Thursday, August 31, 2006

I've Never Been Shot With A Tranquiliser Dart Before

It's kind of like playing paintball, only with mood-altering drugs instead of paint.

So yeah, basically Dr Willis got really angry with me, hunted me down like an animal and shot me full of Tamazepam. For something I didn't even do. I mean, there is such a thing as due process in this country, Doctor Vigilantism. Sorry my civil rights offend you, dude. Jesus.

Okay, so I ran around naked for a while. So I survived by eating berries off trees and stealing pies from windowsills. So I gave a few internet cafe users a cheap thrill on my occasional forays into civilisation. And yes, I'll admit, maybe I gloated unreasonably over Booster's horrific, painful death. Possibly I may have been a touch insensitive towards any friends or relatives he might have had. Perhaps. (If you are a friend or relative of Booster and you're reading this, and Booster left you money in his will, please remember that $230 of that money is rightfully mine.) But that doesn't mean that Doctor Punishment can just run up and shoot a high-velocity needle full of happy juice into my ass.

Damn, I'm getting really steamed. Time for one of the blue pills.

Anyway, sorry I offended you, friends of Booster. Actually, considering most of his friends seem to be dying like flies, there probably aren't any left to complain - I mean, Ted got shot, Dmitri was blown up or something and even Buddy's missing presumed dead in the depths of space (although he's been lost in space for a long time before that if you get my meaning. He's a couple of goats short of a petting zoo). Frankly, I'm pretty sure that if Sue had ever told Booster to his face what she thought of him, she'd be alive today. (Hey, how about that, Dr Willis? I managed to mention Sue's name without oh god christ

Sorry, I had my gun in my mouth for a while there. Time for another of the orange pills! Dr Willis has turned me on to the the benefits of taking my medication regularly. According to the packaging, if I have too many of the big pink ones my heart might stop, but an extra dose of sanity-sweets never hurt anybody, right? Right?

Where was I? Oh yeah, the reason Dr Willis turned into Judge Prozac. Apparently he figured I was responsible for shaving Ollie's beard off last week, the sole reason being that it's something I've fantasised privately about for the last eight years. There's a thing we have in this country called innocent until proven guilty, Doctor Robert Lynchmob.

Anyway, it turned out it was the All-New Beard Hunter, who's a hot chick now. She used to be a bearded lady at the circus, but she lost her beard in a tragic depilatory accident and now she's decided that if she can't have a beard neither can anybody else, so she came up with this plot to steal the beards of the Justice League, only she sent one to Dr Willis by mistake. Happens all the time.

One by one, the beards fell to her power! She got Hal Jordan's horrible sideburns from when he was 'on the road' about eight decades after it was cool. She stole Superman's beard from one of those times he was off in space and had to grow one for some reason. The Flash tried to grow a goatee once. Where is it now? Being used to power a deadly ray, that's where!

All the super-powered beards went into a beard ray designed to wipe the beard from every adult male in the western hemisphere and then transfer all that beard growth to her so she'd grow a giant beard and be Queen Beard of the Universe. As evil plans go, it was fairly straightforward, which was nice.

Anyway, it was probably the biggest crisis to hit this planet in its entire history. Every superhero on Earth got together to fight the beard threat - Jesus, what am I telling you all this crap for? It's not as if you don't know about it already. It was all over the news. The only way you could possibly have missed it was if you were in space for five days.

Still, you probably want to know how we managed to end the threat - by uniting all the souls of Earth's heroes into one giant Soul Patch, which faced off against her Evil Spock Goatee that she'd made with the spirit energy of Earth's villain population! Beard Versus Beard in a battle for the fate of the very cosmos entire! Finally she was absorbed into her own evil beard, becoming a huge cosmic energy creature, which always seems to happen during these get-togethers, although they're not usually made of hair with bits of food stuck in it. Anyway, we beat her up despite that and won the Crisis On Infinite Beards or Crisis On Follicle Earth or whatever we're calling it.

Ollie's beard sacrificed its life to save us all in a battle against Deathstroke's beard, so we buried it on a specially constructed Hill Of Heroism, in a shoebox. And then Dr Willis snuck up on me and shot me in the ass.

Nobody wants to think about how close we came to a world without beards, so it's not being talked about at all anymore on the news or the internet or anywhere else, but even if nobody ever mentions it again, I'll always look up at the stars and thank the Bearded God Almighty that - thanks to the courage and commitment of this world's mighty collection of hairy heroes - I'll always be able to grow a really excellent crop of face foliage.

Oooh, time for one of my pink pills!

Friday, August 25, 2006

This time Ralph has gone too far.

Hello, all.

As you will all no doubt be aware at this late stage, I am Dr Robert Amersham Willis, Phd. I would like also to state that I am responsible for Mr Ralph William Dibny's mental care. I would like to - but I cannot! For he has finally gone so far beyond the pale that I must regrettably wash my hands of him. As Emily Dickinson would have it, "behaviour is what a man does, not what he thinks, feels, or believes" - and Ralph's behaviour over the past 24 hours has been so utterly shocking that I can scarcely type for my shaking hands.

I received a package from Federal Express this morning. As you can imagine, I was at a loss as to who might have sent it to me, as most of my friends know that I despise the hustle and bustle of these modern times, in particular the disgusting haste embodied in the Federal Express commercials, and would rather recieve a letter or other item through the refreshingly civilised auspices of the noble postie. After all, is there anything created by man or God which absolutely, positively has to be anywhere before elevenses have been consumed? I hardly think so. When I have a missive to send or a parcel to post I always find that it relaxes the mind immeasurably to leave it unsent on the table while enjoying a snifter of fine brandy and a cigar. This allows me to consider what I am about to send off into the rushing current of the mail service and perhaps take the time to amend a hasty decision or two. This very journal entry will be finely considered over a small glass of twelve-year-old malt, as I digest a luncheon of quail's eggs and pate de foie gras. In this way, we men of refinement cock a snook at the world of vulgarity which rages, like unto the tide of chaos that existed before the world began, all around us. But I digress.

In the package was Oliver Queen's beard.

I am at a loss as to how the deed was done. A mayoral candidate must presumably have some form of security to guard against ne'er-do-wells, and I understand that Mr Queen is great friends with a certain righter of wrongs with whom he happens to share a resemblance that verges on the uncanny. Be that as it may, somehow - despite being still, as far as I can determine, completely denuded of any and all habiliment aside from an unprepossessing hat - Dibny managed to gain entrance into Mr Queen's residence in the watches of the night, shave his facial area and send me the resultant mass of hair.

Mr Queen himself called me not half and hour ago, bemoaning the time and effort it would take him to regrow his pride and joy. "Baby," he said, adopting his usual vernacular, "right now, my chin is a lonely worker oppressed by a slumlord - cold and alone on Misery Street, without even a newspaper to keep him warm! And dig it - my lower lip feels the pain of the rainforests, cut down and stripped bare to feed the grease-fat bellies of the fat cats in their ivory towers! How can I be down with the kids - and their 'hip', 'now' struggle for their own crazy truth - if I don't even have a groovy set of sideburns to call my own? Something is wrong! Something is killing us all! Some hideous moral cancer is rotting our very souls and beards!"

While I thoroughly detest the man, on this occasion I could do naught but sympathise with his tragic loss. Tonsorial elegance is perhaps the hardest attribute for any man of worth to achieve, and to have such a stylish facial accoutrement amputated without so much as a by-your-leave - well, it sickens the mind and befouls the soul to contemplate it!

Ralph has crossed the line! To think that I once felt pity for that wretch of a man! But now is not the time for regrets. Now is the time for action! And action there must and shall be! "Fortune befriends the bold," as Emily Dickinson said!

This will be the last entry I choose to make in this forum, for it is unseemly to be contributing my thoughts to the journal of one who is no longer my patient - but is now my arch-nemesis! Look to the forbidding sky, and tremble, Ralph Dibny! For by this vile deed you have incurred the incalculable wrath of Dr. Robert Amersham Willis, Phd!

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Ralph, if you're reading this, please turn yourself in or at least put on some clothes.

I've just heard from the Metropolis police department, Ralph. They're very busy checking for deadly radiation in the midtown area and giving everybody decontamination and they really don't have the manpower to chase a mentally unstable nudist. Also, the midtown Metropolis branch of Go-Go Luthor's Swingin' Coffee Bean And Internet Paradise Bongo Cafe (dear god, I despise that chain, it panders to the worst instincts of the culturally stagnant) called saying that you owe them three dollars and fifteen cents for the time spent on their machine before the police managed to arrive.

From what I understand of the chain of events, the police were informed that a naked man was rampaging through the above-mentioned internet cafe. When they finally arrived on the scene, the naked man in question - now identified as one Ralph William Dibny - had decided to slap his accoutrements repeatedly against a monitor screen with an enlarged image of poor Booster Gold's dessicated skull plastered across it, shouting - and I quote - "The sucky dance, is your chance, to do the suck. Do the sucky suck, come on Booster, do the sucky suck."

I understand that this is a mangling of a song by a group called Digital Underground. One of the police officers who held his gun on you is something of a fan.

I also understand that you extricated yourself from this hideous situation by hurling something at the arresting officers that is unmentionable in polite society. I refuse to go into further details on a blog which children may have access to, but I want you to understand how very, very disappointed in you I am.

Hurling your gametes is not the sign of a well-balanced individual.

Give yourself up, Ralph. I'm warning you, I don't take a personal hand in the affairs of my patients very often. I generally don't have to. But you're about to cross a line, Ralph. It's a line you'd rather not cross, I warn you now. Don't cross my line, Ralph. Walk the other way. In a metaphorical sense. In a non-metaphorical sense, any direction will do so long as it's towards either a police station or a reputable tailor. But the line is inviolate.

This is not an empty threat. Remember the words of Emily Dickinson, Ralph. "It is better to be the hammer than to be the anvil." Cross me again, Ralph, and I warn you that it shall be hammer time.

And nobody wants that.



Did anybody record it on Tivo? I hear GBS zoomed in on his smoking skull. Can somebody burn that to DVD for me? Also if anyone has any clothes.

Dammit the cops are here gotta go

Friday, August 11, 2006

My love of Emily Dickinson has caused something of a rift.

Hello again.

My name is Dr Robert Willis, Phd, and as many of you will know, I have taken over the writing of this journal while Mr Dibny is convalescing from mental damage at the hands of Mr Hal Jordan and his sleazy associate, Mr Oliver Queen. Many of you have been curious as to how Mr Dibny has been keeping over the past few days, and whether the brief periods of lucidity demonstrated in the comments section - mostly where money is involved - mark a return to the Ralph we have all grown to know and tolerate. Well, as Emily Dickinson put it, "Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed" and in this respect I must confess to count success as very sweet indeed. In other words, I have failed Mr Dibny, and I have failed you, his supporters and well-wishers. Oh, the shame of it!

Ralph is missing and has not been seen in thirty-six hours.

He appears to have climbed out of the window of one of the staff toilets, dropped twenty feet into a tree and then made his way from there. I'm somewhat worried for him as - as far as I know - he is completely stark naked. "Wherever you are, that is home", Emily Dickinson would say in this situation, but I doubt a naked man with a severe and violent mental complaint has a home anywhere in polite society.

At least he's left that horrid dummy behind. I shall break the vile thing up and use it for fuel this coming winter, as it promises to be brisk.

Casting my mind back to the hour of his disappearance from my company, I seem to remember that he had become fixated on his reputation as a detective.

To quote: "Get that needle out of me you god-damned fraud! I'm a world-famous detective and Emily Dickinson is a world-famous ho! You heard me, Dickinson! You can suck it! SUCK IT!!"

Unwilling as I am to forgive so merciless a slight against the divine Emily Dickinson, I very much regret my later course of action. Receiving a telephone call from another psychiatric institute - this one being a centre for the treatment of criminally insane scientists with a propensity towards the outre - I was informed that they had a missing persons case that was baffling them and that they understood my patient was something of a devotee of bizarre and fantastic mysteries.

I should make it clear that this is the telephone call Mr Dibny has been waiting for for some years, as he has always felt that solving strange mysteries is his true calling and any other line of work is beneath him. I told the staff at The Haven that Mr Dibny would be glad to take the case as soon as his health was improved, and then - shamefully and against all proper psychiatric practice - I dangled the phone call like a carrot before him, playing upon his love of the detective arts like Marcel Tournier (1879-1951) playing upon a harp. As soon as he demonstrated that he was fit to rejoin civilisation, I said, he could get straight to work. I may have demanded an apology on behalf of Emily Dickinson as well.

After an initial flash of rage and violent threats, during which time he threatened to burst free from his straightjacket, he calmed considerably and seemed fascinated by the prospect of solving a new case. He begged me to fetch him his medications so that we might drive over at once and investigate.

Fool that I am! He merely wanted me out of the room so that he could mount his escape bid. He had loosened his bonds sufficiently to slip free, and now ran to the nearest unbarred window to hurl himself into the leafy arms of his compatriot on the road to freedom, the humble Quercus laceyi, before running naked into the distance like some sort of mentally deranged wood-nymph. Needless to say, this represents such an immense psychiatric faux pas on my part that I can hardly see how I shall ever face my other patients again.

I can only assume that Ralph intends to solve the puzzle of Dr Morrow's vanishing into the ether, though how he intends to do that without the benefit of clothes is beyond me. I have the police scouring the neighbourhood for him, but should they fail to find him, I fear the worst - swift degeneration into a mindset more befitting that of a wild animal than a human being.

Ah, well. "People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles", as Emily Dickinson said.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Mr Dibny has had a slight setback.


My name is Dr Robert Willis, Phd, and contrary to what Mr Dibny might have told you, I have Phd's in Psychology, Applied Psychiatry and Philosophy, all of which are pursuits which edify and elucidate the lives of men. It's no secret that since the loss of his wife he's been somewhat erratic, and his refusal to take his medication has made him worse and worse with each passing day, but unfortunately an event this week seems to have triggered a descent into almost total psychosis. As I am the one who convinced Mr Dibny to begin this journal, and it is the only suggestion of mine that he has ever followed - including suggestions such as 'please don't hit me again Mr Dibny' - I feel somewhat obligated to continue posting on his behalf until such time as he feels more able to take the reins. I attempted to pacify him by giving him the laptop earlier, but he only got a sentence out before hurling it across the room and attempting to attack me in a fit of demented rage, so it looks like it's down to me to let you all know where Mr Dibny is and what he is doing at the moment.

He's strapped down to a bed in the Opal City Psychiatric Hospital, and he's foaming at the mouth and howling like some kind of baboon. More on that as it develops. Also, he seems to be very attached to the remains of a shop window dummy of some kind that's lying in the corner of the room.

I've only managed to get the vaguest idea of what the event was that sent him over the edge, but it seems to be connected with some sort of service for his dead wife, being held by the dubious cult he had (very much against my advice) made himself a part of. It seems that since the idea was to 'bring his wife back from the dead' (presumably a metaphor) he invited a number of other people who had previously been 'dead' (again, presumably a metaphor) so they could compare notes. I think he was planning to greenlight a TV series of some kind about it - I know he's been very active on the Steve Lombard Sports Bloopers Show recently, which I wholeheartedly approve of as Lombard's delightful parody of a beer-swilling NASCAR-headed booby places him as one of the great thespians of our generation. I watch his sublime broadcast daily. But I digress.

Now from what I've heard of this ceremony, I wholeheartedly approve of it. It seems like a brilliant theraputic idea - getting the bereaved to confront their feelings of loss head-on in invisible theater! Genius! I'm going to set up a similar 'cult' myself and try it on some of my other patients. However, on the day, Mr Dibny was sadly suffering from an attack of paranoia, which meant that he sought reassurance from the friends and collegues that he'd brought to witness the event. In particular, a Mr Jordan and a Mr Queen. I would have thought that any friends of a man with a severe mental disorder would think twice before goading said man into one of his periodic violent outbreaks.

Evidently I would have thought wrongly.

If Mr Jordan and Mr Queen are reading this, I'd like to point the finger of blame directly at them. You gentlemen, in your apparent desire to play a fratenity house prank, have sent Mr Dibny's therapy back years! If not decades! The man may never recover! What in God's name were you thinking? Using Google, I've discovered that Mr Queen is in fact running for Mayor of one of our neighbouring cities - doubtless this ugly tomfoolery is his idea of a mayoral campaign. Well it isn't mine, and the Star City Herald will be hearing of this in the morning, as soon as I can be sure Mr Dibny's vital signs will remain stable. As for Mr Jordan, I will be content with bringing proceedings against him in a civil court.

When I found Mr Dibny, he was under a bridge, clutching the aforementioned shop window dummy, with what can only be described as a 'lunatic grin' on his face. (I've been chasing him for weeks in a final desperate attempt to get him to take his medication.) He literally collapsed into my arms and apologised for calling me a quack and a charlatan! I knew then that he was at his breaking point. This is not the Raph Dibny who punched me in the face and slashed my couch with a straight razor when I accidentally insulted his dignity. This is a broken shell of a man! I hope you're happy, Mr Jordan.

This anger I'm feeling towards these overgrown schoolboys who've all but destroyed Mr Dibny's health is starting to take its toll on my own mental equilibrium, as the poets might say, and besides, Mr Dibny has begun shrieking again, so I must depart. I'll be continuing this journal over the coming weeks, so I can give reports of Mr Dibny's progress to the people he considers his real friends, such as...

Such as...

Well, I'll speak to you all next time, whoever you may be.