Friday, February 1, 2013

Post #1500! | On Supervillainy


When I was younger–I mean very, very young–my mother always told me, "Use your powers for good."

She emphasized the honor of the Ninja Turtles, the sincerity and righteousness of Superman, her intent being to prevent my intelligence from slipping towards the megalomaniacal. Being inconvenienced by those dumber than you is consternating, and considering both my parents' families, it seemed much more reasonable to become a Lex Luthor or a Kingpin, and simply crush beneath my heal through Machiavellian duplicity and sheer force those who would belittle and opress me for my weaker natures.

So yeah, probably best to teach the high road at a young age.

My only regret, really, is that the dastards always had the best toys. Them and Batman. The plot devices, as well as actual devices, always came from masterminds of vengeance and a dash of cruelty, innovation from fury and resentment, unencumbered by societal norms or arbitrary bureaucracy. Were they happy? Never. But man did I still want a trap door in my life.


A couple days ago, I caught my roommate watching an episode of MTV's Cribs, that show where rich assholes show off how unreasonably they spend their money on extravagant homes and furnishings. I had thought there only one thing more opulent than this, that being Cribs Teen or Cribs Kids or whatever it was called when producers devoted an entire season to children showing off how much money their parents have. They are meaningless, completely without merit. I recall a room with a double-king bed. It was basically a raised, plush floor.

As it happens, there is something worse than this yet: Extreme Cribs.

Imagine if you will, homes so outlandish, they cannot be contained within a single episode of regular Cribs. They must somehow be described by an additional adjective, preferably one involving an X.

The home I saw was a castle. They called it a castle, it looked like a castle, it was built out of a castle. It was a legitimate castle. Doctor Doom would have thought the renovations tasteless, but manageable. And as I left the room to have an actually productive day, I hear the preview for the Up-Next episode:
… and an outdoor barbecue powered by an active volcano."


I'm sorry, no.

No. You do not have an active volcano. You don't get to have an active volcano and be a real person. Why do you have an active volcano? And don't tell me, "To power the barbecue!" Just don't. I know most of the power in Scandinavian nations comes from volcanic vents, but yeah, vents. For countries. They don't plop a house down on top of Eyjafjallajoku and say, "Have at it, Doctor Evil."

What the fuck is wrong with you? Is your Crib shaped like a giant skull? Do you keep a secret camouflaged hoverpad under the garden gnomes? Under what circumstances can we just rightly assume that a human being is attempting to create a doomsday machine and hold the world ransom just to toy with an arch nemesis?

Hint: I think one is "Owning your own active volcano."

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