Sometimes, I would like to get in touch with my inner child and beat the crap out of him. I know what he looks like; I've seen the pictures of that gawky brat, wearing bottle-thick Run-DMC specs and braces and a helmet made of hair. If he ever shows his freckled face again, I'm going to crush him to death with the boxes of comic books (all tucked in their protective neoprene sleeves, of course) he left in my closet. Then, I will beat him bloody with the Captain Kirk and Batman and Mr. Spock and Green Lantern and Spider-Man dolls he left on the bookshelves in my study. I'll make him pay for draining my checking account, purchasing first... More >>>