You ever read Frank Miller?
Skip DK2. (I did.) Forget all of Sin City (aside from the first, before it was obvious he didn’t get the wickedly bleak joke). Go back to Dark Knight, if you ever liked Batman comics; go dig up some old Martha Washington—not really worth the time and trouble, but it had its moments; go strike the motherload and pick up the bound collection of Elektra: Assassin, which is for my money the best he’s ever done. (Writing-wise. Ronin’s another kettle of fish, and anyway, has no bearing on what we’re about to bring up.)
But if you haven’t read any Frank Miller, then a certain rich load of let’s be charitable and say unintentional humor will—well, it’ll still waft off the upcoming passage, but it won’t pack the same redolent stomach-dropping funhouse what-the-fuck deja vu wollop as it does for those of us who remember all the tough-talkin’ sound-bitten politicos from those ’80s (and early ’90s) comics, back when what Frank was writing was satire, was black comedy, was over-the-friggin’ top, a top which was still a ways up yonder, out of reach. I mean, if you don’t remember his take on the Surgeon General, then this—
Frist: I don’t know how good of a majority leader I’ll be. I just don’t. It would be presumptuous for me to say that. About being tough enough? What I did before coming to the United States Senate was to split people’s chests open, to open the chest, to reach in, operate on the heart, and if that wasn’t the right operation, actually cut that heart out. And go to another individual and open them up and take a heart out and put it in. And that’s not being aggressive, but it basically shows that I want results, I’ll do what it takes to have it done, and at end of the day, somebody is going to have a better quality of life because of it.
Well, you just won’t be able to appreciate it in quite the same way. —Shame, really.
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