Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Today, We Speak the Truth.

It rained last night.

A harsh rain. A violent rain. The wind was angry at the citizens of Oklahoma. Possibly over the ancient broken treaty. The Sooner state is cursed with blood and wind and rain and broken glass.

The Sirens went off, and I tried to ignore them. I've lived in Oklahoma. I don't fear death. I'd have walked out and met the Finger of God himself if not for the damned cat. Without me, there would be no one to feed the cat. It was possible the cat wouldn't surive if he didn't get some shelter. I hated that fucking cat. But he was the only companion I had in this damned state, and the only living resident of this rotten world who didn't mind spending time with me. So I holed up in the hallway closet with that stupid cat, a flashlight, and a box of books. I didn't look at the books until I was sitting there with that damned cat, or else I wouldn't have been caught dead with them.

It was the entire run of Sin City. The reprints from when that movie came out. That fucking misogynistic movie.

I'd only bought them because the guy in the comic book store with the indy-goatee and the straggly blonde hair recommended them I read every single one of them, and instead of shadowy light of noirish genius I found the stench of foul cigarettes and that cheap cologne your real grandfather wore when he scammed Grandma into bed by swearing on his then-breathing mother's grave that he was "shipping out tomorrow" and may die in the war. Then he left her with the stench of cheap cologne and a swelling in her stomach that you grew up calling "Mom."

It was nothing new. It was every old man's fantasy in cheap paperback black and white with artsy highlights. It was beautiful deadly young girls tearing their clothes off and throwing themselves at wrinkled old bastards who never showed them the slightest bit of respect. It was women love assholes compounded by women love power with women are sneaky whores thrown in to spice it up.

It was cliche. It was stereotyped. It was a case for gathering a band of merry lesbians and embarking on a cross-country crime spree where you stole from the bastards and gave to their broken-hearted ex-lovers and left a river of masculine blood in your wake as you stayed just a half-step across from a grizzled US Marshall with a tarnished gold star, pecs you can cut glass on and pants tight enough to tell if he dresses right to left from 50 yards away.

It was hot.

And not just because I'd left the air conditioner off.

And that's the secret of these stories. That's the reason for the stereotype. Young women want old men. Wild women are just waiting for a man strong enough to get her to shut up, smack her on the butt and send her into the kitchen. That's why "I'm shipping out" never fails to get you laid. In this world of marshmellowy creampuffs there are far too few Real Men, and it takes more than spitting at quiche to fit the bill, though that's a decent start. That's the deep, dark secret of why we rage at Frank Miller, because baby, he's telling the truth. We want Men, not mice. And if you creamy little bastards with the pimples and the faces so pasty white that they glow in the light of your monitor as you stuff cheetoes into your chipmunk cheeks in your mother's basements learn that that's what we are looking for, then you'll pretend to be a real man and fool some poor weak girl into offering up her uterus for your substandard sperm, thus spoiling the pool for our beloved daughters.

We need real rebels, not cowardly losers. We want men with light, not dimbulbs in the comic shop. That's why old bastards like Frank Miller turn young women on. We know they're tough.

So, in honor of the day, that's the secret of Feminism, boys. It's biological imperitive. It's weeding the weak out of the garden. It's truly only the strong survive in our world. Not just the assholes, but the real heroes. Honestly, if I could make each and every first date walk through fire to climb the gates at the local military base and outrun the MPs over a trail of broken glass, I would. Because that's the way to be sure he's worth the utter destruction of my body and the years of my life spent rearing his squawling brats.

Until then I'll have to settle for spewing my own personal font of rage and hatred at every male member of the species I meet, bedding the one who manages to survive and continuing to test him with the fire of my blood and my soul for the rest of his life, which should be considerably shortened by this treatment.

I do this because I care about the future of our species, and want only the very best genes for my child. As do all women.


  1. That was AWE-SOME :O


    Also the style was a nice touch :]


  2. Great post.

    Check out my new blog design. It's something I've been hankerin' to do for a while.

  3. Oh.


    I actually thought you'd lost your mind there for a second. I was worried. Well played.

  4. You know, in my world, Frank Miller is Junie B. Jones's grandpa -- a sort of dottery-but-fun old guy who calls his granddaughter "kiddo" and invites her over for a date of wearing his tool belt and fixing the toilet.

    So, it always makes me smile a little to read about non-Grandpa Frank Miller, and imagine that you are talking about the fictional one.

    Also, I was awoken by my 4-year-old this morning, who was shouting "There's a giant hot dog running down the street!" So, I'm a little dottery myself, anyway.

  5. That was brilliant. And confirms a lot (kidding!).

  6. When I was 14, I thought Sin City was cool because Marv was so bad ass and bloodshed was cool. But I think it's harder for a thoughtful adult to find anything in those books more intellectually stimulating than porn.

    In his defense, I suppose he's trying to write in a certain voice and through a certain lens that pays hommage to the noir stories of old. On the other hand, since he always writes in that voice and through that lens, we could therefore infer that it's all he has to offer... thus, rather than trying to emulate and honor a style, I worry he thinks that the world really is like that and that he's showing us some sort of gritty and real picture of human nature. By that analysis, Miller is a douche, and I applaud your satire.

  7. Well done. You really nailed the style and made it a good read even though I figured from the title that it would be a joke.

  8. Manly men indeed. This is why I was sighing over Sean Connery instead of Harrison Ford. And why no pasty-faced fanboy is getting near MY uterus.

  9. heh.

    There was this guy at the bookstore that I was a little interested in. Until, that is, he thought I was crazy bc I couldn't get through the first five minutes of Sin City.

    oh, and Ragnell? you're brilliant, btw

  10. Har dee Har har.

    And for the record, I don't even like cheetos :P

  11. Oh I forgot to add,

    One of the better "holiday" posts today.

  12. I KNEW women really dug Ponn Farr deathmatches! Survival of the fittest, babe!

  13. Wow. That was MAGNIFICENT. I'm just kinda stunned. Your attempts to echo Miller's "voice" have transcended Miller and instead ascended to something that's not quite Chandler and not quite Kerouac, a kind of hard-boiled film-noir beat poetry.

  14. "...then you'll pretend to be a real man and fool some poor weak girl into offering up her uterus for your substandard sperm, thus spoiling the pool for our beloved daughters."

    That made me laugh hard.

    I know, hey? Why can't there ever be a man that can take me where I am and have some good sperm! Most men expect me to yell at my uterus with, "Gimme 20 babies!" and expect 20 babies because I kept the warm laptop on my uterus (apparently, a warm uterus means better chance at fertility).

    And that's why I love Frank Miller. I'LL CARRY YOUR FREAKIN' BABY.

  15. That was one helluva post, Love Chunks. One Helluva Post! :P

  16. Let us all know when you're going to start aping Miller... Heyooooohhhh~!!!

  17. Oh geez XD

    Followed through kadymae's link and wasn't disappointed, this was spot on! And I have to confess my 'appreciation' of Sin City when I was 16 y.o., which only makes me LOL more.

  18. I read this a day later, but it made my day. Although for a moment I had to reread parts because I'd forgotten what day it was and it made no sense with what I have read of your blog.

    The sad thing is that, guys in my grade actually think that.


    If I had an Archive of Greatness to go down in History, this would go in it.

  19. You've got yourself a cat?

    You're the Goddamn Ragnell, and you have to have yourself a Goddamn CAT?

  20. I think you got the tone and style down very well. I liked the Sin City trade paperbacks and movie, where the world was about rough guys and tough broads, but then again the hyper-masculinity and character exaggeration isn't to everyone's liking, and that's cool too.

    Big Mike: I think you're looking at Miller's writing in a fairly narrow light. Why do you think he sees the world like he writes his comics? Why can't he work from his imagination and other sources. He likes writing gritty urban stories, and he's had seminal works on Daredevil, Batman, Elektra. He likes writing under this genre, but there are plenty of other method actors and writers that only really work in certain scenarios, so I don't think he should be faulted for it.

    Plus, I would suggest you to try reading Frank Miller's "Give Me Liberty," a creator-owned comic about a young African American girl name Martha Washington trying to break free from the ghetto in a dystopian near-future United States. It's a political satire of the old security for freedom argument, and Martha turns out to be quite an endearing character.

  21. Okay, I'm four days late, but I'm laughing my ass off nevertheless. That was hilarious.

  22. Love your parody of the Absorbascon!