Tag: PSAs

Meet the ultimate team-up: Honda, the Department of Transportation, and death. Supergirl watches.

Feels right. Still, I should check my guidelines.

Hot. We’re clear for liftoff. This propaganda is Supergirl’s best car content, short of chucking Fords at Superman for Darkseid/Luthor/kicks. Fast times—she’s usually calmer, only not at all. But you’ve met Supergirl.

Maybe propaganda sounds loaded for “wear this to live.” But it’s a neutral concept. A genre, really. Propaganda isn’t instantly wrong any more than satire’s instantly right. Sucking shit doesn’t make The Babylon Bee a cookbook. Today’s plea for spine preservation is elite propaganda.

These alien animals don’t respect our freedom. This screed shows what happens when you let the nanny-starship tell you how to die. I regret only having one skull to give blurry Instagram clips. If you’ll trade your rights for brain fluid, you deserve blimble florp funnel cake.

Counterpoint: Bizarro no need coward hat! Bizarro do mob heelflip and tag Thrasher! All public park moms clap for Bizarro!

But who cares what I think? The transportation secretary’s here with star power. Like her boss Reagan, Elizabeth cares about povvos dying on her watch:

Double the odds! Based on my bestselling Math Protocols, that’s six times less death. I’m convinced. Though I preferred Doomsday’s pitch:

That’s a recolored Hulk joke. Like Doomsday.

Kara’s day opens with a little apocalypse. An earthquake ravages the West Coast, and she has heat vision trickshots to try out:

It’s a fun sequence. I could fret about deep fried truckers, but I’m only a Level 3 unpleasable fuck. Advantage: Kara.

Still, her messiah act is no excuse for standing up Steve. Infrastructure implodes every day. Where will she find a new Steve? Also, this is Steve:

He’s just like you! You can date Supergirl, followed by whatever else happens to Steve. Maybe a love square with Donna Troy and Nightwing? Pick Nightwing. It’s not just the face, he tends to get through reboots intact. If nothing else, avoid lesser Green Lanterns. They die at X-Men rates with half the style.

With Super-Math, Kara finds Steve’s love is only worth a few dozen lives. Work comes first. I’ve been there, only work was Googling synonyms for “horror.” And then Googling replacements for Google. Bing was born dead, and Presearch is starting to piss me off.

Steve spirals. By sidekick standards, he’s been left at the altar.

Ellen’s his little sister. PSA world is half superheroes, half perfect children, and half drug dealers. No substance abuse in sight yet, so my Super-Math works out. Unlike Steve’s dreams.

Poor Steve. He thinks Supergirl’s out of his league instead of his species. A classic, enduring dilemma. You might remember Steve from American Honda Presents DC Comics’ Supergirl. Particularly his confidence:

The resolve of a hero. With nothing tying him down, Steve soars to his destiny.

Kara doesn’t know what she’s missing. Slates this blank turn into gods at least twice a year. Superman’s watched Pa Kent get powers more often than he’s peed in Luthor’s coffee from orbit. Steve’s one crossover event from the Throne of Light.

Of course, first he has to get to heaven.

Again: it looks bad, but this could be an origin. Most Static Shock episodes opened with incidents like this. The victims were robbing banks and pitching spin-offs by the first break.

The banks are safe today.

It’s a drunk driving PSA too! Two birds, one Corona. I dig that efficiency, though Honda won’t. We’ve killed a free sequel by aiming high, and marketers hate that shit. Brands prefer forty versions of one line, plastered across every subway in civilization.

He’s off to the Phantom Drunk Tank.

If I were a shadow wearing human skin, I’d laugh. I’m not. This is very sad. I’m frowning. I hate this tragedy, and wish it were different. Nothing’s funny about escalating to DUIs faster than a speeding bullet. My empathy’s more powerful than a locomotive. We’ve leapt dull pacing in a single bound.

At this point, PSAs have a choice. Ten pages of hugs and funeral planning, or blooming into insanity.

Comics are everything love promised.

But really, smart choice. I prefer Kryptonians to most people. But they’ve got intense baggage for a safety PSA: they’re all fucking invincible. It’s like Tony Stark telling me to drink carefully, pay taxes, and retire from film with dignity. Or to avoid enslaving supervillains for a national freak-hunt. What the fuck, Tony? Were the demo Sentinels red?

The chase above unfolds in Steve’s coma. Battle for Neptune seems to be Furiosa in snow shoes, which justifies itself. But there’s a reason: seatbelts.

Steve suffers survivor’s guilt:

Inaccurate survivor’s guilt. A good therapist will tell you that’s all survivor’s guilt. Nah. Some people earn their seat at Noir Happy Hour. The paid leave, less so.

Supergirl, broken by secondhand false grief, announces her retirement. She’s a teenage immortal, so it’s unclear how she’ll spend eternity. But without Steve, the good fight’s over.

So it goes.

Hopefully the chain reaction stops here. If Superman gives up because Supergirl gave up because Steve gave up, this’ll be history’s darkest DUI. Does LexCorp have a brewery?

Clark suggests an alternative.

I’m in.

No, really. I’ll always indulge the Fortress of Plot. There’s a whiff of metafiction to Superman hoarding unsorted cancer cures. Think of all the bullshit you accrue in one mortal year. I’ll go to hell with half my games unplayed, half my books unread, and all my nudes set free. Superman chucks Excalibur onto The Pile and promises to try pulling later.

That said, I came fully loaded to mock this plan. But I don’t have a better one. Kara’s 19 with a braindead boyfriend. Not joining a cult’s a win. We almost got a preview of her stint as Apokalips’ bouncer.

In fact, I’d point the alien armory at trifles. Why stand in line? Everyone between me and a blueberry bagel can hang with Zod. And everyone glaring when I add bacon cheddar cream cheese. Phantom Zone. With lox. Phantom Zone! You think I can’t feel your hate? You think I don’t know?! Phantom Zone for you ALL.

Media’s crazy. If this panel didn’t exist, I’d still assume the Inception Booth worked that way. It’s an unquestioned rule in my head. Don’t point guns at yourself, try not to die in the dream machine, and stay far away from your parents during time travel. Unless you want hemophilia.

Supergirl enters the cleanest teen psyche on Earth. Maybe that’s Steve’s appeal: it should be a horrorshow. Instead, he imagines life as a title character. A ronin of the wasteland. A hero of the people, with goggles no one laughs at.

A hero still holding the line against seatbelts. This might be art.

It’s art.

In Steve’s defense, this is essentially his afterlife. Imagine getting infotainment after a lifetime of theater toil. I’d be murderous, if I weren’t clearly in hell for t-boning an innocent drunk driver.

While the kids enter a torture loop, Clark supervises.

What the fucking what? Darkling get off your ass, stop the ten ongoing genocides, and then help Kara. At least Batman’s downtown when Robins explode. Superman would empathize from a lawn chair.

Honestly, this is where Evil Superman riffs fall short. Sure, there’s money in genocidal Superman, pervert Superman, or whatever Snyder tried. But consider TV binge Superman. Week-long lunch break Superman. “My train was late” Superman. A Kal-El knockoff whose adventures are League of Legends, a nap, DOTA 2 (he plays both, for peace), and posting “Luthor’s out of control,” on LexChat.

After all, isn’t your only real beef with Superman that he wasn’t there for you?

The torture-loop loads the next level, wherein Steve’s a whipless Indiana Jones. Whips resemble buckles, and Steve’s faith is strong. He can’t reach a higher plane if he’s tied to this one.

I’m torn. This scene has a sane, correct point. It’s also arguing against no one. The standard line against seat belts isn’t “the road is made of marshmallows.” It’s “fuck off.” This is the first PSA to need a dumber, ruder strawman. Steve should’ve been melted for saying “kiss my human ass” four too many times. But that’s a different PSA.

Scratch that. Forget the PSA we could read. We have Supergirl vs. Final Destination.

Where did the latest truck come from? Look inside. There’s a light untouched by hate, pain, or my usual tone. An unmarred seed of joy. That’s where Steve’s trucks come from. Santa might be driving.

Fighting death would be easier. DC death’s punchable, just faster than Mayweather. Instead, Kara’s trying to make her boyfriend smarter. That’s beyond Supergirl. Based on Milton, that’s beyond God.

The deathloop shifts to crime noir, a lane with more pastiches than entries. Meet detective Steve. He’s doing alright, if you ignore the dying.

It’s hard to read. Guilt’s eating him alive.

He trips over Chandler prose for a spell before returning to his muse: speeding. Steve never wakes up without a plan. Mornings are for hitting on aliens, and the rest is introducing cars to walls.

So far, Honda’s taught me to change for no one. Steve’s partying across hell. Or, I daresay, moron Valhalla. Pleas from his sister, space girlfriend, and dying brain bounce off him. He’s free. And like all free creatures, he gives it away on a whim.

Just in time for his afternoon death.

The collision’s for show/hilarity. Clipping the holy belt wakes Steve up. Forget all that shit about guilt, we’re all about adherence. Steve needed to get with the program. Kara, naturally, is relieved by her new Save/Death ratio.

Honda’s done, so I’ll fill in the denouement. Kara thanks God for saving Steve. While flattered, Superman admits Kara did all the work. All of it. With Steve’s one trait fully tamed, Kara dumps him for a flying centaur.

Take it or leave it. Either way, we never see Steve again. And Supergirl dies a year later.

Good times. Yet I don’t feel 100% safety-washed yet.

Guess that’s all. Fun recap, everyone. I hope you enjoyed the lighter mood: next week we’re sprinting beyond hell.

P-pretty strong. I have a thriving, intact shoulder.

Alright, I was wrong about Kryptonian PSAs. “Do you even lift planets?” is a golden public safety angle. Megalomania goes down smoother than pretending Supergirl fears anything that’s not green or bald. Sure, you might feel insulted. But does the Department of Transportation really give a shit? They’re just here to stop you from becoming roadkill.

My bad, Supergirl doesn’t think you’re a pussy. She thinks you’re a slow pussy.

This approach makes me grin like a balanced person. If anything, this section’s too soft. Lean in to Galadriel mocking hobbits. “Can you melt trucks? How many gods have you maimed? If we high-fived, would anything be left to bury?” It writes itself.

Deathloops are fun, but I really wanted you to know Supergirl thinks you’re a bitch. And cares. Wear a seatbelt, or watch your glass bones shatter.

DC’s taken on a few other causes over the years.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme:Alex Knollenberg, who never wraps the cord to the blinds around his neck since that very special issue of Spider-Man with Gwen Stacy.