Thursday, November 16, 2006

Goodbye To Comics #2: The Broken Vagina Monologues Part II

Goodbye To Comics #2:
The Broken Vagina Monologues Part II

Last episode, I was bleeding to death on the carpet of a member of the comic book industry. Much like Batman mused as he was strapped to a giant sno-cone by Mr. Freeze, this was truly a shitty way to die, eye-level with a stack of barely-read Marvel comps.

My theoretical sex-partner, the theoretically-named “Donovan Paul,” was, to his credit, quite calm and collected for a man who had potentially murdered a woman with his dick. When the second attack of bleeding started from my vagina, creating a gush akin to what happened to Johnny Depp in “Nightmare on Elm Street,” I began to freak out. My blood-stained hands began to frantically dial my cell-phone. I wanted to use the voice-recording feature to document that Donovan indeed did not rape and kill me just in case the ambulance got there too late. I’m sure that’s what they would all think, that Donovan raped me, and then he would be thrown in jail and nobody would believe him. Then perhaps Keith Olbermann would use his story for his “Oddball” segment:

“Next we have a story about another crazy comic book guy who raped some poor chick..on top of his comic book collection! Worst...murder...ever!”

I pictured the comics gossip mongers and pundits perhaps focusing on my death for a few weeks. And just maybe, with me so radically and sensationally dispatched, other unrelated things might come out about me and my experience with the comics industry...maybe...

Maybe it would all come out, come out like my blood was so quickly coming out. would all be worth it...

Besides, I had no health insurance. The fear of death pales in comparison.

But I had to protect Donovan Paul.

I was always protecting one Donovan Paul or another, saint or sinner it didn't matter. It was an automatic reaction. My fingers stuttering on the keys, my voice shakily breathing into the receiver:

“T-to w-w-whom in may concern...I just want to let you know that just in case I die that Donovan Paul is not d-don’t throw him in jail or anything...”

Soon EMS and several cops knocked on the door. Donovan tossed his replica Hattori Hanzo sword that had been lying around into a closet, though he forgot about the lightsabers.

In the meantime I had been partially dressed, my jeans saturated in blood as the bleeding relentlessly continued. I was in no pain...which was odd. Later, I found out that there were very little nerve endings where I had been torn. A painless way to bleed to death. However, the rapid internal clotting was pressing against my bladder, something that would reach unbearable levels until a catheter was used in the hospital.

To say that the police looked askance at the decor of Donovan’s apartment was an understatement. Boxes and shelves and virtual stacked columns of comics, graphic novels, and toys filled every nook and cranny. Crazy comic book guy.

A cop, glancing darkly at the selection of lightsabers leaning against a door, asked Donovan to step outside for a minute as the EMS was fitting me into the gurney so he could ask me some questions.

“Honey, did this guy force himself on you?”


“You can tell me.”


“Did he...use any foreign instruments on you?”


“Any bottles, dildos, vegetables, broom-sticks, knives...”

“No...Donovan’s a good man. We were just having sex."

I kept repeating what a good man Donovan was, how he had helped me stay calm and what a great time we had earlier that night, as they carried me off in the stretcher. Donovan accompanied me in the ambulance, coming up with one "good reason" after another why this accident was not a tragedy but actually a blessing in disguise.

"You...can write about this," he said with an encouraging grin. "You can write all about what happened and make lots of money."

I could feel the blood pool up between my legs. I flashed back to one of my all-time favorite comics, X-Men #207. At the end of the issue, Wolverine mortally wounds Rachel Summers/Phoenix -- or so he thinks. We find out later that she used her telekinesis to hold her guts together and stay alive.

I squint my eyes in concentration and try to use my telekinesis.


  1. I think that the worst thing I have ever read is that you could write about this later.

  2. "You...can write about this," he said with an encouraging grin. "You can write all about what happened and make lots of money."

    Jesus fucking Christ, what a 'tard.

  3. <3 #207/#208 are my favorite issues. I accidentally left a copy of #208 on the table at a Denny's and my mom wouldn't take me back to fetch it. Trauma. (Circa 1986.)