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Nerding Day: Snipes or Blade?

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Nerding Day: The Crusaders 🌭

They’re found in church bathrooms and AA meeting garbage cans. They’re more disappointing to get on Halloween than a Bit O’Honey around a razor blade. They’ve done more to humiliate Jesus than Pontious Pilate. They’re Chick tracts:

Today we’ll recreate the disappointment of youth with The Crusaders #1. If Chick tracts are fun-size boredom, The Crusaders is king-size banality with a Jesus-butter center. 

If you’re religious, get your Offense Punchcard ready for its 11th freebie, because we will be making fun of Jack Chick’s most cherished beliefs and possibly some of my mom’s. I don’t do this because religion is the term for the opinions people agree to be unreasonable about, but because blasphemy might win me enough Edgy Points to get verified on MySpace.

Personally, I’m an apatheist—I don’t care which version of God tells you to have less fun, provided you’re cool to hang out with. But Chick says humanity implicitly deserves eternal suffering, and boy does this adventure swing on some weird hinges because of it. 

For example, meet Romania’s dumbest Soviet citizens, more worried about the availability of the Bible than which camp their children will die in: 

Cold War America wasn’t perfect. We handed out MANPADs to brutal dictators like they were Chick tracts at an All Hallow’s Eve Abstinence Party. But we also let you say grace at the McDonald’s we built atop your family’s unmarked graves. That’s why these doomed souls rest their hopes in Dr. Koslov, who’s in Chicago soliciting Christian Nick Fury’s help.

Our Trump lookalike pulls up G.I. Joe file-cards for two agents astoundingly hazardous to this mission. Meet Timothy Emerson Clark: Green Beret. He speaks eight languages, though six of them are just different dialects of flying knee attack. He will use none of them on this operation.

A missionary saved his life when he was definitely not leading illegal incursions into Laos:

The mafia asked him to be a hitman—twice! He refused, because he’d become a radiant Christian and a dull man. Look at yourself, Tim. A year ago you were drinking scorpion vodka and answerable only to a CIA spook codenamed Tartarus. Now you get a worried expression when the neighborhood kids play a prog rock 78 about wizards. 

Tim’s brother in Christ is Jimmy Carter. (No relation. So what if there was? Family comes in many forms. Examine your precepts!) Jim’s a badass black belt, but an even more badasssss “Black militant” and drug-slinger. Those two callings seem at cross-purposes, but who am I to tell a teenager in Urban City his business? A dealer is just a leader slightly mixed up. Anyway, he quit both when a brave preacher clued him in to God’s troubling ideas about bodily autonomy:

How embarrassing to reach drinking age in America without hearing the full deal on this Jesus guy! Now that he’s One of the Good Ones™ our friend Jim abandons the Black Liberation Army to cheer “Right on, brother!” whenever Tim quotes scripture. I think “Submit meekly to state-sponsored violence by European imperialists” is the wrong message to take from Jesus’s life, but I haven’t read Colossians.

Is this what college-age men looked like in 1974? It was a very hairy era, and our best scientists can only guess at what maturity looked like back then, based on the reconstructed frieze of David Cassidy’s sarcophagus. 

Timmy and Jimmy are ablaze with the chance to die for their Lor—

Oop, well, never mind. They need “one week to pray* about it!” But eventually they say yes. Maybe they were distracted by that thumbnail, which looks like it just got back from a two-week vacation up a witch’s butthole.

Back then vaccinations weren’t considered unchristian, so the two men line up for shots and then head to the Chicago Immigration Building(?) to get passports. Jim provides a nervous level of detail:

Impossibly, that’s when everything gets weird.

When you’ve read as many Chick tracts as I have, you can recognize his poker tells. So I’ll bet everything right now this lady’s toothless smile belies her sinister intent. And looking closer at her, I’ll buy insurance (shut up, it’s blackjack now) that she embodies Chick’s complicated relationship with Judaism. 

For eight panels and two pages, this Soviet mole makes copies of passport photos, when—

Didn’t I call it? Even though several major characters go nameless, Chick pointedly tags Gertrude Levits, a fairly common Latvian-Jewish name meaning…uh, ”Latvian.” I can smell an anti-Semite at 20 cubits. 

Middleman Max burns an entire page delivering the photos to Moscow, and cripes, we’re already halfway through this issue. The photos delight K.G.B. spymaster Col. Cherkov. You see… 

This is probably some allegory for 2 Timothy, but nobody cares about allusions to the Rattle & Hum of Paul’s epistles. Onward, Christian soldiers! 

It’s adorable that at disco’s dawn, Chick thought a Green Beret and Purple Heart recipient nailing a beautiful local—from a place of love!—on his vacation would create a scandal. And that’s the most reliable step in this scheme. 

It’s a dumb enough plot for worldly types, but Chick is plotting for The Lord, so he has to make it celestially gooftacular.

Wait, is “dishonor” code for something darker? Are they going to frame this guy for—for… you know, you take a job writing comedy, and you never think you’ll be compelled to write the word “rape” so frequently. 

This is an international conspiracy to get a diplomat fired over a personal vendetta that hinges on a young woman having sex under duress at best, and these dumb Russkies don’t even know there’s a microfiche Bible being smuggled. Tim is innately the worst possible person to undertake this mission. This plot inspired 2002’s The Bourne Identity, in which Matt Damon’s library fines are used to discredit Worcester, MA First Selectman Jason Born. 

Anyway, not to be outdumbed by Satan’s atheists, Koslov’s Crusaders formulate their plan to loll around Romania for days without taking action.

Any idiot would use a dead-drop for info that has no confidential value; it takes a special idiot to bring children to a handoff hotspot:

Elsewhere and in lieu of story, Cherkov the Jerk-Off bitchfits for pages and pages about needing more info, and boy, can readers relate. Meanwhile, Tim and his new coiffure are still preparing to visit Bucharest and wondering who stole all the photos of his exes that every man keeps on display so visitors see how heterosexually active he is.


Those photos aid Moscow in recruiting Sofia Toffsky, a Black Widow minus everything cool about that job, and chosen from a harem of women known as “swallows” (woo!) because she’s Tim’s type.

Cherkov doesn’t specify the punishment for having an unfuckable daughter, but it can’t be worse than traveling with Tim & Jim.

A conspicuously large and Christian crowd sends The Crusaders off on their covert mission. Gang, we’re 24 pages in, and these guys are just now boarding the plane to the town of Persecutiongrad. God wants these characters to enlighten Romania, but He’s no match for Jack Chick’s delaying tactics.

That’s a whole page! The next one is the Russians complaining to each other how expensive it is to place 40 freaking agents on the trail, which—just to iterate, is about tricking a 21-year-old into making love to his dream girl. I honestly think if a better project manager were in charge, Russia could have made a few hundred bucks on this op.

Ugh. Being a swallow sounds like Soviet Russia’s sixth-worst job, right behind Baba Yaga’s gynecologist, but just ahead of whoever has to clean and gut the wild matryoshka dolls.

Oh lord, they’re only in Paris and Tim is already on his third haircut. Now the Russians enact their scheme to introduce Sofia and beat up Jim—I guess to get her alone with Tim? I don’t know how sex works in a fundamentalist Christian’s version of realpolitik, but the Imaginary Soviet Union’s college parties must be quieter than Chick’s wife during their obligatory monthly intercourse—a.k.a. Operation Ovulation Infiltration.

Anyway, Jim feeds his assailant to the pavement. Soviet spycraft is no match for Black Militant Karate.

Finally the trio arrives in Romania, and Big Jim Carter makes it weird—

—though not as weird as Tim whitesplaining bigotry because nobody’s ever seen a Romanian smile:

See, folks? Everywhere is just as racist as America. So there’s no need to examine our national conscience. That’s in the Bible (Projections 2:11).

Cherkov is in Bucharest now? Ambassador Clark must be awesome to have enemies so personally invested in his tangential inconvenience. I bet his shadow smells like spring rain. 

So at this point the K.G.B. are blatantly stalking the Crusaders for the wrong reasons, while the boys are shrugging off all signs their mission might be compromised. This is like watching Wile E. Coyote chase OJ Simpson’s Bronco because the Road Runner’s real name is also Al Cowlings. If the Soviets are right and God isn’t real, then who squared up these two perfectly matched sets of idiots to make the world laugh? Checkmate, Communism.

I like to think every Romanian woman has one (K.G.B.) aunt to dish her the real facts of life: Boys will say they love you just to get incriminated between your thighs, good girls save sex-blackmail for marriage, and heavy spotting is just your body’s way of advertising its Red pride in the glorious people’s menses.

Rippling with passion, Sofia takes Tim on a moonlit walk. Jim stays behind, because the (K.G.B.) aunt wants to hear about growing up in a country that has done everything it can to disenfranchise him.

God, look at the passion radiating from Tim. His desire for a Christian union burns with the heat of one-thousandth brown dwarf stars. Thankfully Jim rescues him from kissing a woman out of wedlock.

On the penultimate page, Jim hands over the microfiche smoothly. Sofia’s handler shows up too late to intercept microfiche he’s unaware of, and Jim bribes him with most of a pack of stale cigarettes: a fortune in Soviet Romania! Unless that guy’s carrying a jar of pickled herring to make change, Jim might have accidentally purchased the man’s hometown.  

Having dragged us through 31 pages of preparations for espionage, Chick walks out on his own climax, just like he does when Mrs. Chick starts enjoying their reproductive skeet-shoot too much. Oh hey, speaking of avoiding sex, let’s watch Sofia’s last-ditch effort to save her parents’ lives.

The Crusaders came here to decline ass and hand out cancer sticks…and Jim’s all out of cancer sticks. Cherkov is not pleased to learn that Tim (fourth hairstyle) showed Sofia the long, hard Word of the Lord. But look:

This entire time they’ve been smuggling the Bible on microfiche, Tim has also been carrying a Bible, knowing his luggage is being searched. His next contraband is Sofia herself. She defects with his special forces skills, so they can squimp out a quiverful of Christian American yeehaw marriage babies.

I LIED. This book’s idea of a happy ending is two bros riding into the sunset in the Soviet Union’s only VW Bug, abandoning Sofia to her fate. They cheerfully wish their would-be seductress a happy death even as doom closes its claws around her. The comic ends thusly:

Prison camp must be so confusing for her unsaved parents. All they know is that their entire bloodline dies here, and then they’re on fire forever. Still, Sofia gets an awesome deal. The back cover enumerates her new superpowers and card-member benefits:

The book is very clear that freezing in Siberia is the best thing that can happen to this beautiful woman whose life just found meaning. And also that they use money in heaven.

Tim, revealing a hidden psychosis that lures young women to their deaths, starts dishing serial killer talk. Get a load of this religious kook! Here’s what he thinks is going to happen to the world:

Uh…actually. Gee. Wow. Let me see that prayer again.

Brendan prays for rain and death, but is all out of death. 

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Ken Paisley, who has generously sent countless young women to Siberian prison camps.

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Nerding Day: Drunken Street Fighter

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Nerding Day: Superman’s Dad is a Psychopath 🌭

Superman has the powers and technology to end all life on Earth in minutes. We wouldn’t even know he did it. He could hack every news site to read “EXPERTS SAY EVERYTHING FINE” while he flew through each of us at hyperluminal speed. He could push us into the sun and all we could do is ask why he was doing a handstand on such a hot night. So we’re lucky this immeasurably dangerous being was raised by such wholesome, All-American parents. Or, dun dun dun, was he?

I put it to you, 🌭s, that Superman’s dad is out of his goddamn mind– an insecure idiot who is almost specifically the last person you’d want to be the guardian of an alien god baby. Let’s look at three issues of Adventure Comics (The ADVENTURES of Superman WHEN HE WAS A BOY) where Pa Kent was given superpowers.

In the Silver Age, there were three ways one of Superman’s friends could gain superpowers.

#1: They didn’t. They just put on a costume and went crazy.

#2: They touch or drink some magical or radioactive thing.

#3: They didn’t. It was some stupid robot or whatever.

Adventure Comics (The ADVENTURES of Superman WHEN HE WAS A BOY) #224 is an example of #1. It starts like most Superboy stories– Pa Kent is meeting with an elderly man and agrees to go into his basement to let him shoot some pictures in a skin tight costume.

Ha ha ha you thought I was kidding, but no, this plot is based on every single cosplayer’s DMs. This guy made a sexy outfit which will be waiting here for the day Superboy becomes a Superman, his words not mine, and Pa Kent is miraculously the right measurements, so maybe they could, you know, go into his home studio and take a few pictures for his portfolio.

Any woman of any age would immediately recognize the danger they were in, but Pa Kent is a married Christian farmer from Kansas. He gets undressed and wads his body into this affectionate bachelor’s homemade unitard. And of course, the next thing he knows, he’s waking up with an amateur photographer on top of him.

 Ha ha ha you thought I was kidding again.

What happened was, a “sudden thunder storm” appeared and shot him with lightning through the roof and three stories of cement building. After the weather suddenly cleared, he woke up, saw he was wearing Superboy’s costume, and decided he must be his own superhero son. I guess for Pa Kent, all this was easier to accept than what really happened.

I don’t have a panel to show you where he processes all this since it happened off camera and was explained to Superboy by the doctor who treated him. Normally you wouldn’t reveal these kinds of things about your patient to a stranger, but the (maybe?) doctor decided the safest thing to do would be for Superboy to help convince his disoriented father he has superpowers.

So, okay, it’s a 1956 comic which means we need to take a deep breath and catch up every few panels. This very confused old man, who has recently lost the last of his innocence, has been prescribed some amount of “everybody pretend he’s a superhero” by a pedestrian claiming to be a medical doctor and acting as a psychiatrist. It’s eye-clawing madness. It’s like someone trying to get fired from the Black Mirror writing staff by pitching, “What if we did exactly Batkid, right, but it’s an alzheimer’s patient and we start with some sex stuff?”

Anyway, you might be thinking this sounds unsafe, and you’re right. Pa Kent, humored madman, immediately jumps out a fucking window.

Instead of catching him and saying, “Okay, this shit is over. Dad, you need to get ahold of yourself,” he flies below him, huffing and puffing his poor father into the air with super-breath. Neither of them learn anything. The next thing Pa Kent does is jump in front of a truck.

Notice it’s not a truck described as “runaway” or “driverless.” Pa Kent flew in front of a driver minding his own business. And wait, shit, did I say flew? We should remember he’s not really flying. He’s more like a concussion victim riding a burp, which means his son blew him into the grill of a moving truck. And to what end? This driver getting his truck torn in half thinks he’s killed someone! And I don’t think it would have helped if Superboy explained, “Sorry! I’m trying to protect the delicate mental health of a sex crime victim, my da– NOT my dad!” We’ll never know, though; since they just flew off letting this driver forever wonder why two Supermen dropped from the sky to fuck both ends of his truck and leave.

So we’ve established that Superboy is willing to throw his father into danger and terrorize strangers in order to protect this delusion. Following that possible doctor’s experimental psychological advice is that important to him. All he needs to do is keep him alive and pretend to not be Superboy until this passes. Easy. Young Clark Kent does this all day every day with literally every other person on the planet.

So Clark covertly blows his dad home for a nap. Then, in full Superboy costume, shatters wood at hypersonic speed with his bare hands outside his window. “Oh-oh!” Clark thinks when Pa sees his son, Superboy, doing Superboy things and starts to solve the mystery of how he, himself, is not Superboy. Most DC writers liked to work by aiming their face at a typewriter and shrieking until the centipedes eating their brain stampeded out of their mouth.

Okay, so his dad saw him as Superboy chopping wood at Superboy speed. It’s over. Wait, no. No. He can fix this! He can fix this!!!

Superboy thinks, “I dressed up to do my chores as a tribute to you!” and aims his X-ray vision at a nearby clock. I don’t want to get into all the time science behind this, but it heat-expands the clock spring to force the hour hand forward. “Aiiiieeeeee,” screamed the Adventure Comics writer, herding his mind centipedes onto the typewriter keys.

Wait, wait, fuck, hold on. Did I say thinks? Oh my god, I’m right. That’s a thought bubble, not a word bubble. So Superboy didn’t actually say anything to his dad. He silently looked at him. Which was enough? Pa Kent is fine thinking, “Well, I saw him being Superboy, but on the other hand, he did glare at a clock. I should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

We’re having fun, but this is obviously an unintended mistake by the letterer. Which is maybe worse than the regular absurdity because it means we now can’t trust the narrator, storyteller, characters, or the editorial staff. Someone might have accidentally translated and illustrated the assembly instructions of a German end table. Or Pa Kent might still be back in the costume salesman’s basement, where like the enduring Zack Snyder film Suckerpunch, all these events are taking place in the main character’s subconscious as they’re being molested. Hold on, that can’t be right. I better look that u– oh my god, I’m right again.

Superboy takes his dad outside so he can change his clothes in front of everyone because the entire community already knows about his derangement and they have gathered to laugh at him. Two men are several feet in front of him, laughing about it where he can see and hear them. The doctor, who I’m growing more and more certain was not a doctor, didn’t tell Superboy to include a public humiliation element in his father’s treatment. He came up with this all by himself.

Pa Kent, more certain than ever he is the grown up Superboy and this young lad is merely a stranger who chops wood for him in similar clothes, suggests replacing the roof of a nearby building. “Sure, why not? This is funny,” thinks his son. More people gather to make fun of him as he has a full mental breakdown but far, far more dangerous than that sounds.

Superboy lets his father, who is now a condescending asshole, cling to a speeding roof with his ancient, arthritic fingers. Pa Kent has only “had super powers” for an afternoon and he already finds these mere mortals to be nuisances standing in the way of his mighty whims. So Superboy spends the day testing the limits of his arrogance by throwing him into fires and gunfights. Ha ha ha this time I’m actually kidding.

No I wasn’t.

Superboy lets his awful dad inhale a warehouse fire while he impotently flaps a blanket at it from a diaper. And everyone in the city knows what’s going on except him and the gunmen painting him in white-hot liquid bullets. Then Clark Kent dedicates another small portion of his cosmic abilities to replacing all of his father’s furniture with balsa wood replicas.

The humiliation never stops. He tosses his dad’s body between zany bits like a less respectful Weekend at Bernies. And this prank has become so widely known Superboy’s new concern is that the townspeople are such bad actors his dad is going to figure out he’s not actually Superboy from their sarcasm. Which is ultimately the goal, sure, but without such medically unsafe suddenness? Oh no, guys, I just realized THIS COMIC BOOK MIGHT BE CRAZY.

Okay, this illusion is being maintained by an entire city of performers and all of Superboy’s amazing powers, so it’d be a shame if someone blew it by just blurting out “this poor fool who isn’t Superman thinks he’s Superman.”

Superboy blurts this out right in front of him. Hours of effort and millions in property damage are wasted, but what’s this? Oh no, what? Instead of figuring it out, Pa Kent says, “While you guys are talking about how I think I’m Superman, this is the perfect time to reveal my secret identity: I’m Superman!” If my daughter was making this up I’d tell her, “No. Absolutely not. You’re fucking four now! That’s too old to string together random senseless bullshit and call it a goddamn story!!”

Pa Kent starts to tell the crowd who Superboy is, and reality sets in as Superboy remembers that somewhere in this man’s unraveling brain is an important secret. And maybe blowing this hallucinating “lightning strike victim” from crisis to crisis while his closest friends mock him has worsened his mental condition. Maybe none of this was a good id– oh, good, he’s jumping in front of another truck.

The theme of this comic is deceit and delusion. The reader and characters are all being lied to, intentionally or by mistake, so it’s worth considering Superboy was going to let Pa Kent die here. After all, it’s… suspicious… how he can x-ray bullets out of the air and instantly exhale a human-levitating updraft under someone falling off a roof, but when the guy revealing his secret identity is jogging into the path of this particular truck he’s all, “Oh no. No time to react. What a tragic fate for this chatty nuisance with all my secrets.”

B-but wait. Pa Kent… stops the truck? With his mighty super-strength? Are you telling us there’s a twelfth layer of deception in this ten page comic book!?

Wait, no… my mind. Pa Kent goes to the back of the runaway truck and starts… stealing furniture out of it? And it’s the same balsa wood furniture from earlier? How? Wait, I guess I know HOW someone could move extremely light furniture into a moving truck, but why? None of this makes sense, and Superboy agrees, but not for the reasons he or you think!

It was a reverse prank! Pa Kent had his friend hide under a steering wheel and drive into him with a truck full of Superboy’s prop furniture to confuse him! And it worked! “Fuck you, space lad! That’s how you super prank on Earth! Aaghhh! Hrrk! I’m still going through a lot, and some of it is your fault! THE END.”

So I would argue nobody handled that well, and the judgement of everyone involved was questionable. Pa took an unpaid modeling gig in a pervert’s basement and then he and his son took turns daring trucks, gravity, fire, bullets, and trucks to kill him. It was an entire day of dangerous dishonesty, the funniest kind of dishonesty, and it ended with everyone certain everyone else was humiliated. Now let’s jump ahead a year and see how Pa Kent deals with getting real superpowers.

You might already be understanding the problem with Superboy as a concept. You can’t have this character engage in ordinary superhero adventures because Superboy is so powerful that anyone who can take him in a fight is, by definition, a galactic threat. Even the crazed comics writers of the ’50s understood you can’t create too many guys like that. The writers of Smallville solved this by making sure most villains died, but when every episode ended with them killing a child, that, in its own way, became a problem. The point is, Superboy stories were dumb fucking nonsense because what else would they be?

This story starts with two pretty egregious superhero mistakes. One, Superboy leaves out some unthinkable artifact from space on the dining room table. And two, Pa Kent starts screwing around with it.

“Hmm… some kind of weapon or marital aid from the stars! I wish my boy with super speed and hearing were available to help make this decision, but I think I’ll grab it firmly with my ungloved hands EEYOW!”

He handles it like you’d think. He immediately bashes into the ceiling diving for a mosquito, and heading straight outside to jump as hard as he can.

It goes perfectly. Pa Kent escapes Earth’s atmosphere and crashes into the moon. I’m not saying he makes poor decisions, but he has had superpowers for less than ten seconds and he was one micron to the left or right of plummeting forever through the empty void of space. This is the man who raised Superman from a baby. He watched his son’s powers develop over the course of dozens of shattered pets and accidental eye laser fires, and here he is accidentally abandoning his planet and family because he thought FULL FORCE was the best way to test his new star dildo legs.

Pa Kent leaps back, because who cares? I think even a 1957 Superboy writer knew the Earth spins fast enough that hitting your own farm on reentry would be impossible on your second super jump. Pa Kent probably flattened some Mexican town and thought, “Luckily this crater of scorched skeletons broke my fall! Now to get home before Martha touches the artifact and overspins the salad!”

Pa pulls a piece of coal(!) from the fireplace and squeezes it into a diamond. “I have mature judgement!” he screams as more coal burns behind him in an unventilated room, his dildo-altered DNA writhing after an unintentional trip to the moon.

Pa Kent sets off to be a better superhero than his son, first by… seeing the head fall off a Paul Bunyan statue? He is weirdly confident this is a temporary Paul Bunyan statue, so he tears up a tree where he thinks will be the site of a smaller, permanent Paul Bunyan statue and squeezes it to glue the temporary statue’s head back on, at least until National Forest Week is done being honored. I’d argue every single one of these details is insane from the town’s statue decisions to Pa Kent’s knowledge of them to the timing of this spontaneous shattering to his solution. If I was Superboy and came upon a man milking a tree into a statue’s crevice, I would fully expect him to say, “Join us, Super! Boy! Gllggbbb! Sticky juice for the fucking! Glbllbbbbgggg!”

Instead, he says, “Hello, son. It’s me. Your father. Let me show you how a real mature superhero fixes a public park.”

His father is a maniac. He is smashing through homes, ripping up trees… unleashing all manner of dangerous boners, Superboy’s words not mine.

With the superman powers comes superman drama, which in the ’50s meant a nosy broad was always trying to reveal your secret identity (the man with your face operating out of the same town). So Lana Lang’s mom is staging tricks to get Pa Kent, full rampaging lunatic, to reveal he is Strongman. And he does. At the very first opportunity. He picks up a 1000 pound barrel in front of her. Case closed.

Except! Superboy saves it by levitating it and saying, “He could only lift that giant barrel because of our attic electromagnet which works only on barrels!” And since the Langs are women in the ’50s, they say, “Jeez, I guess you men are right.” Also, wait, I don’t think Superboy can levitate barrels. Let me look it up, and oh my god, Mrs. Lang was correct– men are always right.

Pa Kent, mature hero with good judgement, reveals his secret identity again when he forgets his strength and obliterates a set of bowling pins. Luckily Superboy covers for him by… no, this can’t be right… fill the bowling alley with termites!? “Don’t worry, dad! I’ll simply get two buildings condemned because you’re too stupid for bowling!”

Watching his close friends try to make sense of this madness as termites devour their business equity, Pa Kent starts to realize he might have more to learn. But this does not make him humble. It makes him insecure and desperate. When the next crisis hits, a nearby falling plane, he orders his son to let him rescue it alone.

It’s worse than him being clumsy, stupid, and impuslive, though. Pa Kent doesn’t have powers anymore. And for the same reasons that made him a bad superhero, he has no idea. So he charges off to rescue a plane, alone, with the abilities of a middle-aged coal-huffing retailer.

So secretly, Superboy buries himself in a hole and uses a straw to spurt his moron father into a plane crash. This shouldn’t have worked! But more importantly, Superboy shouldn’t be willing to put more lives at risk to protect his father’s fragile delusions and ego.

Speaking of delusions, after he no longer has powers, the precious abilities he bragged about and instantaneously transformed his life and personality around, Pa Kent put on a big show about how losing them was actually a good thing. Sure, Pa. We were there. You went from curious star-dildo toucher to “actually I’m a way BETTER superhero than Superboy” in five goddamn seconds.

I hate Pa Kent so much. Let’s jump forward to 1961 to Adventure Comics (the ADVENTURES of Superman WHEN HE WAS A BOY) #289 to see his third take on Tertiary Superboy Character Gains Powers, and I’ll try to move it along since we’re 3200 words into this.

It starts with the standard Pa Kent wisdom. “What’s this strange space jewel? No time to ask my son! Got to touch i– ARRGH AN UNEARTHLY SENSATION!”

Setting a new record for space-jewel-touching-to-disaster, Pa Kent has already wrecked the family piano and heat-visioned a hole in the floor before he’s crossed the room. Time to jump onto a table saw, dick first.

Ha ha ha I was going to say you thought I was kidding, but there’s no way I got you with that one. You knew the second he touched that space jewel Pa Kent was going to try to fuck a table saw.

He wrecks the saw and punches a hole in the wall. “Fuck you, son. Fuck our house. Let’s break all the furniture– oh! Oh, let’s go smash your boy robots! If you’d have ever listened to me, this is the kind of shit we could have been doing with your powers this whole time! Pa! Kent!”

This rampage has a slightly different tone than the other times Pa Kent gained superpowers. Destroying the humanitarian robots and ordering Clark to stop being a superhero seem like red flags. And speaking of two red flags whistling right by Superboy…

… two red flags whistle right by Superboy. It’s Pa Kent stopping him from helping others! Nothing suspicious there… let’s see what happens next.

Okay, his dad throws a bucket on his head (boomerang-fashion) while he’s trying to rescue a falling balloon. If it was anyone else, this would seem strange, but this is totally Pa Kent’s idea of both good judgement and hilarious prank.

Hmm… something about the way Pa Kent signed for oranges while forbidding Superboy from rescuing forest rangers was unusual. Can you guess what it is!?

Gasp, it wasn’t his father at all! It was Kryptonian scientist Jax-Ur in a mask! Wait, assuming it was a really good mask and his impersonation was perfect, can’t Superboy see skeletons? Identify people by heartbeats? H-he should have known, right? I don’t need to look this one up; it doesn’t matter. If an alien in a rubber father face can walk into your home, break all your belongings, act like an alien in a rubber mask, and you don’t figure it out for a week, you and your father don’t have a good relationship. Pa Kent is such an unpredictable piece of shit and rewrites his DNA so often that everything Jax-Ur did short of writing, “MY NAME IS STAR CRIMINAL JAX-UR” on a produce receipt was seen as normal Pa Kent behavior. That’s not a cute joke, by the way. That’s how Superboy figured it out.

After catching this tiny slip-up, Superboy banished Jax-Ur to the Phantom Zone and we learn, dear God, every soul sent there can see Superboy. Jax-Ur is going to see him next time he’s blowing his senile father through the clouds. And when he lands and makes love to his wife Martha, careful not to crush her mortal bones, Jax-Ur will be looking on. “I know you’re there, Jax-Ur,” he’ll whisper. “Is that like a safe word?” Martha will ask. “No,” he’ll tell her. “It’s a lot to explain. Wait, right there. I’m! Hnngggg!! Do you see this, Jax-Ur! Look upon what I have done, Jax-Ur!” Whoa, holy shit, this article really got away from me.

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NERDING DAY

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NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: Westone Page 🌭

Most of the world’s great heroes started as a childhood dream. Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster dreamed of a baby rocketed to Earth from a doomed planet, gifted with powers beyond mortal man. Stan Lee and Jack Kirby dreamed of four bold adventurers changed by science to help humankind. And Emanuel P. Gill dreamed of three dead cops and a ripped pair of pantyhose. Welcome to the world of Westone Page.

Before we get going, a little historical context is required. For comic book readers in New York City, one store has always stood head-and-shoulders above the rest. Jim Hanley’s Universe was incorporated in 1985 in Staten Island and, fueled by its owner’s monomaniacal love of the art form, soon expanded to a choice Midtown location opposite the Empire State Building. In that massive store, you’d find all of the Marvel and DC you wanted, plus every other publisher under the sun. Hanley’s devoted a prominent shelf to local artists trying to get their work out there by self-publishing, and if you dug through it in the early 2000s you’d probably find a copy of Westone Page.

While most of the other minicomics on the shelf were artsy indie affairs, Gill was doing something different. His “E-Lectric Comics” imprint was a whole, fully-realized superhero universe with spin-off books and an ambitious release schedule. Sure, the actual publications were shoddily Xeroxed with content often being cut off at the page edge and covers that looked like they were colored with markers and left to sweat in a humid apartment, but the intent… the intent was powerful.

The flagship E-Lectric Comics title was Westone Page, which saw 7 issues published. The protagonist is a high school student named Crest Jones, whose father Jason runs a counterfeiting business. When Crest, his brother Donny, and their mother find out where their money comes from, Jason has the three undercover police officers assigned to guard the family – Westley, Stone and Page – murdered. Their life essences flowed into young Crest imbuing him with the wisdom and power of three police officers. This might seem to be a fairly minimal improvement, but nevertheless he adopted the unwieldy moniker of “Westone Page” and set out to bring his father to justice.

At first blush, this doesn’t seem all that unusual for an amateur superhero comic book. But the first blush is often the most deceptive. The basic structure of Westone Page is normal, but inside it is a seething chaos of deep weirdness, like a fish tank full of millipedes left on your ex-wife’s porch.

First off, we don’t actually see any of this dramatic origin happening – Westley, Stone and Page are nowhere to be found. That backstory is all communicated through Crest’s thought balloons on the first page of the first issue. 

We eventually do get to see the trio of titular cops in a flashback in issue 5, but that comes in the middle of an interminable courtroom sequence. The vast majority of Westone Page consists of its characters monologuing to the camera about what they’re going to do to each other when they fight.

Emanuel is what we call in the industry an “idea guy,” more concerned with getting his cool concepts out there than weaving them together into any kind of coherent narrative. So every issue of Westone Page features a few pages of plot and the introduction of between seven and ten new characters, many of which are never seen again. The bad guys led by Jason all get half-pages where they do such things as make milkshakes and threaten to take their foes “to the back” – a unique verbal proposition that is deployed multiple times. 

One of the most notable supporting characters is Westone’s superpowered girlfriend, U-Shadow. As Samantha McSullivan, she was a secretary for his father who discovered his counterfeiting business. They struggled, and he knocked her into a vat of chemicals that somehow interacted with her “torn, black panty hose, exposed leg” to transform her into a creature of coruscating energy.

You’d rightfully assume from that sort of origin story that these comics are incredibly horny. And yes, while Emanuel stops short of showing full dong or penetration, E-Lectric’s heroes and villains are constantly sexing each other up. At one point, while Westone is flying some sort of jet-sled to confront the evil Dr. Master in “Empire Daddy City,” U-Shadow gives him a reacharound and makes him ejaculate in his pants. I can appreciate the desire to relieve some stress before a battle, but one would think having dried jizz on the inside of your super-leotard would get uncomfortable.

Gill is also a master of creative profanity. There’s a certain school of thought that the more cursing you put in a piece of content, the more mature it is. So Westone, his cohorts, and his foes all swear like sailors on nearly every page. The old favorites are mixed and combined, like the evil Jason Jones above referring to his estranged wife as a “shitbitch.”

Throughout the run of Westone Page, we’re teased with our hero confronting his father. But the big climatic battle never seems to happen. Instead, the book detours into courtroom drama, with the judge, the prosecuting attorney and pretty much everybody observing turning out to be a superhero or villain. That’s interrupted by an attack from a new bad guy, the nefarious Dr. Master, who deploys bizarre monsters called “Foodas,” which have one head connected to two humanlike bodies with several suspiciously fuckable holes. Jason Jones escapes, never to be seen again.

Additional titles followed. “The E.P.A. Brothers” followed a trio of siblings from New York as they kept their neighborhood safe. “Fighting Ones” was the obligatory team-up book, which paired Westone with a panoply of other “Power Humans” (and the dog Sniffer, the “Power Mammal”). “Ivory,” leader of the group Teamwork For Power Humans, also got one issue of a solo book that I’ve never seen a copy of. And in every issue, we meet at least a half dozen new characters like “Airbrush,” a villain who paints realistic doors on walls to make people run into them, or “Arthritis,” who has a wrist blaster that can make bones jiggly. 

What’s fascinating about these books is how they’re obviously commercially motivated – in each issue, at least 1/3 of the page count is taken up with ads for E-Lectric Comics’ other offerings, often repeating the exact same ad multiple times in a single comic. Gill’s art style isn’t really congruent with the hot Marvel and DC artists of the era. Instead, his work hearkens back to Golden Age greats like C.C. Beck – figures are rounded and soft, compositions are static and fight scenes are simple and uninventive. They really seem like they were beamed into Jim Hanley’s Universe from a parallel dimension.

It’s hard to run down the genius of Emmanuel P. Gill. These comics are full of deeply hilarious moments, like when the Fighting Ones prevent a nuclear bomb from exploding by covering it with a large sheet of tinfoil. But everything is played with incredible seriousness. The common thread through almost every character is fathers – in addition to Crest’s abusive dad, nearly every other male parent presented in every one of his comics is a violent, abusive sociopath. 

And, just as suddenly as E-Lectric Comics had appeared, they vanished. Gill stopped bringing his books into Jim Hanley’s Universe, and I’ve never met another comics shop owner in New York or anywhere else who ever saw or sold them. It looks like he set up an Etsy page a while back, but only the first two issues of Westone Page and some original artwork are available. 

According to his Facebook page, he was also employed at New York’s storied Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2019, and even hung a drawing in the staff art show. But even more astonishing, he lists on his LinkedIn that he’s an art teacher at CUNY’s Lehman College in the Bronx, meaning the mind behind Westone Page is shaping young artists in his own image to create a new generation of pants-squirting, pantyhose-ripping Power Humans.