Thursday, July 27, 2006

Swamp Thing Is A Massive Asshole

He's obviously got a Time-Looker-Forward-Tube or something, because just as he predicted when he opened his big mossy mouth in my comments section, I ended up in goddamn Philadelphia and now I'm wearing a 'ceremonial robe' in the shape of Superboy's foreskin and blogging in front of a huge stone sculpture of his face with a giant replica of his super-schlong flopping out of his mouth. A statue with built-in wi-fi function. So it seems Compost Kid can predict the future by a couple of days. Which is evidently far too much power for a man with oregano pubes.

I mean, seriously, what would you do with a glimpse into the future? Would you be out there saving lives? Or getting loads of sweet corporate cash like Booster Famewhore? Or would you be dicking about with another guy's free will? I know what this is about. He wants to be my friend. He wants to be part of my team. I've seen his blog, the whole thing seems to be an extended fantasy about how all the superheroes love his fungus-infested ass. With a few naked shots of his wife for good measure. NOT SAFE FOR WORK. Well, here's a message direct from the team leader of my super teeeeam, Captain Carrot. THERE ARE NO MORE PLACES AVAILABLE. IT'S A TEAM OF ONE. IT'S CALLED RALPH DIBNY. HEADQUARTERS ARE MY CLOTHES.

Don't try that again. If I want to know what I'll be doing on a Thursday, I sit around and wait like decent people. That goes for the rest of you, especially you. You know who you are.

Anyway, if not for that goddamned cryptic warning about going to Philadelphia, I wouldn't be in Philly right now. Sitting on a stone representation of Connor's hackysack.

Basically, as soon as I heard that, I got this stabbing pain right behind my eyes and decided to get as far away from Philly as humanly possible, which meant either China or Deep Space, and Deep Space is full of complete assholes. So I decided to head for China. That is where the bizarre chain of events that I have decided to call 'Swamp Thing Blows Goats I Have Proof' began.

I honestly forgot that they have superpeople there these days. And those superpeople have been pretty much tasked with keeping all the other superpeople out of China. And since I've gone around telling everybody that I can still stretch like a fiend if I felt like it, I'm on the list. So rather than being met at the airport by a friendly limo driver expecting a ten dollar tip, I was met by a member of the Great Ten EXPECTING TO KICK MY ASS. And succeeding in that expectation.

It was a heavily pregnant woman in some kind of wheelchair! How was I to know I was being attacked by Chinese state-sponsored superpeople? I was almost beaten to death by more than twenty people and they all came out of her... I can't say it. Trust me, it makes sitting around on a representation of Superboy's overemphasised bits seem positively mundane. What kind of world are we living in where somebody's superpower is to give birth to grown humans who kick me hard in the face?

Anyway, after I'd been 'restrained' - and had my beard shaved down to stubble in case it had drugs in it, along with the rest of my body hair - they put me on the first plane back to the USA.

Which went to Philadelphia.

You plant bastard.

Anyway, the first thing I wanted to do when I got there was avoid Cassie. To hell with the case and to hell with my wallet - all I wanted was a drink and some pretzels before I caught a flight right back to Opal City. So I head for the airport bar and she's standing right there! Of course cults infest airports! Of course it had to be her cult! Because Swamp Bitch can't be wrong!

So I panicked and ran for my life. I could swear I heard her screaming above the wind and the noise of the traffic, asking for more personal effects. Did I have other rings? Nipple rings? How about a Prince Albert Mr Dibny? Just get in the ol' drowning hole and we'll yank that sucker right off under the pretense of giving you a rubdown! Obviously I had to get off the streets, but I might have been remiss in grabbing a fire escape, climbing up five stories and breaking into the first apartment I saw. I figured I'd join some family at dinner, wait it out for a while and then grab a greyhound to the next state. At the time it seemed like a foolproof plan. I didn't realise whose apartment it actually was.

There's only one proper procedure when you break into the apartment of the very person you've been trying not to come into contact with for days, and that's to pretend it was totally what you meant to do all along. So when I heard Cassie come in I hurled myself into an armchair and started talking nonsense like my life depended on it. Thank God I had some Superman playing cards on me - if you hold them upside down, they look like evidence! It's little tricks like that that have put me at the top of the detective game. And kept me out of prison.

Anyway, she told me why she wanted the ring. At the time it didn't register that much - I had the face of someone with a couple of days jet lag and a concussion from being kicked in the head by a superfetus - but now that I'm sitting on a huge statue of Connor's family jewels dressed in some pretty sumptuous velour, I'm starting to like the idea more and more! I mean, who doesn't want their wife back from the dead? Apart from guys whose wives are still alive. And spouse murderers. Anyway, I'll be changing the layout a little to reflect the coming change to a new Dibny dawn of love, so next week this blog will be called Ralph And Sue's Togetherness Diary Of Happiness. That's if I have time to post! Geddit?

In fact, if you like Swamp Thing's blog, come back next week because this one's going to be a chronicle of well-adjusted married people in love just like it. How could it not be? I mean, they've got a guy called 'Devem'! That's like Devo with an M! I guess if Dr Willis were here he'd be telling me not to pin my hopes on something that is completely and utterly mad and undoubtedly is only going to lead to a further mental breakdown and yet another psychotic episode, but he's an idiot. Nothing can possibly go wrong. This time next week all my problems will be over and I'll never need a psychotherapist again!

Friday, July 21, 2006

Honestly, I'm Not A Pedophile

There is a perfectly good explanation for what happened in the park. I can explain everything.

Essentially, I had to make a trip to Washington DC in order to bail Ram out of prison. It turns out he was arrested by two undercover officers while attempting to purchase two kilos of uncut cocaine. With my money. I've got to admit, sometimes Ram plays it a little close to the vest even for me. I guess in many ways I'm like the tough captain who orders his best cop to drop the case, and Ram is the street-wise maverick who had to solve the mystery the only way he knows how - by abusing vast quantities of recreational drugs and having wild unprotected sex with adult film stars. (Although apparently the wild unprotected sex is a sacred mission imparted to him by the Guardians Of The Galaxy rather than part of the case at hand. I don't pretend to understand the cosmic mysteries of the universe myself.)

Anyway, quite obviously it was a case of two undercover investigations crossing paths with tragic consequences, which left bail at around ten grand, which frankly is a little out of my budget but I felt I could at least plead Ram's case. And maybe find the real drug pusher in this tantalising mystery. Number one suspect at the moment is Hourman. So I figured I'd scope out the park looking for dealers before I went in and showed those two-bit badge monkeys what Ralph Dibny Justice was all about.

And what should I see but some cultists. I HATE CULTISTS.

Just like that the Adventure Of The Desecrated Grave And Stolen Wallet was reopened! Again! Cultists can shake in fear because I'm not dropping this case again. No matter what the courts decide. Not that they'll decide I'm a pedophile. That certainly won't be happening. I have a good explanation for that.

Anyway, I hate cultists because they stole my wallet. And also built a giant statue of Superboy's engorged thang that I had to look at for at least thirty seconds. So it was clearly time for tea with the Reverend Fist. If you get my meaning. Regular readers will know that I'm not in the least bit violent - unless I'm provoked, that is - but sometimes desperate times call for desperately hard punches to the face and body. With my fist. And this was one of those times! I reckon Superboy himself is behind the whole thing - probably standing upside down as part of his plot, hence the upside down 'S' - so I started my line of questioning with that. And a few choice blows to the solar plexus. Sometimes being a hero means having to make hard decisions like that.

Anyway, I was really getting my groove on - I said something about the cult being everywhere and nowhere at the same time, which sounded very cool, let me tell you - and suddenly I realised that I was wrestling a twelve year old girl in a park in the dead of night.

I swear to god I didn't realise. I thought it was a midget. Anyway, as soon as I can get through to Bea I'm going to ask her to check my top secret government file to see if they think I'm a kiddy-fiddler. I really don't need that right now.

Oh, also my new home has been broken into. By cultists. I've been renting this storage locker, which is seriously about a third of the rent of a real apartment, and I can fit all my stuff into it. I sleep on a couch I installed there. It's surprisingly comfy. I recommend it to anyone. Anyway, they didn't take anything of much value, apart from my wife's clothes. They're probably fitting them onto a straw doll or something even as I speak, and then they'll dance around it in a circle, shouting 'Big Dog, Big Dog, Bow wow wow, we'll crush a bit of evil, now now now'. I've seen it happen. It's what they do. I've decided to defer getting a new shrink until I've sorted the whole cult thing out, because I'm not paying good money to be healed of mental scars one day so they can tear me some new ones the next - that's just a waste of good shrink money.

Anyway, it's now total war with cultists. And also with shaving. I've got my beard back and if Ollie doesn't like it he can stop making up ridiculous stories and sending me cuttings from Spank Magazine Reader's Wives claiming that they're him and Sue. We're all sick of your tall stories, Ollie. We know about your big road trip to find America - or as Hal describes it, your trip to the Deli to stock up on milk. So much for finding your soul on the twisting roads of this great nation, you old blowhard.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

So Anyway, Bob Is The Quakemaster

I'm not entirely sure how I didn't see that earlier. Anyway, that's why I'm posting late this week and also why my apartment is now a pile of smoking rubble.

On the plus side, though, I did totally kick Dr Willis to the curb! So score one for me.

But back to Bob. The penny should finally have dropped when he started wandering around the apartment on Monday wearing a hideous green and purple number. I swear to god I am as liberal and tolerant as you can get but when I saw him standing there in skintight latex shouting about how he's going to use his power-charged jackhammer to teach me a lesson and pound me into the wall until I scream - what was I supposed to think? And then he orders me to go put on my costume so we can wrestle as befits Olympian Gods and not mere men. I know what happened on Mount Olympus. Say I'm just another example of the new wave of subtle homophobia that's plaguing modern American society if you like, but I thought Bob wanted to chain me to a slab in a dungeon and flog a giant puppet of me while I watched. I hear that's how it works when you're into hot, kinky deviant shenanigans.

So anyway, I told him I wasn't that way inclined and then he flew into a rage and told me I would feel the wrath of the Quakemaster. And then I did the dumbest thing imaginable, which is ask if Quakemaster was the name of the sex toy he was carrying. I swear it looked like a giant massager. And now I know who Quakemaster is, because he stuck his goddamned cosmic dildo against my NEW KITCHEN TILE which I'd finished less than 24 hours ago and basically obliterated it with the flick of a switch, and then started on the work surfaces.

It's one of those times that I really wish I had my stretch powers again. I know I go around telling people that I could stretch around if I felt like it, but I really felt like it then - I mean I wanted to elbow him in the face from across the room like I used to do to people who irritated me, even at parties. Anyway, he trashes the whole kitchen with this thing and then starts on the other rooms, and meanwhile Mrs. Levin next door is banging away telling me to keep the music down. Thanks Mrs Levin. I'm being murdered by a supervillain and you think it's japanese noisecore.

Anyway, my goose would've been cooked if not for that new guy, Supernova. When Bob blew out the window in the bathroom, he flew in and started taking care of business. I mean, seriously, he's got the skills. POW! SOCKO! All that stuff. Very old-school. It was all over in thirty seconds maybe, although they did destroy a couple more walls, including a supporting wall which means the whole building has to be closed in case it falls down, but that was Bob's fault, not Supernova's. And not mine either, despite what Mrs. Levin told the landlord. Anyway, thank God for Supernova, that's what I say. I figure I can turn my meeting with the Star Of Tomorrow (I thought that up, it's copyright Ralph Dibny) into a few tasty appearances on the Steve Lombard show. So I guess I can thank Supernova for a couple of extra thousand dollars in the bank as well as saving my hide. Thank you, Supernova! I am your biggest fan.

Hey - maybe I could be his 'pal'! Jimmy Olsen gets thousands in endorsement deals every year, and I've already got a signal device from the JLA days, which could be turned into a signal watch if I knew anything about signalling devices and how they work.

Apart from that, though, I'm homeless and the landlord kept the deposit and he's threatening to sue, which is ridiculous because supervillains attack buildings all the time. Apparently it was my fault for not vetting Bob thoroughly enough. Well excuse me Mr high-and-mighty Rabinowicz, but last time I checked, you had arrested precisely zero super-villains. I think the fact that I happened to let one slip by is no fault of mine.

Anyway, I took all this to Dr Willis and the first thing he asked me was whether I felt that my poor detective skills invalidated me as a human being. The first thing. Oh, he apologised after I hurled his diploma across the room and tipped the couch over, but it was too late for sorry! I've taken a lot of crap from that grotesque shyster but this was the last straw! This fraud, who couldn't diagnose his way out of a paper bag, telling ME - The World Famous Ex-Elongated Man - that I was a poor detective? I've had enough of his lies. He's called me a borderline psychotic, a manic depressive, a possible threat to those around me - he's even tried to addict me to mood-altering drugs - but this was the end. I walked out of his office for the last time, a free man, and if he thinks I'm paying for that last session he's got another think coming. Goodbye, Willis - goodbye forever.

Hourman (the new one who's a junkie or a pusher or something) recommended a guy called Dr. Huntoon, who seems to have a pretty good success rate. He operates in Gotham, which is a good town for profitable mysteries, so I'm going to head down there and see if there's any apartment space. Anyone got anywhere to live in Gotham? I don't smoke.

Oh, there was another postcard from Ram forwarded to me. Apparently he's into Johnny Moustache for three hundred large and he's contracted some kind of disease from the red light district and can I send a check for expenses. I'm starting to wonder if this has anything to do with finding Loring at all.

Friday, July 07, 2006

Oh God

I despise myself.

I was supposed to go on the TV this morning on the 'Steve Lombard Early Early Morning Greatest Sports Bloopers Of All Time Show' (6.45am on GBS) to give my list of which ten superheroes are the biggest famewhores but I just couldn't face it. It seems like this week all I could do was look over and over the events of my pathetic, wasted life.

I was telling Dr Willis that when I think back now over my early adventures, it's like all the color's been drained out out of them. But the thing that really hurts is that everything I got up to in the early days just seems so... cheap. Like all those years of solving mysteries put together isn't even worth seventeen bucks. Or twenty-three dollars Canadian. Just a bunch of cheap thrills about painting horses purple or far out crooks who jigsawed Flip Philips' long green. Whatever the hell that means. I hated Flip Philips then and I hate him now. And I hate myself. A lot.

Once upon a time I lived to solve strange and bizarre mysteries. Now the only strange and bizarre mystery is why I should get out of bed in the morning. And this time it isn't a fake mystery my wife cooked up to celebrate my birthday. Because it isn't my birthday and my wife is a charred corpse.

Dr Willis told me I should start taking the pills again, but he's probably trying to poison me. Like all the others. He thinks I don't know about the eyes watching me, but you need to get up pretty early in the morning to catch Ralph Dibny. Actually, you don't have to get up at all. I haven't yet today. The point is, Dr Willis is a lying bastard who's trying to pump my brain full of an assortment of dangerous mind-frying chemicals to cover up the fact that he's the worst therapist ever. In fact he's the worst human ever. Apart from Booster, that is. He's the actual worst. Apart from Bob, who's the actual actual worst. He defecated in the microwave yesterday, but I can't find the willpower to clean it out. When I confronted him about it, he told me that the day of the super-do-gooders was over and now crime would rule the city, which seems like a fairly pessimistic viewpoint. I guess he's as depressed as I am.

I'm going to go and stick my gun in my mouth again. I've gotten around the taste problem by coating the end of it with honey glaze and sticking a chupa chup into the barrel, so hopefully I'll actually pull the trigger this time. So I guess it's goodbye forever.

EDIT: I haven't pulled the trigger yet, but I did get another card from Ram. He's in Las Vegas now, apparently snorting crack cocaine off the breasts of a C-list adult film star. It sounds like some pretty deep undercover work to me, so I hope he's okay. He's probably going to need some extra money if he's going this deep into danger so I sent him $1000 out of my checking account. I don't need it, because this time it totally is goodbye forever. So goodbye forever, everybody!

EDIT: I still haven't pulled the trigger yet and I'm out of chupa chups. But I will. Soon. Goodbye forever. I mean it this time.