended in childlike bluntness, fine. You’ve technically humor-ed. But if every single joke in your entire joke book is the simplest, most obvious answer to a question, you haven’t made jokes. You’ve transcribed the life of a dull child falling behind his peers in cognitive development. Again, every page of this book is almost specifically the opposite of joy.
I try to imagine three people brainstorming, “Punching trees… there’s a joke there… something about punching trees… punching hmmm… his fists are full of splinters? Is that it? Yes? I think we cracked it!” How irrational is their judgement to think this is comedy? I mean, this family must not even see shapes and colors the same way we do. They are absolutely interfacing with the wrong reality and instead of solving paranormal mysteries they are publishing books no one here can understand. Are they trying to find others like them? Are they trying to send messages home? These simply cannot mother-fucking be jokes intended for laughter.
So few people have ever been this bad at anything without dying. There should be a warning label on every object in the Hollow Family home not to mix words without supervision. You might be a soulless piece of shit if you’re doing the Jeff Foxworthy joke structure backwards and without a punchline. If you forced wrongfully convicted prisoners to write poetry about the day their family stopped coming to visit, it would have a more light-hearted tone than JOKES FOR MINECRAFTERS. This book is the struggle of three minds incapable of even the smallest intellectual task. What they are doing is not hard. Jeff Foxworthy’s last living fan could populate a taffy wrapper with riddles, and this family couldn’t put together one coherent joke after hundreds of uninspired misses. If a horse wrote this its grave would say, “Here lies a garbage horse whose book wasn’t even a nice try for a horse.”
Wait, what the fuck? This is a limp yet competent joke, and it’s not about Minecraft? It could definitely use an exploding watermelon, but… you know, I want to check something. Give me a minute…
Jesus goddamn fucking Christ, Hollow Family. Google gave me 92,700 hits on this joke. Every spider that crawls into your mouths while you sleep dies less funny than when it entered. If you typed this entire book in front of a CAPTCHA, it would never be more certain something was a robot. The Hollow Family, in its entirety, contains all the wit and delight of a can of bean dip at an unattended assisted living center orgy. If a second grade teacher said, “I introduced JOKES FOR MINECRAFTERS into my curriculum hoping the suicides would reduce classroom size,” it would be the first functional use for this pointless failure the least funny family alive called a humor book.
There’s nothing cute about how not funny this is. It’s troublingly supernatural how not funny this family is. When a member of the Hollow Family farts, their butts just release the sound of holocaust survivors burying their pets along with a puff of whatever the least funny smell is.
The scent of a turkey wrap being ignored by a Big Bang Theory editor choosing a font for an in memoriam title card? I don’t like how easily that came to me. I… oh God, my brain can only think in the opposite of happiness now. We have to stop talking about JOKES FOR MINECRAFTERS before all my mind can conjure is a tiny Bangladeshi girl’s hands painting G on the BAZINGA shirt of a Sheldon doll. G, again.
Only G.
G, again. G, G, G, her thoughts, G, wander to the failing health of her mother,
❡.
Oh no. The assembly line stops. Her mistake was not missed.
Godless nerds, listen: for only $7.99 you can own a book containing all the secrets of being cool. This guide on being cool was published in 2018 and it’s called…
There has never really been a book like How To Be Cool by Todd Marcell. This is more like a hastily written speech for a preacher speaking in the background of a Tyler Perry scene. It’s fifteenish random bits of wisdom an uncle you’ve just met would say to you at your middle school graduation. It’s only 36 pages long (I had to count them by hand because there are no page numbers) and five of them are completely blank. Todd then used one page for a dedication, four to list the names of jobs, one for the table of contents, one for his email and actual home address, and one for a picture of a street sign at the intersection of Success Ln and Failure Dr. If you had every country in the world send their 50 coolest representatives to some kind of international council and they voted on the coolness of every picture ever taken, I firmly believe the fucking intersection of Success Lane and Failure Drive would be declared the least cool thing possible by Earth’s duly-elected Cool Council.
If you’re looking to un-nerd yourself, step one is looking at this radforsaken image and recognizing it as the opposite of cool. This is a PowerPoint slide in a presentation made by Satan for dead murderers who hate PowerPoint presentations. A person capable of opening a book called How To Be Cool with the least inspired business stock photo should not be trusted with adjectives. If this man calls something “sexy” you should assume that could mean anything from diarrhea to yesterday’s diarrhea. For a Coolness Author, dedicating an entire page to this picture is functionally no different from dedicating an entire page to a story about getting sent home from camp after a lifeguard had to pull a Garfield pool toy off your dick.
We haven’t actually started the book yet, and already you see two of the other notable features of How To Be Cool. The first is that Todd Marcell isn’t quite sure how to use punctuation or capitalization. In a time of ubiquitous spellchecking, in this “Revised Edition” of what is effectively a 23 page book, he randomly throws commas and capital letters into walls of misspelled words like the coolest kid at camp scattering tears onto the Garfield pool toy that won’t let go of his penis. The other thing you might notice is how Todd managed to stretch his very brief thoughts on coolness into 23 pages by using the biggest font the church computer had. If one more kid in this article fucks a Garfield toy, I will have written more words about How To Be Cool than the author included in How To Be Cool.
Weird Fact: Todd Marcell dedicates this terrible mistake to his father, William Smith, which is the same name of another author who wrote a book called How To Be Cool. Will Smith’s is a sarcastic “funny” book about dorkiness because anyone deciding to call their book How To Be Cool has no goddamn idea what that means. A book called How To Be Cool is like printing “Pussy Destroyer” on an XXXXXXL Cleveland Browns jersey. The product, by the very nature of its existence, will always be a ridiculous lie.
If you were hoping we’d eventually get to some tips on impressive ways to cross your legs or uncool condom flavors to avoid, sorry. This book is mostly about God. That might not sound super crazy, but let me remind you the first sentence in this guide on being cool is demanding the reader join the author’s religion, and the second is the author asking the reader what “cool” means. Assuming the picture of the intersection of Failure Dr and Success Ln only counts as one strike, STRIKE TWO, Todd Marcell.
The intro was about “Finding You,” but Chapter 1 is all about “Finding Self.” This is done by dropping whatever you’re doing, right now, and asking yourself who you are for the one million and first time. It’s not too late. I’m not sure something this poorly thought out deserves a joke. This is the first draft of a script where Tony Robbins swaps bodies with Adam Sandler. You would cut away from this rambling nothingness to a shot of Tony Robbins getting fucking annihilated at Adam Sandler’s rodeo clown job.
Chapter 2 is all about Confidence. I think Todd said it best in the first words of his chapter on Confidence, and I quote, “Confidence Confidence what is confidence? Confidence.”
Everyone has their own idea of cool. And while I don’t think anyone should define too much of their personality by this type of thing, I’m Generation X, so coolness to me usually means an ironic silliness that exposes the hypocrisy of a tired, broken establishment. And it’s hard to get a more elegant example of that than a religious author praising the power of “Communication” with 8 inches of incoherently punctuated gibberish. I think I have to take a lot for granted regarding the author’s intent, but this, by my own rules regarding silly irony, is cool as fuck. I dream about the day I’m cool enough to type an entire page without thinking about it or proofreading it and then end the whole thing with In the
If you want to know how uncool I am, I spent thirty minutes adding and removing a period to “In the” and thirty more worried you’ll discover that little boy with his dick in a Garfield was me.
I mentioned earlier how four pages of this is a list of jobs, but it’s important you know there was no more to it than that. He finishes the final chapter by saying, and I quote again, “I’m telling you it is a feeling like no other and that’s real talk so being cool isn’t so bad after all uh,” and then there is suddenly a bulleted list of jobs under the header List of Careers. So if the man who made 11 spelling mistakes in his 700-word chapter called “Educate Your Self” has inspired you to start a cool career, maybe check out Glazier or Lodging Manager. Or Customer Service Representative!Travel Agent! Derrick Operator!Chef! Even Cook!
Since Todd took this strangely short list of jobs from a Webcrawler search of “all jobs ever please +cool,” they are underlined like hyperlinks. Well, except for the two he clicked on before he copy and pasted them. Apparently Todd was interested in being a Ski Instructor and a Veterinary Technician. I normally wouldn’t bother including such a useless, jokeless observation, but in addition to forgetting where, to put commas I have no idea what’s cool anymore probably ski instruction? Anyway, thanks every, one and In the
There’s a popular book series called THE PENETRATOR, who is sort of like if the Scottsdale police tried to make their own James Bond out of plumber DNA. The books are so short and readable that two PENETRATOR novels are often collected in one paperback the publisher calls a DOUBLE PENETRATOR.
That’s the only important thing you need to know about THE PENETRATOR, and the rest of this article is just examples of how insane the PENETRATOR novels became once they got into the high 100s.
From a certain point of view, Beanie Baby® Stories is a book filled with “Heartwarming stories for Beanie Baby® lovers of all ages,” but there may have been no hobby more alien to human behavior than Beanie Baby® collecting. Nothing these people did made sense, and even today, years after the sad, dark life of mock capitalism they built for themselves crumbled into nothing, we have no idea why they became Beanie Baby® collectors. If I saw 300 grandmothers carrying Beanie Babies® and they all turned to me and hissed “We’re fucking them!” from the one giant grandmother they are swarming into, it would actually help it make more sense. Still, with artifacts like Beanie Baby® Stories, we can at least reassure ourselves they were, to a person, pieces of shit.
The stories and art about Beanie Babies® are compiled by Susan Titus Osborn and Sandra Jensen, who, if I had to guess by their names, are an aspiring serial killer and Richmond County’s record holder for Most “Suspicious Person” 911 Calls in a Single Year, respectively. They are not authorized or associated with Ty, Inc.; they are just two women who have no concept of happiness, personal growth, or mental health outside of buying more Beanie Babies®.
The stories are a page or two long and Susan and Sandra were not picky when curating them. If someone in the story bought or tried to buy a Beanie Baby®, it was included. Tilted Kilt restroom stalls have higher editorial standards than Susan and Sandra. There are multiple stories in this goddamn book about an old lady receiving a Beanie Baby® as a gift and enjoying it. There are stories about sick children smiling at their favorite Beanie Baby® one last time. These torturous anecdotes are “heartwarming” like watching a puppy drown under a sign that says “God is everywhere.” I have an idea: let’s see if you can get through one.
This poor woman kept buying Beanie Babies® because of any tiny coincidence and now she is literally trapped inside a room of only them. And that’s it! That’s the story “Hooked” by Mary Jo Hoch! This isn’t even a cry for help. It’s the death rattle of a human soul. It’s something a creative writing teacher would show you after saying, “This example is maybe a little obvious, but here’s how you could express the emptiness of consumerism using allegory.” It’s the novel a Foster Farms chicken would write if you could teach it to type, adapted for Beanie Baby® by Mary Jo Hoch. If a single person on the plane had this book in their luggage, 9/11 was worth it.
About 80% of the stories are about people suffering from tragedies or physical afflictions finding whatever comfort they can in buying stuffed animals. I don’t want to take that from them, and I honestly hope these sad people don’t find out how unmoved I am by their poorly paced stories about enjoying toys and no second thing. But when it comes to this next story, “Higgins Approves,” I would prefer it if author Diane Neal knew she wasted the miracle of life. This fucking monster. I want her to read “Diane Neal deserves to watch her Beanie Babies® get torn apart by every high school classmate less fat than her.” This barren sack of living small talk wrote a 600 word manifesto about checking with her kitty cat to see he’d let her keep a ladybug Beanie Baby®.
This isn’t entirely Diane Neal’s fault. This dried up dingbat was probably a week away from asking her iron lung to take her to the Mayor of Robots when she wrote that story. A lot of the blame falls on Susan and Sandra. Ladies, if you’re compiling a book of stories and one of them is, “My cat sniffed a stuffed animal and reacted to it like it was a stuffed animal,” throw your idea in the trash. You’re making garbage for garbage people. And nice fucking snake, Aaron Rucker, age 8. Now that you’re 29 you’re old enough for me to tell you to fuck yourself for adding your talentless scribbles to this saccharine case against American exceptionalism.
In this story, Laura Duvall, amateur stupid fuck, couldn’t figure out how her handsomely dressed teddy bear kept moving around the house! Most people with a daughter and a cat would think, “It was one of those.” Sure enough, it was, and sorry for spoiling the ending of “Disappearing Blackie.” This is nothing. This is a story you would tell a coma victim if the weather was too mild to comment on. This is what you’d say to a murderer to convince him you’re both already dead and in Hell. If someone held a gun to a supercomputer’s head and said “generate the saddest thing anyone ever said about the color black,” this is what it would print out before formatting itself.
Susan Titus Osborn contributes one of her own stories, but trust me when I say you don’t want to read it. She complains she’s too old to use a computer, and to help cope with all her unforced Windows errors she keeps a Beanie Baby® on her desk. If you told me this was a collection of suicide notes found clutched in the paws of a mint condition teddy bear, I’d say, “No fucking shit. You shouldn’t be touching that without a cleric.” You know what? Let’s get sadder.
This is a story written by a 12-year-old who entered a raffle for the opportunity to PAY FIFTEEN DOLLARS for a teddy bear. Great job. That’s not how raffles work, Melissa, and if you weren’t dumb as shit it would be a red flag. Is there a better metaphor for the grift these idiots fell for than this– a community of dumbshits who think a kid getting fleeced out of her money by a toy store is winning. And I want to warn you right now, there’s no payoff at all in this story. Melissa is going to just slowly decay while nothing she does or anything around her means anything.
This family was so desperate for the chance to pay $15 for a beanbag they asked their priest to enter the raffle, and a different priest scolded them for it. Do you have any idea how obsessed a child has to be with Beanie Babies® for a Catholic priest to stop having sex with them and explain God’s stance on Beanie Babies®?
So, let’s recap: some toy store is trying to steal money from the community’s dumbest goddamn children and God refuses to help, not because it’s amoral, but because He doesn’t care.
Wait, what? They didn’t even win the fucking raffle!? I wasn’t expecting a three act structure, but what is this goddamn story? Why did you bring any of this up, Melissa Marchionna (age 12)? Are you telling me you go to a church where eavesdropping priests will interrupt you to criticize your prayers and not one of them has ever explained when you need to shut the fuck up? This is one of those times, Melissa. Telling a story about not winning the worst raffle after trying to win the worst raffle is something a Nazi scientist would do while holding a clipboard that says, “Finding the Human Limit of Disinterest – Prisoner Trials.”
You don’t deserve this, reader, but we’re doing one more. Here’s “Grandapanda” by Ramona Jean Wolfe:
This is the story of a confused woman with an actual brain injury getting taken advantage of by her “friend.” This bitch comes to the home of a debilitated woman with a crate of toys to sellthem to her? And the first one she pulls out is literally fucking named Fleece? I refuse to believe this book is anything other than Cold War era Soviet propaganda about the evils of capitalism. This is so on-the-nose it’s impossible to miss, but Susan and Sandra collected fifty others like it and called them “heartwarming.” This is a celebration of tricking pathetic lonely people out of their money. If you showed Beanie Baby® Stories to a sex trafficker eating a diaper they would say, “Ew, this book is gross.” I’ve never hated a book more than this and if this is the first 1-900-HOTDOG article you’ve read, please understand that’s a very serious thing for me to say. May your fruitless wombs cough out centipedes forever, Susan and Sandra. And Melissa (age 12)– you deserved to lose that raffle.
The Netflix show Iron Fist was about a billionaire kung fu master who did mostly stupid, boring things and couldn’t fight for shit. This wasn’t exactly a faithful adaptation of the comic book where he’s so good at fighting, but only against weirdly helpless idiots. Welcome, reader, to…
EXACTLY ONE HUNDRED WORDS…
ABOUT IRON FIST’S EIGHT MIGHTIEST FOES!
This is a revolutionary comic book character describing format where I’m both required and only allowed 100 words to describe each Iron Fist villain. To explain why, I once wrote an article about six, only six, Golden Age superheroes for Cracked and it was so absurdly huge we had to make it a two-parter (One, Two) and each one was by far the longest article on the site that day. I know enough about myself to know if I don’t have a hard rule in place for when to stop, I will never shut the fuck up about Drom the Backwards Man. And this is a Daily website, not a 20,000 Jokes About Drom the Backwards Man Every Six Weeks website. For instance, Drom the Backwards Man fucks by laying on a wet spot and waiting for a disappointed woman to fall on him and de-moisten. Drom the Backwards Man hates using public restrooms because peeing backwards means just inhaling a quart of urinal water with his dick hole. I mean, look at this nonsense. We’re still in the intro and I’m saying Drom the Backwards Man has to wait for some asshole in the Home Depot parking lot to back out of the dent in his car to figure out why he’s so pissed off.
Scimitar
There are three types of Iron Fist villains. One, a nonsensical thing only a madman could conceive of. You’ll see a couple of those here today. Two, a Chinese guy who knows kung fu, but if you live in a world with nine Avengers teams, two dinosaur islands, and 3,000 X-Men portals and you’re Hop Hsu, Chopsaki Crime Lord, your business card might as well say “Some Fucking Dude, Background Extra.” Three, the most common, is a normal guy holding a weapon and named after that weapon. Scimitar is a man with a scimitar and oh, that’s 100 words.
Montenegro
Montenegro is an evil mountain climber, which sounds like something Vince McMahon would shout at a WWF executive meeting right after the words, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I have the next great rivalry! Stevenegro is a good witch doctor and!”
Being a great mountaineer and having your own pickaxe isn’t nothing. If Montenegro was sent to kill a roofer or a family of woodpeckers, that’s a bloodbath. Unfortunately, the first thing he did was pick a fist fight with Iron Fist and Power Man whose powers are “fist fighting” and “immune to all manner of climbing gear attacks.”
Impasse
Impasse was arrested for smuggling and given a choice– jail or be used in germ warfare experiments. He, of course, chose ja– wait, he chose germ experiments!? Haha, okay, Impasse.
After things went very wrong, or maybe exactly as planned, Impasse became infected with a disease never explained. He escaped because the writer forgot freedom was part of his sentencing, and stole a gun that squirted little clouds of his own infectious germs. He basically had the same powers as a farting Charlie Sheen, so all he did was hope you got sick before you were done kicking his ass.
Warrant
Warrant had most of a face and a big gun and he looked like the 1991 winner of The Edgiest Comic Character of Mrs. Bunfield’s Pre-Calculus Class. He was the comic idea equivalent of unbuttoning one button of your overall shorts. He was like a government committee created an X-Man to promote corn whose only power was amyl nitrate awareness. Any nerds reading this will recognize the current sentence as the most vicious criticism any comic character has ever received, but Warrant looked like something that would make Rob Liefeld shriek, “No, mom, no! Don’t look! He’s not done yet!”
Fera
Iron Fist’s origin is he and his parents crash landed in the Himalayas. His parents were eaten by wolves, but Danny found a kung fu city and became their greatest warrior because white supremacy is built into everyth– you know, what? I’m not sure I have room to explain all that.
Anyway, 97 issues into Iron Fist’s comic, someone thought, “WHAT IF THE WOLF THAT ATE THIS GUY’S MOM WAS, LIKE, A WEREWOLF AND SHE CAME TO NEW YORK TO ALSO EAT HIM!?” Also, Fera’s weakness is very specifically Iron Fist’s iron fist making her the most perfectly stupid idea.
Drom the Backwards Man
Drom the Backwards Man is a man who, as a concept, exists backwardsly. The idea was far beyond its own creator, so Drom talks backwards and also decays anything that touches him because I guess that’s the backwards of getting punched? He literally begs, through a language-reversing gadget, his enemies to touch him because they’ll die.
As Drom’s story unfolded, he justified how he could even fucking exist with increasingly strange explanations like a mirror that un-reversed his chronal energy and a special machine that reverses food so he can eat and oh my god I’m at 100 words already?
Gideon Mace
Gideon Mace is a man whose name, hand, and superpower is a mace. And thank God because I still need to explain how Drom the Backwards Man somehow invented a field of science that reversed the timeflow of food and built a prototype machine that actually did it before starving to death. Oh, also, he was born an old man! It occurred to the writer Drom’s condition would cause him to burst from a birth canal as a 170 pound elderly man, then decided no, he should be a baby who then transfo– shit, I ran out of words again.
Discus
Discus, to his credit, owned a jetpack. But otherwise, yes, he was a regular man who threw a discus at his enemies, one of whom was extremely, famously discus-proof. Which leaves me 71 words to try to explain how when Iron Fist defeated Drom, he broke his own incredible chronomirror over his head while he begged for his life. Iron Fist watched the laws of reality mangle Drom into baby form and did nothing while this whimpering, backwards fuck had his shame and agony smeared across all eternity.
Unrelated to this, Discus thought, “I’m going to throw this sweet discus!”
