Recently Marvel Comics decided to shake up its Ultimate imprint by killing off the beloved, archetypal Spider-Man that’s been around since 1962 and replacing him with a fresh biracial face behind the old mask. Turns out the kid’s name is Miles Morales; as you can vaguely infer from such an appellation, he’s of African-American and Puerto Rican descent. Why, here’s the little guy now:
“… You figure with the way I look now I could get a free endorsement costume or something from UnderArmor to clear up this nasty overactive sweat gland problem.”
Hey, don’t look so worried little dude. Thing is, everyone’s been accustomed to seeing Spider-Man as a white guy for so long that it’s going to take a little time to get used to this. Besides, look on the bright side:
1. You’ve got the alliteration thing going on for you, just like Peter Parker before you. Surely no one with such appealing alliteration in their name in the comic book world could ever fail.
2. You’re not even the first racial minority Spider-Man to ever sling around New York City cracking wise and webbing up evildoers (that honor goes to the incongruously named Miguel O’Hara of Spider-Man 2099 fame), so that’s one less burden on your biracial shoulders.
3. You’ve also got some cool new powers that your white predecessor never had like turning invisible and the “Spider Stinger,” which allows you to paralyze people by touching them. (Over/under on how long it takes for some obstinate prick to bring up, “Oh, so now that Spidey’s black he can’t touch people, huh? ‘Cause for a black person to touch another human being is just so goddamn detrimental, right?”)
So maybe those zany old bastards at Marvel actually put a little bit of thought into this whole ordeal as opposed to artificially slapping together two popular non white ethnicities into a boy Frankenstein in a shameless attempt to garner publicity and incite scandalous jibber jabber among the populace, comic book enthusiasts and non comic book enthusiasts alike. You even got a slick new costume out of the deal:
Marvel is adamant that contrived shock and awe and media buzz are not what they’re looking to provoke. Axel Alonso, the editor in chief of Marvel said, “People who say this is a PC stunt miss the point. Miles Morales is a reflection of the culture in which we live. I love the fact that my son Tito will see a Spider-Man swinging through the sky whose last name is ‘Morales’. And judging from the response, I can see I’m not alone.”
Alright, we get it, Marvel; we’re in the 2nd year of the 2010s decade in the 21st century. We’ve got a black president. People are no longer required to drink from separate drinking fountains and not everyone buying comic books is whiter than my 12th grade English teacher trying to convince everyone that he was “cool with it,” by clumsingly “rapping” along to NWA songs, so naturally it’s not too unfeasible to think that a few more alter egos in the comic book universes would reflect this racial diversity as well. Yes, even Spider-Man. The well’s pretty much been tapped dry on Peter Parker in most cases (you can’t keep him a starving college kid, socially awkward nerd by day/superhero by night forever), even in a reimagined, parallel universe. And when all’s said and done, this is a business maneuver which should hopefully appeal to a wider audience.
Publicity stunt or not, I could care less if Spider-Man is black, Amerasian, Zimbabwean, or Azerbaijani as long as he displays the characteristics that have made Spider-Man one of the most beloved and iconic superheroes of all time. “With great power comes great responsibility,” yeah? Give me that mantra in some way, shape, or form, even in the guise of some modern day interpretation, and we’re golden.
What’s that? “The creators of ‘Ultimate Spider-Man’ have also shocked fans by saying everyone may find out that Morales is gay in future storylines, according to the Daily Mail.” Oh you guys are good, Marvel. You guys are really good. Sure, not a publicity stunt at all. Just all very convenient, right?
Speaking of convenience, Adventures in Poor Taste have never been ones to slack when the opportunity of riding other’s coattails to success presents itself. As a result, we’ve decided to cash in on this “jam-pack every feasible ethnicity/sexual orientation/and other demographics into one character” craze springing up all throughout the comic book universes and come up with contrived, hodgepodge superheroes all our own. Behold:
Real name: Pootit Inmay
Background Information: An Asian-American, Inuit-American, color blind individual living in San Francisco, California. Also prefers to wear women’s clothing. It’s a comfort thing, alright?
Powers: Can absorb all forms of kinetic energy and then redirect said energy via powerful rainbow colored energy blasts from his groin… but only when absorbed through his anus. Oh yeah, he’s not gay.
Target Demographics: Crossdressing community; Asians, indigenous peoples from the circumpolar regions around Siberia, Alaska, Canada, and Greenland; people who are or aren’t gay.
Distinguishing Features: Birthmark on lower back in shape of an arrow pointing towards asscrack. Also, has no gag reflex. Also has not had one homosexual thought, ever, even when absorbing the equivalent of twelve-gauge shotgun blasts up his rear end.
Weight: Variable, depending on how much energy he is storing that day.
Intended for: Senior citizen comic book reading demographic, anyone who shits themselves, scatology aficionados
Powers: Adult-diaper wearing geriatric by day. Self-proclaimed vigilante by night.
Background Information: Gus Brown was a Peace Corps volunteer who taught refugees in Southeast Asia how to read, write, and speak English during the Vietnam War. Upon returning home he was met with unspeakable tragedy and swore revenge. On pretty much everybody.
I thought I saw you in a dream… smeared thoroughly in my shit.
He woke in a small white room. Late evening or early morning, he couldn’t tell much difference these days. Shadows of passing traffic raced obliquely along either wall, outside the slishing sounds of their tires on the rainslicked streets punctuated by the periodic wail of a horn, the garbled cries of a homeless man trying to cross from one street end to the other.
He knew that cry. Hell, up until a few days ago he’d been out there with them himself night after night under the Old River Bridge, beneath the iceblue moonlight, where rain sang on upturned trashcan lids and fires danced from the bowels of capsized dumpsters and river mist unspooled thick as his own sister’s chinwhiskers to tickle the soles of his weatherworn shoes, the others gathered in a circleshape around him for sleep like enormous caterpillars curled and trembling beneath their conglomerated ragged coats and patchwork quilts.
He let out a sharp grunt. No, not right now. When he clenched his asscheeks together a cold sweat broke from his forehead and trickled the sharp lines of his face. Bodies in the beds around him stirred with sickly groans, graylooking old men and women in spotted nightgowns with their backs humped up vulturelike, their beady eyes of constant blinking leering without relent.
“The fuck you all looking at?” he said. When they heard him they shriveled back beneath their covers, faces contorted as if in pain.
What did they know about pain? He had to watch his third cousin once removed die of natural causes when he came back from Thailand after the Vietnam War. Had to watch those precious nutshell eyelids slowly flutter shut and hear her say, to the tune of some whimsical schoolyard children’s melody, “I lived an honest and fulfilling life and I have not one single regret. I am content to now pass away.” And then she was gone. Died that horrible death while all around him the bastards with their green spiked hair and their noserings ran around like obstreperous children or those smug assholes with their skinny jeans and their thick framed glasses and their irony-evincing vintage t-shirts pranced around all happy as jaybirds. He’d make them pay. All of them. He made a fist and slammed it down on the mattress beneath him, heard it give off a shoddy rattle.
A young woman’s voice called his name now from the end of the hallway, and he looked over in the dark to see white slippered feet scuttling towards him over the tilefloor like mice. “Please, just lay back and calm down, Mr. Brown,” he heard her say, closer this time.
“The fuck you keep calling me that for, fat nurse? I told you my name is the Soil–”
“Please, Mr. Brown. We told you to stop talking like that. You’re upsetting the other patients. Oh sweet baby Jesus, what is that ungodly stink?” She turned and ran, nose and mouth cupped in her hands, ran until she disappeared back through the doorway she had entered.
Gus struggled to raise himself up. There came a sound from his nether regions like bubbles erupting on the surface of some primordial tar pit. A sagging feeling between his wrinkled thighs. Like a giant, sweatslimed eel might be wriggling sluggishly down his legs. He unlatched the pieces of tape from each side of the diaper and began to slide it from his hips in a series of queer wiggles. No point in wearing that thing anymore. He felt around on the bed for his pillowcase and something spongy went squishing from between his asscheeks. He reached around behind himself and tried to catch the excess feces in his cupped hands but this too went bulging soft and wet through his fingertips. The sour shit stink hot and stinging in his nostrils as he scooped great handfuls of the stuff off the mattress and into the diaper.
“Fer fuck’s sake, Gus. We’re sick and tired of hearin’ your ol’ war stories that ain’t even war stories at all,” said an old man in the bed to his right. Gus looked at him. Gnomic looking fellow with a liverspotted forehead, a whiny little prick for as long as Gus had known him. Gus narrowed his eyes and balled one end of the diaper up in a fist and began to swing it over his head like some shitfilled medieval flail.
“You were in the Peace Corps fer cryin’ out loud,” the old man continued. “The most dangerous part of you bein’ over there with that sorry organization was you didn’t get paid. Literally. You didn’t even get a damn penny to your name.” The man dry heaved once and then passed his hand back and forth wildly in front of his face. “And what in the blue Jehosofat you incontinent old bastard, did you shit yourself agai–”
The diaper made an ugly sound on the side of the old man’s head and he went down flailing and then lay very still.
“Limp dicked son of a bitch,” Gus said, looking down at him. The old man’s spotted gown was rumpled up over his bony hips, the skin there mottled over with brown freckles, the asscheeks prolapsed and as wrinkled looking as two raisins enormous and conjoined. The floor was slick with blood, speckled with fecal matter, and the old man’s dentures lay chattering in one of the befouled pools like some pair of wind up gag teeth. The old man himself not far from them, a crazed toothless grin plastered on his bloated face, the naked gums shining pinkly.
“The more shit the merrier,” he said. Dumb bastard deserved it, he thought. He leapt down from one edge of the bed and landed barefoot on the tilefloor with a sprightly hop and then stood over his victim with the pillowcase full of shit held over one shoulder like some demented, shitsmudged parody of Santa Claus, his bony chest heaving and himself muttering curses the whole time. Do you dare be the first to receive his lumps of coal?
Next month, because nobody demanded it: The Soiler escapes from the old person’s home and enacts revenge on… whomever gets in his way!
Russ Whiting is himself multiracial, wanted to be Spider-Man growing up, and yes, is thoroughly ashamed that any and all of the ideas used to formulate this article originated entirely in the bizarre caverns of his deranged mind.
Want to publicly castigate me for being such a moronic degenerate? Have a superhero idea that’s better than these? (That wouldn’t be very difficult.) Sound off in the comments section.