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Aggravated Assault

I had several ideas for the name of today's comic. A few were "Misguided Heroism", "Fighting Non-Crime", and "Action Onomatopoeia". However, no matter how many names I come up with and how funny they are, I always come up with something completely different when I actually post the comic. I should stop coming up with shit ahead of time, because I'm just going to end up automatically disqualifying it. Damn shame too. "Onomatopoeia" is my third favorite word, beaten only by "hot" and "cider."

Every single male at some point in his lifetime has imagined himself as a superhero, and even some girls. For some this fantasy continues well into adulthood. For most though the dream gets crushed, along with half their ribs, when they jump off a roof and realize they can't fly. Oh how powerful the fantasy is, to be strong, and beautiful, to be able to fly and shoot lasers out of your ass, to have a big penis that can fuck three women at once, to be envied by men and to have women orgasm at the mere sight of you. The reality though is often that you're a pudgy kid wearing a beach towel around your neck, and your flail made of paperclips doesn't strike fear into anything other than perhaps a small dog. More than anything else in life, I think this failure to be a hero is what causes us to resign ourselves to a life of mediocrity. We sit on a couch, watching a football game on TV (dissecting the game as if we ourselves could play it for more than 30 seconds without collapsing from exhaustion), drinking a beer (which helps dull our perception of reality that our lives suck), married to a fat whore who's always at the mall with her fat girlfriends buying hair products with our money, like it's going to make her even remotely attractive (which she stopped being when she was 17). If we stopped for even a second to ponder the reality of how absolutely not heroic and powerful we are, we'd be reaching for a shotgun with trembling hands. As it is, it's so much easier to let our minds wonder to an alternate reality where those sad and forlorn men are watching us on the TV wishing they were as strong as us, and that they were fucking the hot big-breasted woman that we are. The fantasy of a woman of course is to meet a superheroic man and then to break him.

Honestly, while it seems like I'm relating to Bob Commonman (not to be confused with Bob Cumonman, who's my gay neighbor), it's entirely faked. For me, every beer I drink makes my muscles grow. When you're watching a football game and it looks like the team coach is talking to someone on his cellphone, it's me he's talking to, asking for advice on the next play. Those hot women you jerk off to are all in my bedroom right now, waiting impatiently for me to finish this stupid post so they can take turns riding my 22 inch cock. But the last one in line doesn't have to worry, because I'll have just as much energy and vigor for her as I did for the first one. After they all pass out, I will go for a run in the middle of the night through snow banks wearing just my gold-plated boxers. During my run, I will save a busload of children from hungry lions (which abound in the middle of cities), convince Rocky to fight again when he's 80, restore Jenna Haze's virginity and get her a very nice mid-level managerial position, stop a bank robber by throwing a Ford F-150 at him, and save a kitten from a burning tree. Then I'll eat ten raw steaks, wash it down with some vodka and diesel fuel, and play golf with the President. I do sometimes fantasize about being that overweight man on the couch with the remote. He has it fucking easy.

I love hot cider.


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