Groovy Superhero, American Son!

No, you’re not hallucinating – my daily Groovy Superhero posts are also appearing at the Revolution. I’m spreading like the swine flu, marking my territory like a dog. My posts will also be reprinted in Playgirl Magazine (comics fan edition), starting with the September issue. Look for my debut on page 34, right before the Quesada centerfold.

I know I’ve already apologized for my extended absences, and now I have to apologize again if you’ve missed me these last couple of days. I’ve had some stuff going on.

Despite the fact that up until the series finale I was an embarrassingly hard-core Battlestar Galactica fanboy, I came clean with the fact that Starbuck being an angel was lamer than Patrick Duffy in the shower at the end of Dallas, and as a result I’ve had to go into hiding as there is apparently a 40-billion cubit bounty on my head now.

Anyone who reads me with any regularity knows I’ve been dealing with non-glamorous, non-costumed real-world crime, and anybody who doesn’t read me regularly needs to catch up and fill that terrible void in their soul.

And, of course, there’s nothing like family drama to cap off a week of insanity – I won’t go into details, and I wouldn’t have even brought it up, except for the funny part: there’s crap going on between me and my dad. My dad, who in the eyes of the entire world except for those who truly know him, is a savior. My dad who, secretly, when nobody is looking and the goblin emerges, I have seen punch a moving taxicab – to what end? Who knows. But it’s funny to watch, except for his hand getting all gory. (Who am I kidding, that part is totally funny! What was he thinking, he was gonna knock the cab unconscious, like in Looney Tunes?) My dad, whose hair defies all laws of physics. You see where I’m going with this, no?

That’s right: I am Harry Osborn. I have pretty, pretty eyelashes and and glistening red and black striped cornrows – presumably because Steve Ditko was buzzed on stale ink fumes when he first drew me, and Stan was too lazy to correct him.

But I have emerged from my trials, stronger and more fearless than ever. That vote about whether or not I’m a douche? Just like New York City Mayoral term limits, it’s canceled! Because one man’s douche is another man’s… hmm, that metaphor isn’t going anywhere. Well, then, how about this: I have swum through an ocean of filthy douche water and come out clean on the other side!

I am Groovy Superhero – American Son!

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