How to Turn Boys into Men (With Comics!)

W.T.F.

I almost vomit right on top of Derek’s head. Are—are you telling me that the same muscled alien WHO ONCE HURLED A BEAST NAMED ‘DOOMSDAY’ INTO AN EXPLODING VOLCANO would allow a human child to school him in hoops?! It takes a few moments for it all to register. Wait a second—that explains it! Boys of this century haven’t been exposed to the same brand of super-role models I had access to in the early ‘90s—the Punisher, Deadpool, etc. That must be why they’re so damn soft! But not for long…

Derek attempts to squeal as I tuck him under my arm and dart out of the rec center. By the time I buckle the reluctant kid into the front seat of my beat-up Chevy Astro, I’ve already formed a plan. Leaving behind a bitter trail of smoke and rubbery fumes, I make a beeline for my hunting cabin, which is only about 30 miles away. The forest. That’s what this boy needs to get that testosterone flowing. Give him a taste of the wild. And since my cabin’s pretty secluded, he’ll actually be able to savor that glorious flavor. It’s a damn good thing I rescued Derek from this good-for-nothing Pussyman. I’ve got more manliness to infuse him with.

Once I help Derek out of the car and into the cabin, I notice he’s shivering. That’s odd, because the weather’s been unusually warm and his jacket looks cozy enough. I lock the cabin door behind us because safety first, and direct him to the bedroom closet. I also tell him that whimpering isn’t allowed in the Teej Machine’s cabin. “Only growling,” I growl.

Breathless, I rummage through some boxes in the back until I find what I’m looking for. Triumphant, I slap a stack of comic books into Derek’s presumably eager hands.

“Boosh!” I yell. “Civil War: Wolverine #42 through #48, baby!”

My testicles dropped a little when I Googled this. I’m 27 years old.

“Wh-what?” Derek stammers.

“What are you doing with a Superman that doesn’t use his superpowers, doofus?” I casually yell. “I signed up for BAGCOA to teach boys how to become men, dammit! And if I can’t trust you to choose a superpowered role model who opens exposed jugulars on the regular, I’ll do it for you.” I begin to roll up my sleeves. Derek winces.

“So-so what do you want me to do?”

Unbelievable. “Do I really have to spell it out for you, kid? Do you really want the robots to win??” I violently poke the comic books in his arms. “That’s the kind of man this world needs more of. Look at those beefy forearms! That scream of rage! And he’s standing in the middle of a goddamn hunk of fire! Now read up—your chest hair isn’t getting any longer just standing there.”

Even the baddest of asses knows there’s a time and place for testicle soccer.

I was a little late to the Civil War party of 2006-2007, and only got around to checking it out last year. To be honest, not every storyline in this “Marvel Comics Event” is for me, but hoo boy! Wolverine has built an entire industry out of slugging beer, smoking cigars (when your lungs are invincible you can give the middle finger/claw to cancer!), and kicking more ass than a soulless horde of bloodthirsty robots. And don’t forget all the dames. Dames love chain-cigaring alcoholic assholes (hasn’t worked for me yet, but I’ve got at least two of these things in spades).

“Oh, Logan. Could you ignore me some more and answer my questions with angrily vague responses? It turns me on.”

“<grunt>”

After Derek finishes #48 around 11:00pm, I let him call his mom. He must have missed his curfew, because she’s practically screaming at him (I can hear her through the phone from across the room). Some dude in the background keeps interrupting with “Keephimonthephone, keephimonthephone,” which seems rude when a man reborn is trying to talk to his mother.

I offer to drive Derek home, but his mom insists on picking him up instead. All the better! While we wait, I teach Derek how to skin a beaver I’d trapped earlier in the week. A man needs to learn how to handle a good beaver, I’ve always said. He’s reluctant at first, but I think he warmed up to it by the end. Regrettably, there’s no running water in my place, so we still had a decent amount of blood on our hands when the police arrived.

“Yeah, so here’s the thing, officer…”

As I attempt to explain myself, it suddenly occurs to me how some might construe the afternoon’s course of events. Even so, a deep sense of pride and accomplishment courses through my sparkling synapses. Good old Derek. That boy just became a little bit more of a man today.

I’m not a Big Brother anymore.