Punch Batman

August 1, 2013

I am right-handed. If I were to punch Batman in the stomach, I would use my right hand. I would do this in the basement of the church where my old Boy Scout troop used to hold meetings (both the Scoutmaster and Assistant Scoutmaster are currently dead). The sound of my right fist ineffectively striking the Batman would reverberate pathetically off the bare walls, over to the unisex restrooms. In my left hand would probably be a half-eaten fruit of some kind, let’s say a Bosc pear. A brown Bosc pear. Under ideal circumstances, I would be holding the brown Bosc pear firmly in my right hand, but as my right hand is currently preoccupied with more pressing matters (punching Batman), I am forced to utilize my auxiliary appendage for the business of grasping the brown Bosc pear. Understand?

Immediately after my clenched right hand impacts the Batman, a hot, foamy wave of regret washes over me (hypothetically). In light of this, I would pray for the LORD to intervene, only to receive a MindFax(R) informing me that this particular church is of a false religion, and while the nearest available true church is only three-quarters of a mile away, it is presently being bulldozed to make way for a new sports bar with a sexually suggestive name (TBD).

It wasn’t the George Clooney Batman, or the Val Kilmer Batman, or the Bela Lugosi Batman, or the Ella Fitzgerald Batman. It doesn’t matter, forget it.

If the universe is expanding like a star-spangled party balloon, what will it sound like when the fabric of space stretches too thin and the balloon pops? Or what if it’s one of those long balloons, and God-o the Almighty Clown is just waiting for the correct length before twisting the balloon into the vague shape of a giraffe? Will it squeak like a normal balloon? What is a “normal” balloon, anyway? Who sets the universal standard for balloon normalcy? Wayne Coyne? He’d make for a disastrous Batman (no offense) (the truth hurts) (so does my right hand) (hypothetically).

There was a vending machine in that basement, but really, who gives a fuck? Go outside, close the door. Be your own Batman.