This guy’s name is — I am NOT making this up — ‘Mr. Satan’.
Because when you’re in a physical altercation with a couple of six-year-old boys wearing nothing but Speedos, you don’t NEED to rock a red suit, goatee, pentagrams, or a pitchfork to live up to your nom-de -guerre.
” Mom, can I have a dime? ”
” Why, honey? ”
” To buy this comic. ”
” Oh . . . I don’t know, honey. Why, that woman doesn’t look like she has any clothes on! And that freakishly malformed man is shooting a gun at that man in a red skintight suit that leaves little to the imagination. ‘Dr. Doom’ doesn’t sound very nice, either. I’m not sure you should be reading this. ”
” It’s SCIENCE Comics, ma. It’s, you know . .. educational and stuff. ”
” Well, why don’t we just get you this one over here with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck on the cover– ”
” Because I want THIS one! ”
Your grandfather thought he had it all figured out. As long as he pitched a fit in the grocery store, your Great-Grandmother would buy him Tales From the Crypt, Vault of Horror, and all those really cool, gory and lurid old titles. She never REALLY knew what he was reading.
And one day, he came back from summer camp and found she threw them all out, ‘by accident’. ” Oh, you wanted to KEEP those? I thought you were done with them. ”
This is why when Grandpa passes away, instead of leaving you a collection of pristine classic Disney comics worth a small fortune, your share of the inheritance will be a Ford Pinto with a bad transmission and 153,000 miles on it, and three suits from Sears that are twenty-five years out of fashion and smell vaguely of mothballs.
Moral of the story: don’t try to pull one over on Mom.
She knows. Always has, always will.