Again, italics means edit.

‘Fanboy’ defends his passion, addiction

In case you don’t pay attention, or don’t know me, or for whatever reason you don’t know (space edit), I’m what is called a “fanboy”. I have an addiction. I’m talking about my pastime. I’m talking about my sole reason for earning a paycheck. I’m talking about sequential graphic storytelling. I’m talking about spandex literature. I’m talking about tights ‘n’ fights. I’m talking about full color, 32 pages, with ads… Comic Books – ‘Nuff Said! (this was simply changed to ”’nuff said.”, which is incorrect…)
Allow me to quickly defend myself and my hobby. First off, I really don’t care if you think I’m immature for liking comics, I really don’t care if your mom thinks I’m stupid for liking comics. And girls, I really don’t care if you won’t date a guy who reads comics. It really just narrows down the playing field of girls I have to consider even talking to. Besides, the less money I spend on dates, the more money I can spend on comics.
Tuesdays and Wednesdays are my favorite days of the week. Tuesday is Testosterone Tuesday. It’s a night where I get together with the rest of my unofficial anti-social club, Wild Donkey of a Man, and we eat manly food and watch a manly movie. Then there’s Wednesday (space). Wednesday is a glorious day, not because I only have two classes, and not because I get to go to church again, although those are both excellent reasons. I’m all about the two-class/church combo, it’s good times. But no, Wednesday is a great day because Wednesday is New Comic Book Day.
Once a week, the pilgrimage is made. Like vultures flocking to a rotting corpse, so do the fanboys descend on the comic book store in their great hordes, every Wednesday. And not the comic book store here in Searcy. That place is just sad (I can’t fathom why this was cut out). No, no, true believers, this is a holy mission (maybe because I called a comic book run a holy mission?). (t)his requires heading on out to Little Rock. Every Wednesday, at three o’clock, the pilgrimage begins. (Reworded to read: The pilgrimage begins every Wednesday at 3 p.m.) The voyage is not for the weak, verily, I say thee nay. A steel resolve and incredible depth of faith are required to endure the blazing sun of Highway 67 South, never quite knowing when the end will come, but knowing that indeed at the end of the arduous trek awaits a prize like no other: the weekly stash.
Oh, what a glorious rapture it is to step into the great citadel, knowing that there, on the humble wooden shelves, lies the prize - comics, in all their splendor (The – and the , after comics were edited out, which actually made the sentence more grammatically awkward than it was to begin with). The expedition was not launched unprepared, no. An intricate network of informants and spies have been dispatched and routinely debriefed to make sure that each of the valiant fanboys know exactly what holy grail(s) they seek. Handling their treasures with a care rarely seen outside of nurses handling newborn children, the fanboys walk to the cash register, (comma removed, with their added) heads held high and proud, comics in hand, and then part with their hard earned money in exchange for the tales of their highly regarded superheroes.
As you can very well see, this ain’t no light readin’ hobby for me. This is serious. I’m a pretty laid-back guy. I’m easygoing, I’m funny, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m pretty easy to get along with. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure and for certain. (comma added) (t)here is no quicker way to boil my butt (changed to ”tick me off”, denied, then changed to "get my goat", and actually printed as "get my goad"… Whatever that means…) than to get my obsession wrong. Ask about Superman.
I hate Superman. I hate Superman like the Simpsons hate natural skin tones. Superman is Richard Simmons in blue spandex pajamas. He’s [this material unfit for print in any Harding University publication, and the author simply ought to be ashamed of himself for even thinking something like that], and not only that, but he’s [now this is just getting ridiculous, honestly, what’s he got against Superman anyway?], too! (Just one of them things that can’t go in the Bison, I guess…)
Batman could kick Superman up and down the street any day! (changed to a period) Don’t ask me how, it’d take too long to explain and this column does have a space limit. Simply know that a) I’ve got proof, several times over, and b) I wrote a dissertation on it. So, if you see me on Wednesday, NO, I didn’t get any Superman (added “comic books”, for whatever idiot reason).
With all these comic book movies that have been hitting the screen lately, I’ve been downright giddy. Daredevil, Spider-Man, X-Men and X2, Hulk… When Stan Lee (the creator of all those heroes, and many more) showed up in all those movies, my heart skipped a few beats. At the end of X2, I couldn’t form coherent sentences. I saw Daredevil five times in the theater, 3 within a week of its release. I wept tears of joy at Spider-Man. I can go on and on, so, if you’re bored and have a few hours to kill, hunt me down.
Now, I know I’m (added “horribly”) addicted pretty bad. I know some of you are scared, and that’s OK. But lest the lesson of the National Spelling Bee slip past you, let me remind you that it can always get worse. Let me explain it like this. I like Lord of the Rings. I’ve read the books a thousand times, and I’m digging the movies. I know the story inside-out and backwards. But there’s a whole ‘nother (changed to “other”) level that I’ve not even come close to: I don’t speak Elvish. J.R.R. Tolkien, the awesome writer he was, completely invented a language for the Elves in his books, just to be sure of the details. I’ve met people who knew that language, and used it in conversation. I don’t speak Elvish.
So again, I say to you, I’m pretty bad… But it can always get worse. Now you just know how bad I really am.
And I promise you, next time, there will be a different moral for the story. Excelsior!