The Tour of Boredom

We went to Missery last week for that Tour of Missouri thing, and to see OurDad. Well we think GreatMom just wanted to see George. The whole thing was boring, and OurDad and GreatMom acted like total idiots. Thank God Lance thought he was too good to show up even though it was his team's last race ever. God, had they actually see Lance they would have wet them selves in public. It was bad enough that we had to go to the race on Friday for the end of stage 4 in Columbia, Missery. They just went ape.

On Saturday it was worse they took pictures and got autographs while they ran around the state like school-girl groupies. First to Jefferson city for the start of stage 5 and then they ran to the car and drove like idiots to get to the KOM, that's King of the Mountain, point of the race 90 miles away. Hello there are no mountains in Missery. As it was the riders just rolled over the whopping 500 feet of elevation at maybe 8% like it was a turd in the road. Then they tried to get to the finish in St. Charles, but they just missed the riders there. They probably cried over that one. They stayed for all the awards, boring. Really all they wanted to see was George, George, George.

Here's a picture GreatMom took of George in the yellow leaders jersey. He and his team the Disco boys grabbed it on the second day of the race. It was a joke. They had no competition at all, and walked away with the overall win for George with little effort. It really was the world class verses the rednecks of cycling. Don't believe it was a redneck event: On stage 2 a rider hit a road kill armadillo. He crashed resulting in a broken collar bone and was forced to abandon the race. That will never ever happen in Europe.

I'm so glad they dumped us off the OurDad's Dad and Mom on Saturday.

Tora Tora Tora part 4

OurDad's truck has been recovered from the enemy. Thank god our AAA operatives were able to determine that the employees at "Quality Auto" in Fruitport Michigan were in the employ of the enemy. They were also able to determine that Quality Auto was not even a AAA approved shop.

The fact that it was taken to an enemy shop by operatives within the AAA in the first place suggests that the enemy has infiltrated into the deepest ranks of the American automotive fortress, a dangerous trend, that if allowed to continue could result in the derailment of one of America's most important industries.

OurDad's truck is now in dry dock safely in the hands of AAA operatives in Grand Haven who come with the highest of AAA security clearance. This time we are confident OurDad's truck will be repaired and returned in time for him to set off on his next mission to New U.

Tora Tora Tora part 2

After we watched Mom ride all the roller coasters at Michigan Adventure we headed back to Fruitport to pick up OurDad's truck. The Fruitport Grease monkey at Quality Auto was real nice and said we could leave it there for the day in stead of driving both cars up to Michigan Adventure. That was great except that OurDad didn't drive it at all! Sure Grease Monkey said, "it's fine I drove it around the block."

Well I don't think he drove it over 30 mph, because if he had he might have noticed the whole thing nearly shake apart. So it's 8pm on July 3rd: GreatMom has taken the day off work and drug us three hours across the state to get OurDad's Truck, Quality Auto is closed and will be the next day, July 4th, the truck could be driven home at 30 mph, if you wanted to take six hours to get back to D-town that is if you weren't blown off the road by everyone else that doing 80 mph, we are hungry, GreatMom is doing her best not to offer any unsolicited advice, OurDad is so pissed he's reached some zehn like state in which he has surrendered to the universe which of course means he could snap at any second.

I couldn't believe it OurDad didn't even curse. It's actually really bad when he's too mad to use swear words. We all stayed real quite in the Honda with GreatMom as we followed OurDad back to Quality Auto. We silently helped OurDad empty out the truck in case this next repair bill was a death sentence. We just went on to Grand Haven because we didn't think it'd be safe to sit in the car with him for three hours. We hoped hanging out in Grand Haven, the lake side resort town just down the road would help diffuse him, but by the time we got there all the restaruants were closed. This only made OurDad quieter. The only word he'd utter was, "sure."

Tora Tora Tora

OurDad and I made it back from the Silversides submarine, but not before his truck was torpedoed!

Our Scout troop went to Muskegon on the other side of the state to camp on the Silversides submarine on Friday. We got to bunk in the sub overnight. It's awesome, but we all agreed just for one night. The Silversides was one of the most decorated subs in WWII history, and maybe the luckiest--they lost only one man throughout the war. Submarine duty was the most deadly in the entire war, and after sleeping on a sub for just one night we wondered if the real danger wasn't from crewmates. Imagine living in a 300 foot long metal tube that's only 20 feet in diameter with 80 men, most of them not showered, for weeks on end, and oh yeah, it's 200 feet under water most of the time.

Ok is wasn't really a torpedo attack, but I think it was sabotage, so it's still a sneak attack of sorts. The truck had been making horrible, thrown bearing, sounds for a couple of weeks. OurDad knew something bad was coming, that's why we think it was an inside job. You want more evidence... OurDad took it to a muffler shop a couple weeks ago. They told him, "it's definitely making a strange sound, but we can't pinpoint it. We think you should drive it until it's clearer what's wrong with it." They didn't say to drive it to Muskegon! Who takes a drive train problem to a muffler shop, unless of course what they want is a new truck.

At least it didn't die on the way to the sub so I got to camp, but getting home... Well we lucked out there. Another scout family, Thank you mister R, Found Off Road Dead ranger and stoped for us. They were headed to their cabin up north so we got to add a bonus day to our trip, but the cost was one truck. OurDad was so disgusted, or perhaps delighted, that we didn't even wait for the tow. The tuck is currently in Fruitland, Michigan at Quality Auto, anyone know where that is? We're awaiting a final diagnosis, but it looked pretty DOA to me.

Decisions decisions, fix it, junk it, haul it to a Ford dealer or trust the small town guy, buy a used car here or wait until we get to StL.... and what about the stuff we left in the truck. Looks to me like he's scammed another trip to Lake Michigan too.

If you have advice for OurDad please leave a comment.

Paper or Porcelain

Lately we have been using a lot of paper plates. Ok maybe the dishes aren't really porcelain, but Paper or China didn't have that paper or plastic alliterative ring to it (oh God OurDad is wearing off on us).

But I was wondering since OurDad is teaching Environmental Science this semester at the Old CC which was better for the environment, real dishes or the paper dishes.

"Hey Dad what would the Goracle say about us using all these paper plates?" I knew I was risking an entire environmental science lecture, but since we don't have a power point projector at home I figured it was pretty safe from the worst of it.

"Well son, there's more than just trees to consider. Sure cutting down trees is bad, but necessary in our society and many trees are farmed just for paper, paper can be recycled into make more paper plates or cups for that matter, and if you recycle them they aren't taking up space in a landfill.

The thought of eating off someone else's recycled plate was disgusting. "Dad I don't think yucky paper plates with grease and bits of food all over them can be recycled. They don't recycle pizza boxes. And cutting any amount of trees has a negative impact on global carbon emissions, farmed or not."

"Well it's not just about trees, how about the water we're saving. Not only the water we'd use to clean those plates," he said with a sneer and pointing to the cabinets to indicate the real dishes, "but the water we'd be polluting with all that detergent too."

"So water is more important that trees-- when you have to clean the dishes."

Just don't put it that way to your mother.

OurDad's Father's Day or Perhaps it's Androgyny

We are still getting the house ready for this dismal market here in SE Michigan. It's so bad GreatMom had OurDad working on Father's Day. First he shoveled a truckload of mulch onto all the garden beds in the front yard, then he watered all the flowers and bushes (that global warming thing is acting up here in MI-- it hasn't rained on over a week and it's hot).

Then we took him out, for a break, to Home Depot his favorite store in the world so we could buy him some paint and trim. Then he painted the garage door. Then he installed trim around the entryway into the garage. He even put my bed back together, because they think the bunk bed makes my room look small. Yeah right... I think they just wanted to get rid of more of my stuff as if my whole life in Michigan wasn't enough.

Anyway OurDad was working and GreatMom was lounging around with me. Some days I wonder if our parents have any idea how much they are confusing the GirlChild and me.

Or perhaps GreatMom had this Father's day revenge planned since....

OurDad's not that Bad or Freak Show at the WoundTight Township Library

Recently someone suggested that we are a bit hard on OurDad. It's true, at times we see parenting that's beyond even OurDad, in fact beyond explanation. Here's an example of what we won't be missing about Michigan's WoundTight Township. Thanks JS. However, these "parents" just give OurDad ideas.

Recently we were forced to go to the WoundTight Township Public Library to do our homework-- where it was figured we would stop whining and complaining about doing said homework being that the public library is a public place. It was pretty horrible to sit in the library and do homework-- no computer time and certainly no Star Wars books (see Four Legs Good, Star Wars Baaaad). OurDad was being so grumpy about "homework" that I don't think even George Orwell would have cheered him up.

Anyway there we were doing our homework, at the library, and soon we realized we were not alone and that it could have been much much worse.

This WoundTight mom wore an angry scowl and black unitard to showoff her surgically exaggerated bubble butt and boobjob. I first I didn't realize it was her costume as she played the part of super villainess in a public plot of pathetic pomposity. She had marched her son to the public library to finish his Science Fair project, but clearly she was there more for the public part than the library part.

The GirlChild and I were there because it is all to well understood that making a spectacle of ourselves in public is VERBOTEN, and carries serious consequences, the likes of which have only been vaguely explained.

However this kid and Villainess mom were all about the spectacle. The first hint was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle costume?!?! Why in the hell was that kid wearing a costume at the library? But it didn't stop there. There was whining, shouting and as the villainess became ever more enraged she'd loose her grasp of English slipping back into her native tongue to berate the ninja turtle son in one of the many foreign dialects you're likely to hear here in the ethnically diverse WoundTight Township. God knows what wretched foreign curses we heard that day. All for the purpose of gaining the sympathy of the WoundTight Public Library staff. What a dedicated mother she was and what a brat he was, and what attention they got. We couldn't take our eyes off them-- no one could. Staff members were consulted as to how one could finish a project with such a brat.

Finally GreatMom, unbewitched by the spectacle, reminded us it's not polite to stare at people with disabilities. We left gladly so we could finish our homework at home.

Whatever the deal with the costumes was it's now been added to OurDad's repertoire as the all time most frightening homework threat. "If you don't want to do your homework here, I'll just hurry upstairs and get your costumes and we can go to the library."

Thanks a lot, you freak WoundTight family as if OurDad didn't have enough ways to annoy, embarrass and harass us.

Please note that the clientele of the WoundTight Township Public Library is not a reflection on the staff or quality of the Woundtight Township Public Library. It's one of the nations top 100 public libraries, and we shall miss it dearly.

OurDad's Biking Clinic or Skidmarks for Boy Scouts

OurDad a has out done himself this time--he nearly got us kicked out of the BSA.

My Boy Scout Troop is planning a cycling trip up the west coast of Michigan. It'll be a great trip-- too bad we won't have time to go. Anyway, they know OurDad's like Mr. Mountain biker so they asked him to put on a biking clinic. It was great-- at first.

All the guys brought their bikes up to the school where we meet, and OurDad fixed practically all of them. Then he had to take it a bit further and talk about equipment. He brought this old helmet to show everyone how a helmet really can prevent head injuries. His is covered with cracks and scratches from landing on his head after bike wrecks, and he's "no worse for the wear." I for one am not too convinced. He talked about nutrition and hydration, and showed everyone his Camelbak. And then he brought out the bike shorts-- the girly racer boy kind that look like they'd fit the GirlChild. Oh, I can't tell you how bad that was, but it got worse, he showed everyone the chamois. That's that padding in the bike shorts for your butt, but no one was listening at this point because they were all to grossed-out by the skidmarks! But then it got even worse-- he explained that everyone has skidmarks in their bike shorts because you're not supposed to wear underwear under your bike shorts.

We were informed that in the BSA the boys and the adults are to wear underwear at all times.

I don't think we'll be invited on any more cycling outings with the scouts.

Perhaps OurDad was thinking if we got kicked out of the Boy Scouts it would make leaving Michigan easier. Wrong!

WWTSD

What Would Tom Sawyer Do? Well it sure wouldn't be asking OurDad to fix the school teacher.

It's no sooner after OurDad decides to move us all to Missouri, or Missoura, than he's cramming Mark Twain down our throats. What's next: biographies of Harry Truman or the memoirs of Laura Engles?

Anyway, with just a few weeks of school left you'd think he realize I can sweat it out, but noooo, he's got to try and make it easier for me just because he's feeling guilty about becoming our personal Harry Truman by dropping the big one on our family. He's gone and complained about my ultra hard teacher, Dr. Barbarian, to the principal. This is only going to make school worse, if that's possible.

It's not like Dr. B. suddenly started throwing around C's and D's to kids, including me, in the Woundtight School district's Magnet program. It's all stick and no carrot from that lady, at least my other teachers are really cool. What a reward for doing more than our peers around the district. Did I mention that my report card, which would be straight A's at any other school in the district says nothing about Magnet or Advanced, so when I move to Missouri I guess I'll be placed in the remedial courses with kids that say Missoura.

OurDad to the rescue. Yesterday he spent an hour and a half busting the principals balls just for me. Please with all this Mark Twain stuff he's talking up, you'd think OurDad would have come up with something a little more clever and anonymous. Now I gotta watch my back because Dr. Barbarian is gonna be gunning for me.

Any ideas? What would Tom Sawyer Do? Please note hooky too obvious to be an option.

OurDad actually got a Job-- a real Job!

In St. Louis! We're moving.

He actually called our bluff. We never expected he'd actually get a job. You may have seen my comments on his work habits entitled They Pay him for this?

Somehow, someway, he's convinced Unnamed U that his minimalist teaching philosophy is the new thing in education-- let the students do the work. Whoever heard of such a thing-- students working?! The teacher is supposed to teach the students. He thinks they should teach themselves.

I think I know why he wants to be a "college" teacher... But did he ask us? Noooooo. He just did it all on his own.

St. Louis? I should have known. He could never give up that Cardinals hat and cheer for the Lions, Tigers, Pistons or Wings.

St. Louis? Do you know how hot it gets in St. Louis? He goes on and on about global warming and he wants to move south? I just don't understand OurDad.

St. Louis? I'm not sure they even have the internet there.

St. Louis? Has OurDad thought this out? No. Do we know where we're going to live? No. Do we know where we are going to school? No. Does GreatMom have a job there? No. Are we going to be able to sell our Michigan home before he starts work in the Fall? Not in this market. Can we afford two mortgages? No. Is there a scout troop? Is there a skating rink? Are there soccer teams? Are there kids that like Legos? Will we rent? House or apartment? Will we live with grandma and grandpa, and if so which ones? But OurDad has a job.

I'm expecting to see a Mission Accomplished banner on the house any day now.

Why didn't the Old CC hire him before this disaster?

Belated Earth Day

You may not know this, but OurDad has been known to teach Environmental Science at the Old CC. He's very concerned about the environment we live in. In fact he's so into it he celebrated Earth Day this year by waiting until after Earth Day to spread fertilizer with herbicide all over the lawn we play on!

To OurDad's credit he usually forgoes the herbicides and pesticides and just over loads the lawn with nitrogen based fertilizer, but with the big move he seems to be fixing things around the house, throwing out anything he thinks can fit into the local landfill and trying to make the lawn look extra good with no regard to the environment. Good luck being a stand in for Al Gore now. All so someone else can enjoy our Michigan home.

Who cares about the environment when there's a house to be sold.

OurDad's not exactly this guy, but I could see him singing this way if the mood stuck. I happen to like toilet paper so I'm hoping not.

Easter = Sex?

Will someone please tell OurDad Easter is not about sex-- so we can start our Easter Egg Hunt.

We got up nice and early for our Egg Hunt and OurDad got all mad. "So if I put a few hard boiled eggs on the bus you'd never be late for school again, right?"

We tried bargaining for the plastic ones with chocolates inside when OurDad asked, "What do eggs have have to do with Jesus anyway?"

We didn't know. We just wanted to start our Egg Hunt, but he wouldn't get out of bed, and we can't start with out him.

"If you can tell me what eggs have to do with Jesus, I'll get up." We didn't know, and he knew we didn't know. We'd been set up again-trapped, and if we wanted an Egg Hunt we'd have to endure another of OurDad's lectures. There was no point delaying the inevitable so we asked, "Gee dad what do eggs have to do with Jesus?"

"I'm so glad you asked," he said, and we braced for the worst. "Nothing! What is an egg?"

The GirlGhild answered, "A baby chicken."

"Right, if it's a chicken's egg," he corrected. "So an egg, a baby bird, is a fertility symbol."

I was happy to leave it at that and start our Egg Hunt, but the GirlChild had to ask, "What's fertility?" Now I was ready to go back to bed. I almost hit her, and I should have.

"Fertility, it's about making babies so Easter is about sex," he said.

"No it's not," we said in unison as my stomach began to churn. Making babies eeew gross.

Oh you don't think so eeh? So what's a bunny got to do with Jesus?" He'd done it again.

"We don't care! Can't we just find the eggs?" we begged.

It's another fertility symbol--bunnies make lots of babies that means they have lots of sex." Gross making babies and sex, eeeew. I started to break out into a sweat. I couldn't make him stop. I was getting sick even before I got to gorge on chocolates. He was ruining Easter, just so he could stay in bed.

Of course it was 6 am.

That's Our Dad...

What Kind of Sick Joke is This?!

OurDad just told us it's National Poetry Month! Even in Canada!

A whole month?!

Do you know how long a month is? Can you even remember what you were doing 4 weeks ago? I'll bet it wasn't poetry.

April is the cruelest month...

In an Ideal World They'd Pay Us for This

Yesterday OurDad was trying to tell us about this Philip Roth book he's reading. Usually we just remind him were ten and eight, and some times he stops, but something in yesterday's trip to lit land with OurDad caught my attention---Money.

So this book is set in Prague, Czechoslovakia during some war that was only fought during the winter. It's a totalitarian state where half the country is paid the spy on the other half. Next thing we know OurDad is off on some rant about the President and phone records and the FBI and the Attorney General and 1984 bla, bla, bla... The book is called The Prague Orgy and he thinks the President's domestic spying is obscene. I was giving him a couple minutes to get it out of his system when it dawned on me that maybe this spying thing could work here in the good old US of A.

This meant I'd have to ask OurDad about the book to learn just how this getting paid to spy on people worked, thus risking an hour long dissertation. If I could just make it sound like I was interested in Prague and this totalitarian stuff and not current events it might not be so bad.

"So dad how could people get paid to spy on each other--in the book?", I asked. It worked he was so happy that I'd actually asked a question about literature that he forgot all about Present Bush.

My ears are still a bit sore, but I think it was worth it. It boiled down to this. There were two writer friends. One was a good writer and the other "couldn't describe a shoelace." Well the state government was interested in what the good writer was doing, because people listen to good writers. So the government asked the bad writer to file reports on the good writer, but it was a disaster. The state couldn't make sense of the bad writer's reports. Worse yet the state thought he was faking it to protect his friend. The bad writer went to his friend for help, and the good writer agreed to write the reports on himself! Everyone was happy; the friends split the money and the government got excellent reports, but this too was a problem when the state wanted to promote the bad writer to spy on more important people and to train new recruits because his reports were so fantastic.

This spying bit basically ends with the good writer having to teach the bad writer how to write to keep the government from discovering the whole scam. Eventually the good writer broke off the whole thing by telling the bad writer, "How can you ever become a great writer if you are such a bad spy?"

Hey I think this Philip Roth guy is comparing writers to spies-- More like peeping Toms knowing the books he writes.

Anyway this whole spying thing sounds better than groveling for an allowance.

The GirlChild and I do hereby pledge to provide any and all information on OurDad to the satisfaction any state government willing to pay us the sum of one million dollars.

President Bush if you are reading this we'll be expecting a wire transfer soon.

A Swiss bank account and I'll never have to clean my room again.

Bloody Knuckles

No OurDad didn't get into a fight. GreatMom would have done more than bloody his knuckles anyway. He fixed a flat tire. Nothing extraordinary there., but then there is the matter of how the tire got flat in the first place.

You've seen those big rocks placed at the corners of parking lot islands just in case the curb isn't deterrent enough... Thats right he cut one a bit short--way short. That's one more dent in the Ranger's collection, and then there was of the flat tire-- torn out side wall. No plugging that one. $85 bucks for a new tire and to hear OurDad tell it, a pound of flesh to put on the spare.

Ok maybe scraped up knuckles aren't exactly a pound of flesh, but OurDad made it sound like switching out the flat for the spare was a Herculean feat since all the bolts were rusted-- hence the bloody knuckles. I'll bet he looked pretty funny swearing away from beneath the Ranger in the fitness center parking lot. 175K miles on salty MI roads breeds a lot of rust, but that Ranger is still going strong, for now...

Our Dad doesn't seem to mind all the dents, but after yesterdays driving we're beginning to wonder if these aren't self inflicted wounds. Is OurDad trying to tell us something?

We're taking OurDad's Side on this One--Place mats

What is the point of a place mat? Great Mom says they're to catch crumbs, they help keep the table clean. OurDad thinks this is great-- as long as said place mats aren't adorned with idyllic settings for fluffy pink kittens-- you don't have to wipe the table.

However, GreatMom disagrees. Of course you have to wipe the table, and the place mats. This is where the GirlChild and I agree with OurDad. If the place mats are for protecting the table from sloppy eaters, like OurDad, fine then there a are just place mats and not the whole table to clean. This makes sense. But GreatMom insists that the table still needs to be wiped after dinner in addition to cleaning the place mats.

So what are the place mats for?!

We need a answer to this one before were expected to do our share of housework here.

He knows they should be studying

I'm not sure why OurDad did this today, but he told his students he'd give any of them that found this blog an A. They aren't going to find it, and he's not going to give any of them who do find it an A, but clearly some of them took it on as a challenge I'll bet they are combing wordpress and blogger sites right now when they should be studying for the pop quiz he's writing up for tomorrow!

School's out for Summer, or till Summer

Yes it appears school has been canceled in southeast Michigan until the weather improves. I could really care less, I'm off school, but OurDad is raising a stink and threatening to write letters to the Woundtight Schools superintendent and the local paper. Granted were not off school because of snow or ice. It's just too cold, fine with the GirlChild and me, but you should hear OurDad.

"It's going to be this cold all week. This is still Michigan isn't it. People know how to dress for this: coat, scarf, mittens, snow pants, hat, long socks and boots. It's that simple simple. It's not like you have to walk two miles to the bus stop."

I admit there is something fishy going on since yesterday it was colder than today, and we had school. Some schools were closed yesterday because they couldn't start the buses, but that was not the problem in the WoundTight District. So I can only guess that the WoundTight kids complained so much about having school when most of the metro area got to stay home that they convinced their parents to call the superintendent and demand a day off too. "It's only fair, and it's too cold."

I'll take it, really what did OurDad have to do today anyway...

He send's me to my room for this?

Life with OurDad is just ridiculous!

Did he send me to my room for
A) Forgetting to clean my room.
B) Hitting the GirlChild when she messes up our PS2 Lego Star Wars games.
C) Tormenting the GirlChild in general.
D) Singing, just plain old singing.

And it wasn't even copyright protected, totally public domain lyrics. It's got a nice ring to it.

I don't believe in hum hums... I don't believe in hum hums...

Oh sure the GirlChild had to get OurDad into it. "Dad the BoyChild won't stop killing fairies." "Dad make him stop," she cried. I mean it she cried, she's such a girl some times.

Ok so maybe I was pestering my sister a bit, but was OurDad upset about that? NNNOOOOooooooo. We have been through this before see I Don’t Believe in... or It’s Just a Story

"Get to your room! We do not speak like that in this house, young man!" I could parade around the house shouting F this and F that; he'd be been so proud, but question the existence of fairies, and it's the old heave hoe.

Of course while in solitary I built three Lego star ships. Oh the horrors!

Nikolai Gogol and the Superheros of Literature

You guessed it form the title: OurDad has a new book, and so it's off to Lit Land again as he tries to explain his latest find at the used book store.

"This guy created the anti-hero. His stuff is both sad and hilarious at the same time. He captured the absurdity of real life 100 years before Kafka."

Now there's trouble. Once he mentions Kafka I know the full-on lecture is coming, complete with another reading about that bug again. I had to think fast.

"A hundred years before the communists made Russia really absurd, and 100 years before Orwell, " OurDad continued.

Now Orwell and that Farm book. I was in real trouble, and GreatMom wasn't home to save us with orders to go clean our rooms. I had to get him off track and I thought of just the thing.

"So dad is he a hero or an anti-hero? Is he like say Superman or Lex Luthor?" Misdirection it never fails.

"Son it's not that simple. First off William Shakespeare is the Superman of literature, and Lex Luthor of literature-- that would be L. Ron Hubbard. Gogol would be one of those obscure nearly forgotten heroes maybe one of those mixed up anti-heroes, not all bad but good in a bad way. Actually Gogol might be the Northstar of literature. He was the first superhero to come out the the closet, but really it's only speculation the Gogol was a homosexual." I realized this was backfiring terribly, and it could only get worse if I didn't work fast to control the conversation.

So if this Shakespeare person is Superman, who's Batman, or Spiderman? Who are the other super villains of literature? OurDad thought for a minute and I could see a light at the end of the tunnel.

"Batman-- a heavy hitter, very popular, a dark side, but with no real super powers-- maybe Steven King. Spiderman-- that's got to be some satirist, very popular-- Of course that's Sam Clemens, better know by his secret identities Mark Twain and Kurt Vonnegut.

"So who's Wonder Woman dad?" That stumped him and thank God I could get back to my homework.

That's our dad...