Truth. Justice. Minesweeper.

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

I just read yesterday's journal entry again. Man, I must have been still zonked from fatigue; I can hardly remember all that stuff happening. I can't believe I walked right up to Skeletron's headquarters. What was I, out of my freaking mind? I have to sit down and put a cold cloth on my forehead just thinking about it. Next time something like this happens, Greyghost is on his own.

So this whole superhero porn thing. My curiosity finally got the best of me. I picked a time when I was pretty sure Greyghost and Cruickshank weren't going to be in the office, and did a search on just that subject. I clicked on the first thing that came up, and Christ on a pogo stick.

These people are crazy. First of all, why does superheroes = bondage? Hundreds of pictures of women in masks and spandex getting tied up and spanked. Not that most of these people were actual superheroes (although some were. Either that, or there was some excellent Photoshop work going on).

And while we're on the subject . . . where did they get the idea that superheroes dressed in leather and spandex and PVC? They don't. None of the ones I've seen, anyway; their outfits are more utilitarian. Leather sometimes, but it's dull-and-broken-in and not shiny. Greyghost, for instance--he's got the cloak and mask, made of some kind of tough-ass matte material, but the rest is just regular dark clothes. He could walk down the street in it and nobody'd look up from their GameBoys.

Anyway, I'm sitting there marveling at these pictures, marveling I say, (with, let me be clear, both hands on the keyboard) like the one of the caped guy flying about twenty feet off the ground, naked under the cape, taking a whiz on a handcuffed guy on the ground below. Or the one of the masked woman in the red bikini with frogs crawling all over her. Or the one of the woman in the torn Batman costume taking on three big burly guys dressed like Wonder Woman. I'm not old enough for this stuff.

So naturally Ingrid comes in. "What the hell are you doing?" she asks, looking even more creeped out than I am.

"I didn't even know this stuff existed," I said. "What is wrong with people?"

"You'd better not let Greyghost see you looking at that stuff. I mean it."

"I know," I said, closing it down. "What would he do?"

"I don't even want to think about it. But listen. I know it's been a long time since your last girlfriend . . ."

"I wasn't--"

"But this is no substitute. You need to meet an actual person. You--"

"I'm not--"

"There has to be more in your life than superheroes and internet porn. It's not healthy. You need to get out more. Join a softball team--you like baseball. You . . ."

And on and on like that. She must have stood there poking me with a sharp stick for half an hour. The insidious bitch. Serves me right, I guess.
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