Sunday, July 31, 2016

Help Explorer Sam find Donald Trump’s Humanity!

Help Explorer Sam find Donald Trump’s Humanity!

Hi, Boys & Girls, I’m Explorer Sam! I’m about to set out on a great
 adventure to find Donald Trump's humanity, if it exists. But  even though I’m a great explorer, I  have no sense of direction and I’m sort of a pussy so I need your help! Start at the Green Arrow.  But beware you don’t get eaten by a villainous Trump surrogate! 
Extra credit: Find Donald Trump’s tax returns. 



And for more election time fun, don't forget: 

Only on Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute!

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Pay It Sideways

It happened in a very unlikely way from an even more unlikely source. But it made an impact on me and my coffee addicted self that I'm still thinking about.

A few nights ago I was buying a cup of large coffee in the nearby Wawa convenience store, which is  by the way the greatest convenience store in the world located right here in our Philadelphia area.  The cost: $1.80 - no king's ransom, but enough that I usually dispense a large cup of Colombian, gulp a whole bunch down right away, and then dispense more to fill the cup.

I'm classy that way. 

As I got in line, I eyeballed the guy in line in front of me facing toward the cashier. He had so many tattoos it looked like he'd fallen asleep in the chair of an insane tattoo artist snorting crystal meth. He was wearing those large round black earrings that some younger guys wear these days that look like ... well, the knobs you pull to dispense coffee at Wawa. Clearly he was not the kind of guy you bring home to your Jewish mother.

As the well-inscribed one purchased his beef jerky or whatever, he turned to his right side to look at me and turned back to the cashier and said:

"This is also for his coffee."

What? What did he say? Have I forgotten to wash out my ears the last nine months?

"Thank you," I stammered, "but why?"

"Pay it forward," he smiled and was gone.

"Or in this case, pay it sideways," I remarked to the cashier.

She grinned and said "this happens more than you'd think."

Yeah, I wouldn't think it would happen at all. Obviously I'm a shit. But what a nice way to brighten someone's day!

The next day I found myself in another Wawa.  Behind me in line was a young man, no tattoos or coffee urn earrings, with a short stylish haircut I would have laughed at when I was twenty but which I wish to God I had enough hair to muster today. Time for me to pay it sideways.

"This is for his coffee," I said with a bright smile, turning to the young man.

"Why are you doing this?" he replied quizzically."You coming on to me?  I have to tell you, I'm not gay."

"No, no! I'm not coming on to you!"  I blurted out.  "I'm paying it sideways!"

"Look, Bub, if you're trying to lure me into an alley ..."

"No, I just want to pay it ..."

"Oh, then I'll let you pay it."

"Thank you, because I only wanted to..."

"But don't follow me out of here!" he scowled and was gone. 

Notwithstanding this minor (and highly fictionalized) debacle in my attempt to follow in the steps of my well inked Wawa benefactor, I'm not daunted.  I will yet succeed in my efforts to pay it sideways.  Or next time, maybe even pay it forward.

But I've learned something: You never know where you will find kindness and class in this world.  Sometimes it comes from the most unexpected sources. 

And although I may forget that in days to come, it sure makes me feel a lot better right now.   


Or maybe sideways, as here.

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Shopping Cart Confidential (FF)

FF- Friday Fictioneers
Copyright - Janet Webb

"Boy, is he one cute shopping cart!"

"Go ahead.  Talk to him."

 "If only I had a few drinks in me first ..."

"You silly, we're shopping carts.  We don't eat or drink."

"Oh yeah, you're right. Okay, I'll try."

"You can do it!"

"OMG, wait a minute!"

"Why are you stopping?"

"Because we're Kosher carriages." 


"He can't be Jewish.  Look at the size of his basket!"


I knew those shopping carts could talk. Imagine what they say about us when we don't return them to the cart return area when it's raining hard!

The other Friday Fictioneers may not write about shopping carts talking, may have them drinking and eating, or may even have them standing indignantly at the Kosher Meat Section complaining to the fellow in the yarmulke there "Mr. Rosenblatt, these rib steaks were terrible!" Click here to find out.

I'm sorry that of late I've had so little time to read the stories of the other Fictioneers, but life circumstances intervene.  I hope to get back to it soon. In the meantime, my shopping carts and I love what you're writing, Kosher or not.

Saturday, July 23, 2016

If Money Really Did Grow on Trees

It is the first days of September.  This time of year, when the warmth of the sun begins to lessen and summer draws to its unwilling close, has always been a special time for my family and me.

For it is here on our modest plot of land in Northern California that we annually begin the harvest of the crops that our family has grown for over 95 years. In those shortening days of September we commence harvesting the one dollar bills, the tens, the twenties, and the Benjamins to be rushed fresh to the waiting wallets of good folk all throughout America.

Kropotkin Farms, our family business, is one of the largest independent growers of money in the State of California.  Our Moolah Mulberries, Lucre Locusts, and Dough Dogwoods have been third place winners in the American Association of Money Tree Growers (AAMG) Annual Arbor Awards for two years running. And it is our goal to provide you and your family with an excellent money vintage every year.

We are hoping for a fine vintage again this year 2016.

In September, our entire family except for our profligate cousin Herbie ventures into the vineyards to survey our newly grown crops.  Yes, they are virtually bursting with financial flavor! We carefully check the buds to make sure there is no pest infiltration. Naturally we grow all of our money organically to assure that Kropotkin Money will never be the root of all evil.

Should we find infestation of any kind, we take great pains to separate the tainted crop from the top dollar.  A boll weevil contamination last year inflicted extreme distortion to the $100 bill orchard, causing the image of Benjamin Franklin to look something like David Crosby.  This failed money can only be sold for nominal value, generally to the kind of Baby Boomer who likes to hum "Wooden Ships on the Water'' while picking out his plus 55 retirement home. 

The inspection completed, all of the A1 crops are then plucked from our Folding Money Orchards, Coinage Bushes, and New York Subway Token Shrubs by a team of crack illegal aliens. There is not a moment to waste; if you miss the peak of freshness the New York Subway tokens will only work in Philadelphia.

Next our crops are processed on Kropotkin's modern third-rate equipment and necessary refinements are made, such as inscribing the fictitious words "In God We Trust" on all paper money and removing the language "We Believe in Humanism" as actually forms on money as grown. From there our produce is flash-frozen and shipped to happy money purchasers from coast to coast.

There are challenges ahead, of course.  Harriet Tubman seeds will be very hard to come by in the coming years. We will try to breed our own unique Tubman by putting a bonnet on Salmon P. Chase. We are confident we will be up to the challenge, just as when we first added a beard to the clean-shaven as grown Abraham Lincoln in 1937.

It is the pledge of the Kropotkin Family to provide you with the best money that money can buy.

From our table to your table, assuming you count your money on your table, we wish you "Delicioso Dollars!" 

Mange La Money!


Friday, July 22, 2016

The Clean Up Crew

"What a mess! Can't believe we've got to clean up this whole place!"

"That's the job. Sweeping, vacuuming, dusting, prying up stuck chewing gum, white-washing "Lock Her Up!" graffiti - most of it misspelled- fumigating women's air spray ...."

"Gee, you'd think by 2016 Republican women would have a developed a little style already."

"Guess not.  Now get to work!"

"Did you watch the convention?  Everything was so one-sided and divisive. You'd think Hillary Clinton was Lucretia Borgia!"

"Hey, you missed a spot!"

"Sorry.  All those religious people sucking up to a guy who's had such a wild life with women. Hey, look at that Melania!"

"Put a little more elbow grease into that mopping, will ya?"

"I'll try. Did you see that strident General practically foaming at the mouth the first night?  That was right out of Dr. Strangelove."

"I didn't see that movie."

"And Trump, he promises all kinds of things but doesn't say how he'll do it!"

"Hey, are you going to work or just yap all day?"

"I'm sorry, guess I'm a little old for this."  

"Look,  Ailes,  you were lucky to get this job!"

"Sorry, sorry, I'll get on it!"

"And one more thing?"

"Yes, boss?"

"When you talk about Melania Trump, take your hand out of your pants!"


Wednesday, July 20, 2016

The Colossus at Arkansas Roads - FF

copyright - Jan Wayne Fields
FF- Friday Fictioneers
copyright - Jan Wayne Fields

"Hey, Jason, I had no idea there was a small ocean you have to cross to get to Arkansas."

"That’s right, Matthew.  Say, we’re getting close now."

"What’s that big statue ahead in the harbor?  It looks like the Statue of Liberty!"

"Looks like it, but it’s actually the Statue of Russell Gayer, one of the leading citizens of the area."

"What’s that great big projection above his head.  Is that his arm?"

"No, it’s not his arm.  He actually designed the statue himself. You’re only seeing the part of the huge projection that extends above the head."

"Wow!  What a guy! Could that actually be the way he really is?"

"You know Donald Trump?"


"They call him Honest Abe compared to Russell." 


We all know Donald Trump is no Honest Abe but rather is a pathological liar.  So the truth about the Statue of Russell Gayer? Put it this way: millions upon millions upon millions of dollars of steel could have been saved in its construction.  

The other Friday Fictioneers have inscribed their takes upon the picture prompt above which you can access by clicking here

BTW, there's actually no ocean to cross to get to Arkansas, so I'm not being truthful either. Who knows, women of America, I may be lying about Russell as well! 

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Plagiarism? What Plagiarism? Plagiarism? What Plagiarism?

Melania Trump's speech last night, I have to admit, was an excellent presentation from someone who is not a professional speaker.  She was poised and confident and well expressed the oft unseen human side of Donald Trump and his family. In every respect, it was a positive moment for the campaign and Mr. Trump.

A small issue arose regarding some language that Mrs. Trump used in the course of her speech.  Some thought it was similar language to that used by Michelle Obama in a prior speech of her own.  Well, maybe, but these were common words and phrases, in no way blunting the impact of her fine speech. 

I'm no Trump supporter but Melania won me over last night.

Oh, another thought:  I have to admit that last night Melania Trump, who is not a professional speaker, gave an excellent presentation.  Poised and expressing self confidence, she presented a side of Donald Trump and his family, the human side, that we don't usually see. From every angle, it was a top-notch moment for Mr. Trump and the campaign.

There was a minor issue brought forward regarding some wording that Mrs. Trump used in her speech that certain people thought was similar to words spoken by Michelle Obama in a speech she made. Well, it's possible but mostly balderdash! Common words and phrases in no way minimize the impact of her effective presentation.

I still don't like Mr. Trump but Melania impressed me last night.

Oh, yeah, I meant to say this:  In watching the presentation of Melania Trump last night, I concede that as a non-professional speaker, she presented quite well. Exhibiting poise and confidence of self ... 


Monday, July 18, 2016

When Every E-Mail Knows Your Name

Years ago - maybe 30 or more - we were first introduced to word processed letters with our names included within them,  and we were simply amazed. How was such incredible technology possible?

By today's standards, of course, these long ago letters were quite primitive. They looked something like this:



We are pleased to inform you that you are the winner of our Publisher's Dumpinghouse Sweepstakes and you have won a gift especially selected for folks like you! Yes, BLOCK, PERRY, all you need do is send in the enclosed Winner's Coupon addressed specifically to you,   BLOCK, PERRY,  with a nominal $80 fee and your gift will be on its way to HAVERTOWN PENNSYLVANIA!  You are one lucky MAN WOMAN,  BLOCK PERRY! We urge you to send  the coupon with your payment today!

Publisher's Dumpinghouse


Today all of us receive a plethora of such letters in our email every day, and the technology now is perfect and seamless.  And the information they seem to have acquired about us has greatly advanced as well.


Dear Perry, 

We are pleased to inform you that you are the winner of our Publisher's Dumpinghouse Sweepstakes and you have won a gift especially selected for overage neurotics such as yourself. 

Yes, Perry, all you need do is send in the attached Winner's Coupon addressed specifically to Mr. Perry Block with a nominal $80 fee and your gift will be on its way to Havertown Pennsylvania, although  not to the nicer parts of Havertown but to the low rent area in which you live. 

Frankly you are one lucky Jew, Perry, even though you are somewhat of a disgrace to your people as you haven't been in synagogue since the Destruction of the Second Temple! 

Knowing what a lazy and shiftless loser you are, we urge you to forward the coupon with your payment today.  What better do you have to do?  Get yourself a woman? 

Oh, please! 

Publisher's Dumpinghouse


Yep, today every e-mail knows your name.  And, at least in my case, most everything else too.


Sunday, July 17, 2016

Get Ready for the Republican Convention!

 "... I don't ... I don't feel well ..."

As the Republican convention convenes this week in Cleveland, many businesses and industries throughout the city are expected to benefit economically. But one nationwide industry is expected to pull down the greatest financial benefit of all.

Composed of eight manufacturers from coast  to coat, the American Barf Bag industry is projected to achieve huge profits over the next week.  "We can't keep up with the demand," said Ernie Kropotkin, President of the Revulso Barf Bag Company in Lander Wyoming. 

Many people are expected to upchuck violently and frequently during the convention, especially on the evening the ticket of Donald Trump and Mike Pence take the podium for the first time.  "I can almost hear the gagging right now!" exulted Kropotkin.

The only concern for the Barf Bag industry is that some people will turn off the convention in disgust after their first two or three pukes, which may result in some barf bags being returned to the store. Mr. Kropotkin isn't worried: "I think people will be sick for weeks afterwards no matter how much of the Convention they can stomach watching."

And who is Mr. Kropotkin voting for in the election itself?

"Me, I'm voting for Hillary because I'm not crazy.  But God bless Trump and Pence!"


Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Doctor My Eyes

There I was on another typical day, typing another typical blog post that no one ever typically reads when out of the corner of my left eye I caught sight of something decidedly atypical, something decidedly moving!

It appeared dark black, the size of a quarter, and was scampering rapidly all about the left side of me.  I realized that it was either a fly, a runaway proton, or a spider, and although I'm fine with the first two options, the prospect of the third caused me to give forth a high-pitched sound in the approximate nature of:


as I flayed wildly about with a rolled up newspaper, calling out "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" 

You see, I really hate spiders. They are proof positive that there is either no God or the one we've got should have been forcibly bound and gagged before he finished the finer points of Creation.

But after routing about  a bit I discovered there was nothing there.  An optical illusion perhaps? A stain on my contact lens, to go along with the one on my character? Had the object vanished into a parallel universe, one in which I hopefully own better property?

I returned to typing, but before long so did the menacing dark moving object to my left.  And so did the high-pitched sound in the approximate nature of:


But after two or three more near pseudo arachnid-induced heart attacks, I finally began to catch on.  There was no spider, there was no fly, there was no errant proton anywhere to be seen. The dark black object was rather in my eye itself.  

This then would be a job for my eye doctor, Dr. Mervin Vertbaum.

"Better this way, Perry, or better this way?" asked Dr. Vertbaum. 

"What does that have to do with the dark spot in my eye, Doctor?" I asked.

"Nothing. We're required to say that by law."

"Oh, I see. But what do I have?"

"You have a floater,  a deposit within the eye's viteous humor."

"But I thought all floaters were small, kind of like Donald Trump's hands."

"No, they can be quite large as well. Yours is the size of a Buick, albeit one of their sportier models."

"Well, how long will it take until it goes away?"

"Oh, it doesn't go away, Perry. You'll have it for life."

Have it for life? It's amazing how casually doctors tell older people they'll have something for life assuming we're totally fine with that since life's not such a long term proposition anymore anyway!

"But ... but it's very annoying, Doctor."

"Oh, you'll get used to it, Perry.  That is, assuming the floater doesn't scatter into hundreds of multiple pieces in which case it will look like you're perpetually traveling through the Milky Way."

"What?!  Well, there must be some fix for that!"

"Oh, sure, there it."

"Thank goodness! What is it?"

"Keep your eyes shut, for God's sakes!"  

And so, let's add eye floaters to my current list of life maladies, which includes a spine shaped like the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, shrinkage in physical stature certain to one day surely render me the limbo champion of Havertown PA, and white blotches on my arms, face, and hands providing me the tony appearance as though someone were trying to bleach me and just ran out of clorox.

Well, at least the floater isn't really a spider.  Actually it's starting to look something more like a musical note dancing in front of my eyes the way musical notes sometime appear on screen in a movie to show that the protagonist composer is experiencing great inspiration.

So that's it. I'm to spend the rest of my life watching Amadeus.

Sanctuary!  Sanctuary!


Saturday, July 9, 2016

Take Me To Your Middle Manager

Sure you may come aboard, but be aware:
 the place is a mess!

"Greetings, people of Earth!  We come from a civilization far less advanced than your own!  

Ain't that right, Second Officer Zontar?

I am Simic, this am Zontar.  We are delighted to be here. I have a question for youse, people of Earth.  Do youse have someplace to pee on your planet? We have traveled many light years and we have not invented bathrooms for space travel yet. We have been holding it.

Thank youse!

Youse are probably wondering how we speak your language.  We have monitored your radio and television broadcasts.  We especially enjoy your Duck Dynasty, Dr. Phil, and any cinematic artistic endeavors starring your Rob Schneider.

This is our monitoring equipment:  A giant paper cup attached to a string 50 billion light years long.  I told youse we come from a civilization far less advanced than your own.  It's a good thing Zontar's aunt saves string.

Now I must request:  Take me to your middle manager. 

We would never bother your president considering how backward we are. How backward are we? The guy who invented rocks still has an active patent on them. The guy who discovered fire is still using it to get chicks!

You know what else? There's ain't no Jews on our planet. We have no entertainment industry, no lawyers, and you can't get a decent corned beef sandwich anywhere! Talk about backward!

In some respects we are a little like youse.  We have a national pastime named “ball.”  In our game you pick up the ball, hold it in the air,  and that’s it. It's not that much fun but watching it shoots a couple of hours when you've absolutely nothing else to do, just like with your baseball. We have politics too in which people are elected to office and then ain't nothing happens. I’m sure youse are far more advanced in that area than we are as well.

I guess youse are wondering how we could have built an advanced spaceship like this to travel to Earth.  Built it?  Nah, we didn't build it!  We found it on the beach.  Used one of those metal detector things.  

By the way, the woman who invented metal detectors for the beach is the richest woman on our planet. As soon as we invent money I can tell youse how rich.

Would youse like to come aboard our spaceship? I'm sorry the place is a mess and there's no.... what do youse call it? ...  air conditioning.  It's just up the rickety steps right here. 

Oh, by the way, now that youse are aboard, one more thing: We eat human beings, just like in all good sci-fi movies. We are now flash freezing youse with our patented death ray! 

We may come from a civilization far less advanced than youse own, but everybody's gotta eat! Ain't that right, Second Officer Zontar? 

Oh wait, you're Blurgteen Officer Zontar.  We've just got to get around to inventing numbers!"


Tuesday, July 5, 2016

A Billionth of a Second and Baby Hitler Too

Move over, Stephen!  Baby Hitler is mine!

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! 

It is indeed an honor to have been chosen – and I’m still not quite sure how - to pilot this first ever flight of the incredible Time Cruncher Machine invented by the great Dr. Heinz Kropotkin! 

And I am thrilled to be personally undertaking the mission to which I have been assigned – and I’m still not quite sure how - that most momentous and cosmic mission of all time: 

The Killing of Baby Hitler!

Now some of us had thought that a mission of more limited nature might be more appropriate for the initial trial flight of the Time Cruncher. Rather than killing Baby Hitler I had proposed we travel back to 1970 and stop the band ABBA from ever forming.

But Professor Kropotkin  - go figure - actually seems to like ABBA, and so I stand before you today ready, willing, and able to begin the quest to turn Baby Hitler into Baby Toast!

Now I will step into the Time Cruncher and spirit myself back to the year 1889,   where I will once and for all put an end to that horrible scourge upon humanity known as Adolf Hitler, while still in his neonatal Nazi diapers. 

“And now, farewell to all of you …What?!!!  A man materializing next to me??!! Who are you??!!!

“I’m you, only handsomer.”

“I think you’re right! You are me, only not as handsome. How can we be in the same place together at the same time?” 

“It seems I’ve failed to return to the exact split second in time in which I --- I mean, you and I ---originally left on the mission to kill Baby Hitler. If you don’t return to that exact split second, there’s another you where you arrive ... who’s apparently not as handsome.”

“Umm, how ahead of schedule are you?”

“Two minutes, three seconds, and two billionth of a second. I should have returned to that billionth of a second in which you leave.”

“Guess I should have practiced a bit more with the billionth of a second time lander!"

“You and me both!”

“So what do you have to tell me?”

“Well, the 1960’s are totally kick-ass!  Don't just go there.  Live there.”

“No, no, no!  Tell me: did we succeed in killing Baby Hitler?”

“Well, you tell me: Do you happen to be familiar with something known as World War II?” 

“World War II? Of course, I … AHH, Shit!”

“Sorry, man. I tried.”

“What happened?”

“First I threw a grenade at Baby Hitler.  But he lifted his right arm stiffly, jerked it high into the air and deflected it!"

"Where did a baby learn a move like that? Then what?"

"I tried to sneak behind him and chloroform him.  But his mustache absorbed the fumes and the sides were burned completely off. I'll bet it'll stay that way for life!"

"Did you try anything else?"

"I set his crib on fire. But he stood up with his toy goose and stomped out the flames!  I never saw such goose stepping!"

“Oh crap, that’s very discouraging! Maybe I shouldn’t even go?”

“No, you must!  I did do something back there that ought to have truly helped the world.”

“Really? What’s that?”

“You know how Hitler didn’t like one particular group of people?”


“I switched that group to sports fans from North Jersey!” 

Why, that’s the one thing about Hitler we've always liked!”

“There you go, that’s the two of us in action!”

“OMG, I’m starting to de-materialize right now! It’s time for me to leave.”

“Well, you have a great trip! Watch out for that speed bump around 1952.”

“Bye! Have fun having sex with my wife!”

 “Hey, I will!   And what’s great is, I’ve got a whole extra two minutes, three seconds, and two billionth of a second to do it in too!”


Friday, July 1, 2016

Everybody's a Hero

Just another day in small town America

It all happened in the first part of the 21st Century.

Sparked by an intense barrage of superhero movies, graphic novels, and television shows, superheroes with amazing powers became more popular than chocolate sprinkles. Soon virtually everyone in America who did not already possess powers beyond those of mortal men began devising whatever cockamamie scheme they could to acquire them now.

People stood in pools of hydrochloric acid in lighting storms, drank volumes of random chemicals while clasping on to frayed electrical wiring, blasted off to distant planets where complicit aliens might blast them back imbued with whatever powers one may possess from birth on Planet Shmoolu, and slept with their heads in the microwave.

From every corner of America there sprang up mighty heroes like Amazo (able to read minds, but only up to a third grade level), Spin Cycle (power to dry anything really fast), Womb Woman (capable of transporting arch villains back to their mother's wombs, where they could do no harm), Mighty Minion (ten shapeshifting Jews), Nose Rider (possessing the power to smell spills and messes that have long since been cleaned up), Cyclone Woman (she who controls the elements, especially cadmium), and Captain Chipmunk.

By the year 2032 the Chairman of the US Department of Federal Statistics, Wonder Man, estimated that over 45% of the entire population of the United States consisted of superheroes, 27% were sidekicks, and 19% were cutesy human friends to the hero with names like Scooter, Maxie, and Li’l JoJo. Even at noon the skies were so filled with costumed and caped crime fighters that pigeons couldn’t fight their way through to shit on cars and remaining non-superheroes.

Business reaped a bonanza. Skilled costume designers and tailors couldn’t pump out fresh costumes, logos, and identity concealing headgear fast enough. It wasn’t uncommon for dry cleaners to have dozens of crime fighting costumes marked for special delivery on Thursday, creating a massive back-log as most dry cleaning personnel were off battling Dr. Mephisto, leaving only Zebra Man behind to clean and press.   

Arch villains also benefited. Whenever the Bat Signal shattered the night sky so too did the sky signage of every other resident superhero within the surrounding multi-state area.

 "This burglar’s mine, Ocular Hombre!”

“I saw him first, UltraDick!”

“No fair! You have X-Ray vision.”

“And you have a Macro-Extended Penis! You could have nabbed him all the way from Cleveland!”

“Gangway, Guys!”

"Who the fuck are you?”

"I’m the Kantian Kid!  I’ll bore all three of you with a lecture on “The Critique of Pure Reason” and grab the burglar while you two are busy taking the quiz!”

And in the resulting melee, the burglar would routinely get away.

There did remain some Americans who were not superheroes, approximately  30% of the population as computed by Wonder Man and his chief assistant, Kid Speedy. One such person was Lyle Lumpkin of Dinkleville, Kansas.

"I’m happy being a regular guy,” Lumpkin was wont to say. “Y’know, if we get word that Lex Luther is about to blow up the town’s bicycle shop or 7-11 - Luther comes here occasionally when he can’t get a reservation to blow up Metropolis, what with all the superheroes there - the missus (I mean, Danger Dame), Teen Terrific, and Commander Baby leap into action while I sit here and watch “The Chew.”

Unfortunately the three of them have to take their turns with the other superheroes - we got three Green Lanterns in Dinkleville alone - which makes it tough for them to get a superpower in edgewise!”

Gradually as times changed interest in superheroes waned and a new generation opted for other professions, becoming doctors, lawyers, and apologists for the Trump Administration.

“Business is lousy these days, Electric Chick,” said the Joker when he appeared on Fox Business Channel’s Market Mornings with Electric Chick, whose ratings were steadily declining.

“How can you get away in a melee anymore when no more than 7 superheroes show up whenever you’re trying to murder Batman’s girlfriend?”