Just Biden Time

There’s few headlines that immediately send chills down my spine, but anything with Joe Biden, a man I’m convinced learned his governance politics from The Dukes of Hazard and G.I. Joe, gets me every time.

I mean it’s Joe’s very presence that makes me cringe whenever I hear Obama’s name during the nightly news because anyone foolhardy enough to include Biden in their administration is looking to have a national holiday named after them, if you catch my drift.


But there it is: “Biden to Iraq”.

How do these things happen?

I’ve got to imagine that good ol’ Uncle Joe must’ve muscled his way into that assignment, literally ripping the brief from Hillary’s hands during a meeting (“GO FIND YOURSELF A SKIRT, HILLY—MARRIED DAMES DON’T WEAR PANTS”) and then appointing himself as the “NU DIRECTOR OF STUFF SHE DID”.

His thinking? “LOOK BARACKY, YA DON’T SEND SECRETARIES TO DO A BOSS’ JOB, AM I RIGHT FELLAS?” (and then looks bewilderingly around the room).

Biden, who probably insists on being called things like “J.B.” or, “OPTIMUS PRIME” by the staff, was then probably sent to Iraq with the equivalent of “It’s over” on a Five Guys napkin signed by Barack and simply had to hand it over.

Biden consults with Roadblock on the Tomahawk.

He’d nod; Barack would nod.
Then Biden would leave the Oval Office, stuffing the napkin into his mouth.


This is what happens when two your V.P. has watched ‘The Expendables’.

So yeah, he’ll get there, and in typical Biden fashion he’ll try and handle things his own way.

Instead of brokering peace or announcing U.S. withdrawal, one can bet that J.B. will instead do the following with (or rather, “to”) Iraq’s leaders:

  • First, he’ll introduce himself as an honored guest by bringing something like monkey brains or burning hearts or whatever else he gleaned while watching ‘Temple of Doom’ on the Tomahawk flight in. And probably a case of Yoo-Hoo because Uncle Joe looks like he drinks that kind of stuff.


  • Challenge the Iraqi leaders to an arm-wrestling contest. All of them. At the same time.
  • Suggest doing an “Strongman” competition where they’ll see who can pull a tank the farthest, using nothing but, “BACK MUSCLES, ROPE AND A LITTLE THING I CALL ‘CAN-DOISM’ ”. The winner “GETS THE UNIVERSE”.
  • Suggest doing an “Ironman” competition where they’ll see who can make a  flying suit of armor first out of IED fragments. What’s that–a flying suit sounds impossible? Not if you were smart enough to buy “magic beans” off that Iraqi boy outside the embassy like Uncle Joe did…..


Within 15mins, not only will we not withdraw troops, we’ll have jumpstarted a whole new skirmish with Iraq thanks to J.B. Trust me; this won’t end well.

So when it does happen, don’t say you didn’t know before hand.

After all, knowing is half the battle.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

We Wear the Mosque

Straight out of the Book of Predictability (it’s the little-read 8th book after the Deathly Hallows), Americans the country over are up in arms about the proposed mosque to be built on Ground Zero.

It’s got people sending in angry emails and comments to places like Huffington Post, Slate.com and the Washington Post. Why even as I was perusing the khakis section on Gap.com, there was a comment in the customer review section (“these khakis fit as tight as my wedding ring; oh and F-CK THAT MOSQUE @ GRD ZERO WE CANT LET THEM WIN NEVER FORGET. Oh, and I suggest getting ur pants at Banana Republic”).

So, it’s everywhere.

While it’s not important to sweat the details, let’s sweat the details for a minute, ok?

YOU ARE HERE. Allah is everywhere!

For starters, the mosque isn’t even at Ground Zero—it’s about 2 blocks and around a corner, from the World Trade Center site, thereby making it about as “on Ground Zero” as I was “all up on Erykah Badu” when I was sitting in the 32 rows from her at her concert a couple months ago.

Secondly, the site isn’t fully a mosque, it’s a community/cultural center (something that clearly many of us could use a bit more of) with a prayer room set aside. Again, important—it’s not fair calling this place a “mosque” just because it has Muslim-related activities happening in there. I mean the local Catholic church has the occasional handjobs but we don’t call it a “whorehouse” just because they happen to collect offerings before they do it.

So if we’re going to get mad about landmarks in our good cities, I fear we’re a little behind the times.

Everywhere you look, we’ve erected statues, bridges, tunnels and holidays to tons of white guys who’s answer to ‘domestication’ was repeatedly Smurfing-up the lives of brown people every time they came across them. We’re talking generations, centuries. For some perspective, take a look at the long-running White Dudes Are F-cking This Place Up Show:

From Kidsipedia

  1. White Dudes Are F-cking This Place Up Show(like, forever)
  2. Meet the Press (62 years)
  3. The Today Show (58 years)
  4. Black Eyed Peas (only about 15 years, but fuck, doesn’t it FEEL a lot longer?)

"I'll have those teeth now, Erasmus."

….but yet they get all the acclaim and prestige for doing things like “writing the country’s rules on a bar napkin” (my friends and I have had about a zillion great ideas about how to fix things: education, poverty, the Eagles, Seal’s face but just didn’t have the powdered wigs and wooden teeth to get the job done).

Anyway, these guys were slave owners—slave owners!—and we celebrate them like Superbowl champs.

I mean there’s Washington and his famous “wooden teeth”—which, historians have later discovered weren’t wooden teeth at all, but actually the teeth of his slaves fitted into his mouth.

First of all, I now understand that any white person that I see on TV kissing a dog, monkey or old person on the mouth is a clear descendant of Washington. Secondly, how the f-ck do you wear other people’s teeth? And how much must it suck if you’re the house slave serving old gum-bucks Washington some hot grits, fried chicken and okra, and have to watch him eat that food with your own teeth?

"The Colonel's secret ingredient is slavery!"

“Sweet Freedom of Speech, Erasmus! This chicken is to whip for*– I would say ‘I must have the recipe!’, but I have you! Why, if I had the intention of freeing you, which I will not because I need you and your family’s strong backs and teeth, I would suggest you start your own business. What I do need is for my good friend the Colonel to try some of this though. Colonel Sanders—come have some of fried chicken I made! It will change your life! I must say Erasmus, this ‘America’ idea is coming up roses!”

I mean, even Benny Franklin, beloved real-life Reed Richards of early America, had a couple of slaves too—oh you think it was Franklin holding that kite?

“Ben Franklin Test Slave #99; please go outside and hold this metal key on a kite string up to the stormy skies. I have a theory that the lightning of the attracted to that key will either hold great power or kill you. As I am a scientist and inventor I am fine with either outcome. I am now off to have my face sketched. We’re going to put it on money and use it here. I must say Ben Franklin Test Slave #99—this America idea is coming up roses!”

Fortunately, BF Test Slave #99 would later get revenge as Candy Man.

But yet, we don’t make a fuss about the blood, hypocrisy and Negro teeth that these guys started as a virtual legacy here in the United States; I mean ask the Native American population how it feels to have their cumulative land mass reduced to somewhere between Gilligan’s Island and Lost.

So start burning that money. Take down some tunnels. Cut the cables on the GW Bridge. Flip over that Lincoln Towncar.

Franklin waits outside the U.S. Mint drawing room for his turn.

We can’t let them win, right?

*this was before the assassinations of JFK, Malcolm X, MLK and hip-hop, when the phrase was appropriately changed to “…to die for”.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Girl Power!

Dr. Laura is one of those media “doctors” that I never believe is really a doctor. 


In a pop culture universe littered with Dr. Phil, Dr. Drew, Dr. Ruth, Dr. Oz and Dr. Doom, there’s no telling whether you’re getting advice on marriage, drug abuse or How To Kill That Meddlesome Fantastic Four! 

Hell, I’m still locked up in litigation behind my suing Dr. J for all the heightening years I lost drinking Dr. Pepper because of his say-so as a “doctor” (and I’ll win dammit, I will). 

So it’s of little surprise to me that Dr. Laura, one of those shrill talking heads that occasionally spawns other Talking Things like Anne C*nter Coulter and Glenn Beck from the recesses of her hate-box, completely lost her WebMd-ness on air the other day talking to a black female caller who was phoning in about her troubles with her white husband’s racist friends. 

Instead of offering her usual “tough-talk” advice, Dr. Laura slipped on her finest white robes and said the following: 

Black guys use it all the time. Turn on HBO and listen to a black comic, and all you hear is n****, n*****, n*****. I don’t get it. If anybody without enough melanin says it, it’s a horrible thing. But when black people say it, it’s affectionate. It’s very confusing. 

"Anyone ever tell you you look like Magic Johnson? No? Well, n****, you do! It's ok; I'm a doctor."

The Kids Note: In case you’re wondering, the n***** does not stand for “nachos”, though black guys are pretty fond of nachos, and there was definitely at least one drunken night in College Park I ran through the streets yelling, “nacho, nachos, NACHOS“. 

But she didn’t stop there. I mean, once you’ve opened Pandora’s Box and discovered there’s sins, Justin Beiber and some n***** in there, well, you can’t just sit there and try and put the lid back on, right? You got to let those n***** out! And so, that’s what Dr. Laura proceeded to do. 

To wit: 

CALLER: Is it OK to say that word? Is it ever OK to say that word?
DR. LAURA: It depends how it’s said. Black guys talking to each other seem to think it’s ok.
CALLER: But you’re not black, they’re not black, my husband is white.
DR. LAURA: Oh, I see, so a word is restricted to race. Got it. Can’t do much about that.
CALLER: I can’t believe someone like you is on the radio spewing out the n***** word, and I hope everybody heard it.
DR. LAURA: I didn’t spew out the n***** word!
CALLER: You said “n*****, n*****, n*****” and I hope everybody heard it.
DR. LAURA: Yes they did, and I’ll say it again: n*****, n*****, n***** is what you hear on HBO.
DR. LAURA: Why don’t you let me finish a sentence? Don’t take things out of context. Don’t NAACP me, leave them in context. 

Props to Dr. Laura for keeping her head on long enough to not only find about 8 more ways to use the N-word, but also, in perhaps a vain attempt to get some street-cred (’cause Dr. Laura knows that n****** love street-cred like it’s Capital One) she even found the time to coin a new slang phrase: “Don’t NAACP me”, which will now join “stop hatin’ ” and “do you” in the Oxford Dictionary lexicon of phrases. 

Then, in a painful attempt to rectify the situation, Dr. Laura went on air to apologize for her tirade: 

She then got on the air the next day to issue a painfully awkward apology:  

“Yesterday, I did the wrong thing,” she said. “I didn’t intend to hurt people, but I did. And that makes it the wrong thing to have done. I was attempting to make a philosophical point, and I articulated the “n” word all the way out – more than one time. And that was wrong. I’ll say it again – that was wrong. I guess I didn’t realize n***** were so sensitive.” 

Ok, ok, ok–I made the first 3-4 sentences up. Guilty. 

But as if this circus of slurs wasn’t enough, who decides to come to her rescue? 

"Look at me, I'm 'urban'! Bang! Bang! Gimme muh welfare!"

Everyone’s favorite clueless aunt, Sarah Palin! 

Palin issued the following on Twitter, most likely via one of those microphones that quadriplegics use to type since she’s illiterate: 

Dr.Laura:don’t retreat…reload! (Steps aside bc her 1st Amend.rights ceased 2exist thx 2activists trying 2silence”isn’t American,not fair”) 

Dr.Laura=even more powerful & effective w/out the shackles, so watch out Constitutional obstructionists. And b thankful 4 her voice,America! 

…..all of which sounds like the outtakes of Rush Limbaugh’s failed “Schoolhouse Rock” tapes. 

So, at the end of the day, what do we learn? 

  1. “Post-racial America” looks a lot like “Racial America”
  2. Sarah Palin is like the white conservatives’ Al Sharpton
  3. Dr. Laura should be really, really glad ‘Chappelle’s Show’ isn’t on anymore
  4. ….but ‘The Boondocks’ is still on TV
  5. ….and that she’s already dropped enough N-bombs to warrant 80% of a rap record
  6. Sarah Palin apparently outsources her Twitter account to 12 yr olds probably can’t spell


Filed under Uncategorized

Alicia Keys: Octomom

Don't feed after midnight.

If you hadn’t heard by now, Alicia Keys, Grammy-award-winning music-harpy, is pregnant with Swizz Beatz’ (famed hip-hop producer that resembles something between Star Wars concept art and an Middle Eastern Pinocchio) baby.

Normally such news calls for congratulations and, if you have a Facebook account, an opportunity to do creepy shit like change your profile pic to your first sonogram.

But here at The Kids headquarters, I see it as just another attempt by Keys to get people to swoon over her.

First of all, it should be noted that Keys and Beats got together after Keys played an instrumental part in breaking up Swizz’s marriage.

Wait, that's not Alicia! Maybe....

According to reports, Keys and Beatz (I love going back and forth between calling him “Beatz” or “Swizz”) met while collaborating on some music, and during that time together, she apparently convinced Swizz that the screeching sound that he heard in the listening booth wasn’t (just) her singing voice but her Heart Singing too.

And apparently Keys dug Beatz’ swagger so much she let him stay over at some point, bang her Keys and see her minus the Proactiv, eventually getting knocked up. This will be Beatz’ 3rd or 4th child–ah, I can’t remember son, too busy countin’ these Swizz Beatz hits!–which just goes to show you that even in this day and age, at the end of the day, people are still using a Swizz Army Knife as their go-to tool.

...oops! Still not Alicia!

Unsurprisingly, people are all curious about the sex of the child, though I find myself much more worried what Keys will give birth to.

Let’s look at the likely outcomes of an Alicia Keys baby:

  • another “Empire State of Mind” or worse yet,
  • “Alicia Keys Discography”, but most likely,
  • “Godzilla”


That’s about it. That’s our choices. I’m not sure about you, but I don’t want to live in a world with Godzilla in it, and certainly don’t want one with “Empire State of Mind” in it.

What at least comforts me is knowing that a baby will pull Keys out of the spotlight at least through the larvae stage.

As for Swizz Beatz?

Well, if history’s any indication, he’s probably already making hits with Lady GaGa.

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Killing Me Softly

If you haven’t heard, it’s been quite the biblical stretch:

When I checked my Mayan calendar (I got it during the time Nickelodeon was giving Maya the Bee calendars to every 5th caller one summer), it presaged the following:

  • Chelsea Clinton shall get married, which will beget
  • ….the state of California approving gay marriage, (history will call this the “Oprah, Gail King Bill”) which will beget today’s post:
  • …. Wyclef Jean running for president of Haiti

When I heard the news that Wyclef Jean had intentions to run for the presidential office of Haiti, I first had to Wikipedia Wyclef Jean to make sure that he was actually still alive.

He is; just turns out his career’s been dead for about 6 years.

If you didn’t already know, Wyclef is probably Haiti’s best-known talent; for perspective there was a time when New Jersey’s claim to fame was being the birthplace of Joe Piscopo, which is funny whether you know who he is or not.

I’m incredibly mystified by this decision, and somehow, in the deepest darkest corners of my mind, I secretly feel that I should blame Obama for inspiring a nation of people to think that little experience shouldn’t mean anything when it comes to big dreams.

But alas; Wyclef Jean?

When Anderson Cooper reached out to some people in Haiti for reactions to the Wyclef news, the only response he got was “Please, stop; we’re just getting back on our feet”.

Seems fair, right?

Well, it appears he’s not; the Haitian council ruled that Jean was ineligible to run based on the fact that Haitian law requires that candidates be a resident of Haiti for at least 5 years, and have been off Lauryn Hill’s tit for at least 1/2 that time.

What was once senseless bravado–he made the announcement that he was running on ‘Larry King Live’, a show that Jean apparently thinks Haitians watch when they’re not too busy playing Joe vs the Volcano back home–was quickly reduced to rubble by the council’s decision as legit candidates eventually surfaced.

This was an unfortunate turn of events since before the decision had arrived, Jean’s only opposition for office was the Earthquake and Marvel Comic’s Brother Voodoo, though both were leading Wyclef in Gallup polls:

Gallup Poll: Who Would You Vote For in the Upcoming Haiti Presidential Election?

  • Brother Voodoo (fictional superhero with voodoo-based powers): 35%
  • Black Panther (superhero king of fictional African kingdom): 31%
  • Haitian Earthquake (Mother Nature’s bastard child, demolished Haiti): 20%
  • Black panther (savage animal last scene in Janet Jackson video):  12%
  • Wyclef Jean (former Fugees group member last seen wrestling a black panther for money–owed to black panther): 2%

While most people who make shitty records but decide to run for Haitian president on a basis as seemingly scientific as iTunes sales would eventually understand that hey, maybe my dilapidated country doesn’t need my help, Wyclef Jean takes the fight to the streets of Twitter, apparently another bastion of Haitian communication:

“We have met all the requirements set by the laws. And the law must be Respected.” via Wyclef Jean Twitter

I’m guessing that “Respect” is capitalized because it’s probably also the name of his upcoming shitty album.

But then, is his dream really that insane? And aren’t we partially to blame?

We’ve already voted Arnold Schwarzen-N-word, Sonny Bono, Jesse Ventura, Al Franken and Bill Bradley into office over the years–a cast of name that seems more appropriate for Celebrity Apprentice than political office–so maybe Wyclef’s not so crazy.

I mean hell, if he can bring Lauryn Hill back, it’s worth it, right?


Filed under Uncategorized

“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”: Behind the Iron Curtain

Man, these C.R.A.P.’s are getting further and further apart, aren’t they?

Well, we’ll have to make sure we change that, won’t we?

You bet your ass we do.

Pat's to the Sofitel's Geno's

So, if you’re unfamiliar with these entries, the C.R.A.P. is a detailed review of public places to take a dump here in the City of Brotherly Love and United Hatred for McNabb (and occasionally elsewhere) and is reviewed according to several specific criteria: Cleanliness, Remoteness, Access, Privacy. All of which of course equals “C.R.A.P.”.

Some people find the categories a little redundant; they say, “hey Kids, aren’t access and remoteness sort of the same?”, to which I usually say, “hey, go write your own shit, Dear Abby; I’ll handle mine”.

As the kids (not to be confused with The Kids) say: do you.

And so, without further ado-doo, the latest C.R.A.P.

The Kids Don’t Get It Sends You Some Shit From Hotel Palomar, With Love

Turn the wrong faucet on and LAVA COMES

The Hotel Palomar is pretty Smurfing ballsy. They opened their swank hotel right across the street from the King of C.R.A.P. the Hotel Sofitel. When I first saw the glossy doors of the Hotel Palomar open for business, I knew it’d be trouble for my ass. These two places co-existing on the exact same block, mere feet from each other, was like having Pat’s and Geno’s for your ass suddenly open. Most times when I’m downtown, I’ve still opted for Hotel Sofitel; at this point, I go there so often the hotel staff has hand towels waiting for me once I’m done.

But on this fateful day, I took the plunge(r) and headed to Hotel Palomar. With a bellyful of butt batter, I sidled up to the new hotel, which looks impressively impregnable from the outside. Fortunately, I’ve impregnated a lot of places in the past.

Wait, what?

Your mission should you choose to accept it? To do the same. In the meantime, let’s take a look at what I learned inside. Armed with a spy camera (my Palm Pre) and this morning’s Starbucks multi-grain bagel and grande hot chocolate, Agent 002 was ready for her majestry’s service.

  • Cleanliness: The Hotel Palomar’s bathrooms were pretty spiffy. The stalls are all painted a dark blue, and the floor and the walls are adorned with blue tile. The whole place feels like a psychological experiment; it’s as if the blue color is dark and foreboding enough to make you spill your country’s most guarded secrets and last night’s turkey chili with almost hypnotic ease.To add to this intrigue, two other details curiously stood out:

"Think Nothing But Blue Skies": It's the "think baseball, grandmother" of pooping!

Stalls, prepared to be classified as "K.I.A."

Observation #1: immediately inside the restroom wall was a huge framed picture with the phrase “Think Nothing But Blue Skies” repeated over and over again (see the adjacent picture). As I snapped a series of pics of the frame, I stared at it several times, and before I knew it I was not only reciting my social security number, but I was so relaxed, I was already shitting on the floor. Impressive.

Observation #2: the entire time I was in there, Euro techno music was thumping overhead through hidden speakers. Oddly enough, this wasn’t that intrusive, but certainly added to the “Euro undercover mission” vibe I was feeling.

I stopped in the middle of the restroom and took stock: 3 toilet stalls to the right, about 3 urinals lining the left wall, and then a handicap-accessible toilet far in the back. The sinks were bone-white with a sloped basin and these cute little trapdoors located under the faucet that seemed to catch the water. The whole thing was very zen-like. I ceremoniously washed my hands before stepping into the stall to remove my trousers. I’ve got a license to kill, and I aim to use it before it’s revoked (again). +10

  • Remoteness: Where’s these bathrooms located, right? I mean, if it was in the lair of say, Dr. No, it’d be located through some sort of exotic venereal-disease-infested grotto like at the Playboy mansion. Here though, the public restrooms are located on the 2nd floor (clever birds) and tucked away off a hallway that resembled the ‘auction house’ in Taken–they were incredibly dark and dimly lit, with dark wood walls and, I’m sure, with a touch of a panel, a room would reveal itself that would allow you to bid on young chicks like they were concert tickets on eBay. As I walked down the hall, I occasionally passed Palomar staff, many of whom stopped eying me suspiciously once I affected my best British accent and said, “Washroom? It would appear that one of the Czech-area hookers I’m bidding on has spat upon my knickers.” With a click of a heel to the right, I walked down the hall and entered the bathroom.+8

    The Man-sittin' Project

  • Access: It’s not easy getting to the restrooms. It’s downright intimidating even. Even under my prepared guise (Name: Truman America. Age: 128. Occupation: Arts importer/exporter. Sex: Lots Marital Status: Delayed.) I found that despite my years of previous restroom infiltration, this one made me sweat it out a bit. Hotel Palomar isn’t intuitively laid out; there’s a bar/restaurant to your right, a check-in desk up to the left, and a yawning hallway ahead of you that leads to elevators and a shark pit I think. This process would be much, much easier with the aid of a Bond girl with a scene appropriate name like “Delores Brownbottom”, or “Candy Deucedropper”. I shut my eyes at one point and strode forward with an icy resolve. My secret? blueskiesblueskiesblueskiesblueskies. +6
  • Privacy:Once again, with the removed location, the sound-dampening oak walls, and the ink-blot test blue stalls, the Hotel Palomar’s bathrooms are a secret ass-gent’s ideal HQ. I felt like I could not only take the “silencer” off my butt when I let loose, I probably could have also contacted M back at HQ and told her of my progress thus far. I’ve actually been to the Hotel Palomar 3x, and each time I’ve been pleasantly surprised to see how empty the bathrooms are every time. After awhile you even start to fall into the groove of the place; I sat as I shat and dreamed of racing through halls with Candi Deucedropper trying to locate toilet paper, or Russian bomb blueprints  (or maybe Russian bomb blueprints printed on toilet paper?) while toe-tapping to the overhead tune of “This This THIS Is For the ReVolUtiOn” by that hit group “Progrom”.

    Agent, you are cleared to use lethal force!

But I mean, f-ck man, after awhile I just wanted to boogie, so at some point, with a wipe (shaken, not stirred) and a whistle, I got up and waltzed back into the bright, searing Philadelphia sun.+8
  • Total C.R.A.P. Score: 32
The only drawback I could find? Now whenever I hear the phrase “blue skies” I immediately shit myself.

Leave a comment

Filed under C.R.A.P., Uncategorized

List o’ the Week: Worst Superhero Parents #3-1

And so, here we are at the final three. Finit.

End game.

The Deathstar.

Romeo and Juliet’s poison scene.

Take a deep breath, and if you’re really that upset, revisit parts 1, 2 and 3.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…..

3. Mr. Banner (Father of Bruce Banner, The Incredible Hulk)

Dr. Banner tests the gamma bomb.

Dr. Banner gets surprised from behind.

Bruce Banner was a geeky scientist who gets caught up in his own gamma bomb testing, flooding his body with so much radiation that in fits of anger he turns into Mel Gibson The Incredible Hulk–a monstrously big, green creature that you don’t want to have over for Mexican food, and certainly wouldn’t enjoy being on the receiving end of a hatef-ck.

But, as Heath Ledger famously asked, ‘why so angry?’.

Turns out that young Bruce was raised by a stern, abusive father who abused alcohol, his son, and the entire world around him. Instead of funneling all that agression into making, say, ‘Thriller’ or even ‘Mean Girls’, he pushed it all down and became a government scientist, his anger not arising until the gamma bomb unleashed it all in the form of Hulk.

The Hulk hatef-cks NYC

Makes sense. I mean anyone who’s had an Irish Car Bomb or two (or 27) in one night can probably relate on some level, yeah? Hell, I’ve seen at least 30 girls in college that turned into raging sluts just after having a Shirley Temple.

Hulk is so wildly out-of-control it’s amazing to learn he’s not an Austrailan actor; he ‘s been on several rampages over the course of his career, wrecking more things than Russell Crowe and Christian Bale combined.

He’s had a particular hard-on for NYC–his been his preferred place of destruction for the better part of the 30+ years he’s been around. All told, the Hulk ranks as one of the all-time biggest ruiners of NYC, just look:

CNN’s List of Biggest Ruiners of New York City

  1. King Kong
  2. Rudy Guiliani
  3. 9/11
  4. Hulk
  5. ‘Empire State of Mind’ song
  6. Isaiah Thomas

…and there you have it. One of the greatest cities in the world (second only to Trenton, NJ) laid waste by the Hulk, who only narrowly edges out that Bat-awful song by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys, though I could be easily swayed to switch their spots–you can rebuild buildings, but it’s hard to rehab taste.








2. Thomas and Martha Wayne (The Parents of Bruce Wayne, The Batman)

Cheap. That’s what I think whenever I think of the Waynes.


Why cheap? Simple.

Who needs cabs? Downtown Gotham's so scenic!

Dr. Thomas Wayne, one of the richest guys in Gotham City wants to have a nice Family Night withwife Martha, and soon-to-be-really-fugging-weird 10 yr old son, Bruce. Before we get any further though, I want to stress that the Waynes are rich. Like their own gated community rich. Like, white butler rich. I mean, white hired help? Shit, we haven’t seen that white-on-white arrangement since Mrs. Garrett, and even she called it quits and started a girl-on-girl boarding house with Tooty and Blair.

So, for Family Night, what does Dr. Thomas Wayne do? He takes the fam to the movies out in downtown Gotham which is sorta like suggesting a quiet night in downtown Juarez. Now, I’ve seen enough episodes of MTV Cribs to know that any self-respecting rich person doesn’t go to the movies–they have their own movie theatre at home. I mean if Souljah Boy can have an in-home theatre, why can’t the Waynes?

"Olive Garden--when you're here, you're family!"

On top of that, when Bruce decides he wants to leave the movie early, Dr. Wayne takes them through the back door of the theatre, which empties right into a back alley. You know what happens in back alleys? Fools shootin’ craps, rat BJ’s and hooker sex aided with movie butter popcorn. But no, Dr. Dollar here decides, “hey, this is a great shortcut to the Olive Garden”.

The alleyway is, no lie, called Crime Alley (fortunately, “Stabbing Street” was shutdown due to construction). 

And because Thomas Wayne, a guy rich enough to buy the actors in the movie and have them make it out for the Waynes, a guy whose huose parties probably inspired Eyes Wide Shut, a guy who has at his whim a butler who serves as a waiter, a cleaner, a driver, and hey, yeah, a ‘fishing buddy’, is too cheap to call a cab or even whistle for his manservant, they run into a robber.

The result?

Bang down goes Thomas.

Bang down goes Martha.

Bang there goes the birth of the Batman. Worst. Family. Night. Ever. He’s never recovered.








1. The -Els and the Kents (Parents of Kal-El/Clark Kent/Superman)

When Kryptonians pack for the End of Days and you’ve got one chance to save your son’s life, you pack the following:

  • blanket with family crest on it

    ....and then the 3 Wise Men came.

  • Blue’s Clues books
  • So You’re Having An Alien: A guide to raising your discovered baby
  • memento from home–Kryptonian rock

Jor-El savvily sends son Kal-El to Earth where he will have a leg-up on everyone else–it’s like when middle-class families send their kids to under-performing schools so they can graduate as valedictorians.

 But he also sent fragments of Krypton with lil’ Kal-El; apparently even in his last moments Jor-El was still bitter that wife Lara lied about being on the pill.

A normal mortal would smash this. Not Supes!

Kal-El crash-lands in Kansas, is raised by Jonathan and Martha Kent–who quickly change his name from the “Obama sounding” Kal-El to a much more inoffensive “Clark”, and constantly keep his powers in check by, I dunno, putting Kryptonite powder in his cereal. No flying, no lifting, no X-ray vision to look through Lana Lang’s dress, no powers at all–unless he’s doing work on the farm!

Jor-El does this every time he walks into a room.

And Jor-El? The only time we see Jor-El after that is once Clark/Kal’s makes a name for himself on Earth as Superman. Jor-El pops up like deadbeat dad Denzel Washington in He Got Game trying to be all cool, and in need of someone to co-sign on that Krypton space-car he’s had an eye on.

In the end, all three of these parents conspired to create the world’s strongest, most powerful–bumbling, celibate reporter. This is sorta like God asking Jesus to not turn water into wine, cure leoprasy and instead focus on getting a management job at H&M.

What a waste. A waste!

Worst parents ever.

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized, Worst Superhero Parents

List o’ the Week: Worst Superhero Parents #5-4

5. Reed and Sue Richards (The Parents of Franklin and Valeria Richards)

Speaking of “bad spaceship rides”, take a ride with sometime with mad skillz scientist Reed Richards; you might come back as:

  • The Human Torch (Johnny Storm): constant burning sensation, and questionable sexual identity (“Flame on!”)
  • The Thing (Ben Grimm): strong like bull! Like an overdose of Cialis, permanently hard and ironically unable to make love to a woman
  • The Invisible Woman (Sue Richards): you thought a woman was invisible in the 1960’s? Well sister, you don’t know invisible until you meet the Invisible Woman

….Reed on the other hand, “tragically” ends up with the power to stretch any part of his body. On what I’m sure is a totally unrelated note, he and Sue Richards soon marry and have two kids: Franklin and going-to-be-a-super-powered-stripper-with-this-name, Valeria.

It’s already hard enough to have parents who escape to outer space and other dimensions when you need help with your pasta-paste project, Reed and Sue are bad parents just for letting their kids live with them in the Baxter Building–headquarters to the Fantastic Four, a building that gets attacked more often than Sarah Palin (who I wish could turn invisible).

Sue: Mm; you taste of algae and soda cans Namor: And you taste of suburban marital displeasure, my dear.

Panel 2: Reed and Sue exchange pained pleasantries about their Atlantean-looking child. In the last panel, Sue shuts her eyes and can only pray for the lie she's about to live.

In addition, even when your mom’s there, she’s not there (on account of the invisibilty); a power that Sue uses to slip out and make-out with Namor, the Sub-Mariner (think Aquaman crossed with the looks of say, Star Trek’s Dr. Spock) who apparently lives right off of Coney Island, because he and Sue Richards see each other all the time it seems. Plus, probably due to Daddy and Mommy Four’s exposure to space herpes, poor firstborn Franklin Richards is curiously struck with what I like to call “Webster’s Disease”–born about 30 years ago (our time) he’s only about 10 years old. Can you imagine that? Your dad can create robots that talk, gadgets that can kill planet-eating gods, create holes in time to travel to other dimensions…….but you’re still hung like a worker ant.

The Search for Reed Richards begins in Namor's trousers....!

This in a world where your parents hang out with hotties like Storm, Spider-Woman and yeah, even She-Hulk if you’re into that sort of thing, and they’re basically your age at this point but no, no, no your parents would rather you dodge lasers from Dr. Doom and each weird shit from other planets like Martian feces because dammit Franklin, it builds character and if you don’t button-up and fly right, we’ll send you to the that Xavier Institute where the kids are like the Lost Boys of Sudan and you don’t want that do you (but you do, yeah you do ’cause you wanna make it rain with Storm)?

This in a world where your mom’s like, “I’ll be right back, I’ve got to run to the Nth Dimension to get some milk” but then, then you see her down at the docks leaning over the pier, sucking face with that mer-man Namor, only it’s really f-cking weird because only her head’s visible–the rest of her body is invisible–so there she is, f-cking Floating Head Mom tongue-searching for the Lost City of Atlantis inside Little Nemo’s mouth and hey, hey, hey Daddy Reed will tell you it’s science baby, it’s all science.

And that is why they’re bad parents.

4. The Flying (?) Graysons (The Parents of Dick Grayson)

Well, they clearly suck for naming you “Dick”. Let’s just get that out of the way right now. Second, the Graysons suck for raising their boy in the circus. The circus! The circus is about the #5 worst place to raise your child, just look:

Yahoo! List of Worst Places to Raise Your Dick

  1.  in church
  2. in school
  3. in court
  4. in West Philadelphia
  5. in a circus

Hard to argue with Yahoo!, isn’t it? So yeah, The Flying Graysons did a high-wire trapeze act, and in a stunt straight outta reality show TV, they got their son involved, too. So there’s their son, getting tossed around in the air, back and forth, back and forth on the trapeze. And there’s those two grinning jackasses–look at them overhead!–tossing their Dick around like he’s nothing.

Dick practices the "trust fall" with his parents

And what happens? I’ll tell you what happens. Dick Grayson gets to watch his parents plummet to their death during one of their trapeze acts. This happens because some mob guys working for, I dunno, let’s say Cirque Du Soleil, show up pre-show and cut the wires just enough for An Accident. So there’s little limp Dick watching his parents complete the Karma Sutra Toss (“remember to reach with your loins, honey! On 3!”) when–oh snap–the wires break, and they fall and crash to the ground like so much Humpty Dumpty, and probably munched on by circus lions and sprayed with Seltzer water by the clowns.

So why’s this important? Because guess who’s watching the show this particular night?

Bruce Wayne!

So there’s Batman there, sitting in the crowd, probably applying some Bat-butter to his popcorn and having Alfred feeding it to him, and he watches Dick lose his parents in the worst America’s Funniest Home Video segment ever.

And what’s he thinking?

“Hm; less butter Alfred.”

Or maybe he says something cool and collected and cliche’ like, “Guess we won’t be seeing the lion swallow Dick tonight”, or, “It would appear that the Flying Graysons have just been grounded”.

But then he’s thinking, man, I know that when I lost MY parents the only thing that comforted me was sitting in a cave and paying Prince to write songs about me–I want to save that boy and play ‘Purple Rain’ for him.

Metaphorical Joker stands in for thousands of comic nerds.

And that’s how Dick Grayson became (the first) Robin, spending several undoubtedly confusing years wearing French-cut panties, a yellow cape and a tuck job, leaping from rooftop to rooftop wondering where it all went wrong.

"Jason? Jay?...Robin? You're just sleeping, right lilttle buddy?"

This eventually wore thin, and so Dick growed up and left the cave, and in his place came Jason Todd, a Robin so despicable not only did DC Comics hold a  fan 1-900 telephone poll deciding whether to kill him or not, but then, when the decision came, Jason Todd Robin was tied to the chair, beaten to a pulp by the Joker with a crowbar, and then blown up inside a building. I’ve seen Chris Brown dates that’ve ended better than that.

And so, it all comes back to the Flying Graysons, and their fateful vanity–they ruined Dick’s life AND when Dick leaves and young Jason Todd tries to fill some weird homoerotic void in Batman’s life, his life too.

Two birds. One stone.

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized, Worst Superhero Parents

List o’ the Week: Worst Superhero Parents # 7-6

The latest list from The Kids is answering the question: “can two fugged up people uglies and create someone that turns out SUPER, albeit a little messed-up?”.

For many of us, that would be a resounding “YES”–one would need look at the above question and quickly hit your joy-buzzer and reply with, “What is Joe and Katherine Jackson?”. But here we’re talking about superheroes not Kings (and Queens and Jermaine’s) of Pop.

So sure, Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Plastic Man are all great guys and all, but what about their mamas? Do you punch the Joker because he’s The JOKER or are you punching him because your mom made you sleep in the same bed that your big brother Heath used to sleep in? And wear his pajamas. And use his sippy cup.

Get it? No? Well read Part 1 then; the rest of us will get on with our lives.

The Kids Don’t Get It Worst Superhero Parents #’s 7-5

7. Uncle Ben and Aunt May Parker (The Adoptive Parents of Spider-Man)

You know, if you’re 75+ yr olds Ben and May Parker, and you’ve taken in the nephew who lost his parents to a car accident, you should probably try and, I dunno, spend some time with him.

Go to the movies.

Take him to get jeans at the Gap. Parent stuff.

You can at least chaperon high school field trips to a science lab, so if your unlucky surrogate son gets bitten by a radioactive spider, there’s someone there other than the HS Science Teacher or that creepy kid Harry Osbourn to suck the venom out. Parenting’s all about anticipation— I mean, even Charlie’s grandpa went to the f-cking Chocolate Factory with him, what once he saw it was run by that dope-fiend, Gene Wilder.

Instead? Aunt May and Uncle Ben get EPIC PARENTING FAIL.

Later, Peter learns that old Lazy Bones Ben Parker’s too broke to pay the billz, so he wrestles some dude for money! In an effort to prove he’s tough too, Uncle Ben tries to eat a bullet through his chest. Didn’t work, but leaves Spider-Man with the mantra that defines his career: “Better ingredients, better pizza. Papa John’s”. No, wait, that’s: “…with great power comes great responsibility”–a great phrase for a young man with superpowers, pursuing a college degree, or boning someone without a condom.

And instead of working again–I think there’s an earlier comic that features Aunt May midwifing a T-rex– Aunt May wiles away spending her time hating Spider-Man through Glenn Beck-like hate-letters-to-the-editor to The Daily Bugle (“Spider-man Created Gays”; “Spider-Man Is a Muslim”; “BP Oil Spill? Web Fluid!”)–and weekends faking her death.

February 16, 1978: Fake Death #17--Heart Attack

September 5, 1988: Fake Death #45--Old People Disease

December 25, 1995: Fake Death #77--Gun Shot Wound (as inspired by Uncle Ben)

April 12, 1997: Fake Death #210--Permanent Coma

6. Mutant Parents (Parents of The X-Men recruits)

Apparently enrolling your mutant  kid in school in the Marvel Comics Universe is a cinch: there’s no need for a campus visit, no interest or need to see a brochure; shit, you don’t even ask what degree the kids are graduating with. The Xavier Institute of Higher Learning (secret headquarters of the X-Men) seems to consist of roughly the same admissions rigor as the University of Phoenix: just sign-up for an AOL account.

So how do these kids find the X-Men school?

Well like most militant cults, the X-Men target the marginalized kids. Basically head professor Charles Xavier sends his merry band of X-Men have a recruitment handbook outlined with these easy strategies:

  • Go To Where Kids Hang Out: on the street corner, in ice cream shops, or in the dressing room of a children’s clothing store
  • Isolate Them and Convince Them That They’re ‘Special’:
  • Educate Them About The War Against Special People Like Us
  • Show Them That We Wear Skin-Tight Clothing
  • Stab Them

    "Join us!"

  • Bring Them Back to School in the X-van

20/20 called this approach The Kitty Pryde Story. As a girl that can walk through solid objects, Kitty was recruited by the X-Men while at a soda shop–they told her about a great place for Kids Like Her, and hey, we’ve got even better sodas and cute boys at this new place, and hey, you don’t mind occasionally bleeding or watching classmates die, right?

Then for the next 24hrs she gets wrapped up in a (probably staged) battle as the X-Men Fight For Their Lives.

When it’s all over and Kitty’s outraged parents find them, what do the X-Men do? They erase her parents’ minds! Right in front of her!

So much PARENT FAIL here: human absent-minded parents don’t care that she’s gone for a day, while her new parents (super-powered, multi-cultured, rough mutant sex) immediately show her that hey,when life gives you yuppie lemons, you make them forget shit.

"Can't sit down. Can't..remember..why..?"

So maybe Kitty’s bottom’s sore for reasons other than “a really long spaceship ride with Wolverine”…..?

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized, Worst Superhero Parents