What in the name of Doom is going on here?!

Doom is not familiar with the person named "Samuel Scratch," so this very affront to the nature of your Lord and Master must be addressed in more specific and regal terms: What in the name of Doom is going on here?!


(Science Comics #4, Fox Comics, 1941)

Doom has and would never given his permission to be named such on the cover of a tawdry child's periodical—the name of Doom is not to be taken so lightly, and with such a casual and careless throw-away to only merit a mere mention at the bottom. I will appear in full glorious and regal splendour, prominently featured on the cover for all to admire, respect, and fear, else there shall be no mention of Doom at all! You shall pay, insolent dogs at Fox Comics! When Doom has completed his task of dictating this entry in lieu of the tiny bovine, it shall be child's play to step into my time machine to travel back to the offices of "Fox Comics" and utterly destroy them! Quake in fear, Fox Comics...your Doom is nigh!

And who would throw away their precious lucre on such a piece of deluded propaganda, one that features the visage of the ineffectual and inferior "Cosmic Carson? Clearly, such an ineffective "hero" deserves the ignoble defeat he shall soon taste at the hands of this "Mars-Man." This improbable fool clearly has no idea of the art of combat and he has made the clear but deadly mistake of turning his back upon his superior enemy. Pull the helmet from that imbecile Carson's head, monster! Doom commands it!

I ponder, however: does the upstart Carson truly need that helmet? Clearly his unconscious paramour has no need of breathing apparatus: it appears she is respirating normally, although a clear fool was she to have eaten those garlic-sauteed Mars snails prior to this adventure to be breathing out polychromatic smoke. It is obvious to even an imbecilic child that, with her brazen skirt and doxy's decolletage, the female has no need for protection from the Mars elements. Doom has walked upon the surface of Mars, and only the superior technology of my battle armor protected me from the climate that is as harsh as my hatred for the Fantastic Four.

In addition, Doom surmises that the so-called "Cosmic Carson" does not actually need a breathing helmet except to accentuate his womanly lip gloss. It appears his technology is fault as well: leaking chlorine gas has prematurely bleached the hair at his temples. Why, with those greying temples and blue uniform, he almost looks like...that could almost be...

That could almost be...

No! It is...

Richards! Accursed Richards! I shall destroy you! I SHALL DESTROY YOU!

Bah! No, Doom cannot "spare a quarter."

Upon each of Doom's visits to the island of Manhattan, he cannot be but amused that such a country as the United Fools of America boasts of its high standard of living yet is populated with the castoffs of human society: what would have in years gone by been referred to as "bums" but which the deluded, politically correct society of American now comforts themselves by calling "the homeless."

Upon Doom's swift and effective conclusion of the breakfast meeting with the Thinker, I felt the need to walk through this city as a brief amusement before I return to enact my deadly plan of just vengeance against Richards and his accursed family, but not before I fulfill my "blogging" obligations to the tiny bovine. For those of you who choose to question why Victor von Doom, rightful Lord of Latveria, would deign to impart his wisdom to the milk-slurping masses that frequent the comics "blogosphere," let it be known that while Doom owes no man or mouse an explanation of his actions, I will say only this: Doom is a man of his word, and Doom's word is a steel bond that cannot be broken. Just as I vow that Richards shall be destroyed...destroyed, hear the word of Doom!...so I also vow my word and pledge as a man of honor that the wisdom and knowledge of Doom shall be heard to those who normally gather to hear the voice of a small farm animal.

Doom's purposeful but unplanned wandering took him southward through the island of Manhattan, and while I attracted a good deal of attention and hushed whispers of awe and fear as I moved through the New York City crowds, none dared approach or confront Doom, showing that despite their weak reliance on the Fantastic Four, these New Yorkers have the natural sense to recognize and respect one superior to them in social status, intellect, and sheer power.

So rapt was Doom in his plan of righteous justice and vengeance against Richards and his brood that my eyes did not initially take in my surroundings, so when Broadway ended and then Doom turned his purposeful path onto a street off of the Bowery, he was not originally aware of his surroundings until a noisome, tattered, bearded example of humanity's misbegottens lunged drunkenly at Doom, grasped at the regal cloak and slurred "Spare a quarter, buddy?"

For such an invasion of my personal space, others have suffered greatly. I burned the Symkarian ambassador alive in his own embassy for daring to jab his fleshy finger against my chest plate; none dared question the retaliatory actions of Doom as they were just and right. None may lay hands upon the person of Doom! And yet, as I pulled away, my first instinct to sear this invading creature alive, Doom reconsidered and stayed his hand. It is not the fault of such a one that he has been forgotten by those in power of this upstart nation. The weakness and corruption of the United States has placed men and women in the same position, yet in my own beloved Latveria none go hungry or begging in the street. Such is the weakness and hypocrisy costumed fools like Captain America claim to fight for. When the world is under the rightful thumb of Doctor Doom, none shall go hungry, and the only repayment the masses shall be accountable for is to drop to their bended knee and accept Doom as their lord and master.

So instead of reducing the miscreant to his component atoms with a gesture of my gauntleted hand, I instead pushed him away with a sharp verbal correction of "Bah! Doom carries no pocket change." The tattered man whimpered and scurried away into an alley, and pleased with my self-control (for in fact my anger is more rightfully targeted like a fury at Reed Richards) I continued my walk.

Only a moment or so later, however, Doom was assaulted again with a shout from the shadows of the tall apartment buildings cramped together and a clatter of activity could be heard but was unseen, like the scurrying of the roaches that populate this city. "Hey, tin can!" came a rough uneducated voice from out of the shadows, echoing through the tangle of brick alleys so that Doom was unable to ascertain its source, "Who said dat ya could walk on our turf?"

Rough laughter accompanied these words, and Doom whirled to confront these impudent taunters, but none were in immediate sight. Raising my gauntlet, I announced imperiously, "Who challenges Doom? Step forward, impudent dog, and face the wrath of my power!"

My words were greeted with hysterical laughter and giggling, an insane sound that would not have been out of place in the studio audience of one of the simplistic and time-wasting American "situation comedies" that you seem to enjoy so much, suckling on the teat of the networks and cable providers each night. Unless it is a secret plot of mind control by your government, Doom does not understand much of the hold that "teevee" has on your weak minds. Instead of quiet nights of reflection in which law-abiding Latverian citizens retreat to their homes following the enforced curfew and relax by reading from the collected words of Victor von Doom, you Americans rot your brains and imaginations with the likes of Survivor and Yes, Dear and Everyone Loves Raymond. Your unimaginative pap like American Idol perhaps gives you a foolish belief that you have a say in how this nation is run. Although there is no such thing, understand this: if Latverian Idol existed, there would be no voting: you would unconditionally accept Doom's choice of the winner, and mark my words: it would not be that butter-cheeked, cobweb-coiffed prancing and whining doxy.

In short, Doom does not understand much of your attraction with the medium of television, although Doom does confess a certain admiration of Gilmore Girls. Doom has no time or need for romance, but were he so inclined, Lorelai Gilmore, with her sharp tongue and quick wit, is indeed a paramour worthy of Doom.

Where was Doom? Ah, yes...

Although I moved into tactical stance to confront my taunters, they were still nowhere to be seen. I heard footfalls and the rattling of fire escapes above me, but when I glanced upwards there was naught but brief rushing shadows to be seen. "Aw, gedoudda here, Doomsie!" shrieked a laughing taunter, and Doom was immediately at the center of a barrage of rotten vegetables raining down upon our person: tomatoes, potatoes, turnips, cabbage and a single rancid rutabaga that smashed and splattered across my chest plate, sending its rotten detritus flying up across Doom's faceplate.

Their laughter rang after me as I chose to consider them beneath my attention and moved swiftly—not retreating, of course, Doom does not retreat and those who choose to say otherwise shall face my vengeance—and the contents of an entire metal garbage can showered down on my person as I darted through the street, followed closely by the garbage can itself. As I emerged back onto the Bowery, I heard the first voice taunt after me "And if ya know what's good fer ya, Dr. Doof, stay offa Yancy Street!"

I glanced up and saw the YANCY STREET sign above me; indeed I had wandered inadvertently onto the birthplace and childhood home of the grotesque and misshapen Benjamin Grimm. I strode away, the laughter fading behind me, and raised my hand imperiously for a yellow cab. When one did not stop, I placed myself before him and tore his vehicle's hood from the taxi, threatening to do the same for the driver's head until he agreed to rush me to the Latverian Embassy. I did not much care for his sniffing of the air; Doom was well aware of the noxious garbage aroma.

Perhaps insubordination on the part of such peasants is to be expected, I mused, but quashing that spirit will make the conquering of America so much sweeter to force these ruffians to kneel down before Doom. Perhaps when I have done so, as a reminder of my power, I shall have their misbegotten Yancy Street repaved with orange stones ripped from the Thing as he howls in pain and begs Doom to make the pain stop. That will, of course, be after I send Richards to hell, whimpering and mewing in submission. Yes, that will be an excellent "#2" item on Doom's "To Do" list, after I have destroyed Richards.

I will destroy you, Richards! DESTROY!

Breakfast with the Thinker

Upon receiving a communication from the one who calls himself "The Mad Thinker," correctly predicting my return (to the hour) in Manhattan and requesting an audience in the regal splendour of my Latervian Embassy, Doom was suspicious but intrigued. What could a man of such intellect but little effective power have that could be of any interest to Doom? There is a certain amount of respect to be afforded to a man with scientific and theoretical skills, but how intelligent can such a man be if he has never defeated the Fantastic Four? And do not dare to reply that Doom has not yet enforced an effective defeat upon Richards and his mutated hangers-on...Doom answers not to your accusations, and may reply in swift but deadly force as retaliation for daring to speak those thoughts aloud. In any case, Doom's plot against Richards is an ever-evolving and continuing plan...only the simple and the unimaginative would choose to believe I have been defeated in the past when in truth my perceived "defeats" have been part of my ultimate master plan to maneuevr Richards precisely where I wish him to be before the final mortal strike. If not that, then the defeat was of one of my Doombots, not my own royal person. Remember that, lackeys. Doombots may be defeated. Doom cannot.

Doom is a man of habit but never one of predictability. So instead of allowing the inferior-intellected yet noneheless dangerous Thinker access into the sanctity of the Latverian embassy, Doom instead suggested decreed a meeting on neutral territory: a breakfast meeting at the Plaza Hotel restaurant, where Doom has in the past met and dined with several dignitaries including heads of state, self-styled "supervillains," and the ill-advised meeting with the crazed American starlet who wished to produce an "action movie" within the boundaries of Latveria. The foolish Hauptmann agreed to and set up the meeting, attempting to convince me it would be a positive portrayal of my beloved country not only on the screens of the world's cinemas but would also bring American money into the economy. After I ordered Hauptmann flayed in the dungeon, I attended the meeting because Doom is a man of his word, even if it is merely a foolish lackey who is unworthy of speaking the word of Doom. That she showed up for our meeting dressed in the manner of a common street woman and took familiar liberties in touching the person of Doom was enough to conclude that no such movie was to be filmed in my domain, and that any Hollywood actor or movie company personnel spotted within our borders would be summarily destroyed by my robot sentinels. That the eventual motion picture opened at "number one" and made in excess of two hundred seventy million American dollars is of little importance to Doom, who prefers the works of more sophisticated directors.

Doom was therefore surprised to learn that the Plaza is no longer a hotel open to the public but is in fact now private residences, thus denying Doom the eggs benedict which was the specialty of the kitchen, a meal that would, did Doom submit to the physical needs of his lessers, make "your mouth water." I discovered the Thinker moping sadly on the steps of the Plaza, having been denied entrance by the doorman, in part because of his unorthodox manner of dress: his baggy green jumpsuit is not apparently considered in fashion by the decadence of the American system refusing to recognize the superiority of intellect and power.

I was myself ready to personally befoul my hands by throttling the neck of the lackey, but was disassauded to by the appearance of a blonde-haired young female urchin who darted between Doom's legs, shouting and squealing as she was dragged by her insect of a fluffy canine into the building. Demanding why such a child was allowed to enter the Plaza when Doom and the Thinker were not, the doorman attempted to explain with words that meant nothing to Doom: "Miss Eloise lives here with her nanny. She's lived her all her life. She's only six." It occurs to me I have seen the child before in a painting that hangs in the Plaza itself, and was determined to step forward, to show this brat the folly of assaulting her elders and betters, and to ensure that a more proper painting were hung in a place of honor in the lobby. The Thinker, however, stayed my hand by whining of his hunger for breakfast, and so Doom was reluctantly forced to agree that it was well past time for breakfast. After convincing him that no, you cannot actually get breakfast at Tiffany's, the disappointed Mad Thinker and I retired to a diner off Fifth Avenue, where we took command of a booth from a family of tourists.

The Thinker outlined his proposal during the meal, but Doom's attention was not focused upon the scientist. Doom's eggs were runny and undercooked, and the ham tough and gamy, requiring it to be cut up in very tiny pieces to fit easily through the grid of Doom's armored face plate. Despite my imperious and commanding gestures, however, the waitress was not attentive and neither brought Doom a sharper knife, a clean fork to replace the filthy one given him, nor did she refresh Doom's cup of coffee. The toast as well was burnt and the only choice of spread for it was "Multiberry Jelly," not the strawberry jam Doom prefers and demands. Doom felt justified in rewarding this less than satisfactory attention with only the most perfunctory of gratuities, to which she impudently replied "Wow—Ten percent! What a spender!"

To the Thinker's protests, I waved him off and sent him on his way. I am not interested in his joint plan to destroy the Fantastic Four. Bah! Doom needs no help. Despite what you may have seen in the past, Doom does not "team up" with super-villains—Doom has the power and might to work alone. Doom needs no help to destroy the Fantastic Four. And then, that waitress. And Doom shall not forget the blonde-haired brat at the Plaza, either. I shall destroy her. No doubt she counts among her friends the mewling brat Franklin Richards, son of Reed Richards, and while Richards himself may be the first enemy I destroy, this little girl has made my list. Do you hear me, you impudent urchin! I shall destroy you when you least expect it.

But you first, Richards. I shall destroy you! Destroy you, Richards!

Doom has arrived!

Cower in fear and prostrate yourself before the feet of your Lord and Master, Victor von Doom! I have arrived and my tenure over the weblog of the tiny bovine shall be brief but unsparing: no effrontery shall be tolerated; the punishment for insubordination will be swiftly and ruthlessly dispensed. That I have stepped into this role for but a mere forty-eight hours is of little concern to me—Doom takes his role as Master of this media most seriously. This internet site may be deemed "Bully Says," but for the weekend it becomes "Doom Demands"...and in the absence of the bull, you are expected to cower!

That was not a pun. Doom does not make puns.

I owe you, the mewling masses, no apology for my late arrival today, yet I dispense this as a cautionary tale: Traffic officers of Manhattan, do not dare to instruct the Lord of Latveria on "alternate side parking!" Such small matters are of no concern to Doom; as the fool Bloomberg learned much to his pain and dismay, if one should attempt to imitate the action of the tiger, 'twere best to have the strength of will and force to back that foolish rebelliousness or suffer the consequences! Doom's mode of transportation shall be parked wherever it pleases me, regardless of the petty rules of lesser men.

I have set up residence in the Latverian Embassy for the night. My valet arrives to unbuckle my face mask for the night, so I shall swiftly depart with the warning that Doom will return on this "blog" with no advance notice. It is in your best interest to remain alert before your computer, awaiting my next words. Do not be the manner of fool who believes that even if Doom is not typing at the moment, you are safe to briefly "surf" to http://www.reedrichards.com/. Doom shall not hesitate to make an example of one of you! My valet shakes in fright at the thought of seeing my once-proud visage unmasked, and I shall depart to the land of Morpheus, Doom's brief sleep soothing and invigorating the already mighty mind pondering the pesky problem of permanently ridding myself of the Fantastic Four. I throw back the curtains and see the brilliant lights illuminating the windows of the Baxter Building and I know the flea Richards, his foolish wife, that gorilla Grimm and the hot-tempered Storm are all in residence. When Doom is rested, the infallible plan to destroy them shall be in place.

After, of course, Doom's morning blogging obligations.

Sleep in ignorant bliss, Richards. For tomorrow, Doom shall destroy you.

Destroy you! I shall destroy you, Richards!

Dr. Doom: Dictator. Tyrant. Party animal. Comics fanboy.

(I originally wrote this entry as a thread post on The Comics Journal Message Board last summer. It's mildly expanded and tweaked here, but if it seems familiar, then this question remains: what was a Doctor Doom thread, much less one by a little stuffed bull, doing on The Comics Journal Message Board?)

While we're all sitting here waiting for Doom to arrive (and believe me, when he announces that he's going to be arriving, you'd better wait), let's contemplate another reason that Doctor Doom totally rules: Doom, much like Spuds MacKenzie, is the Original Party Animal.

What? You're laughing at that? Dr. Doom, scourge of the Fantastic Four, global supervillain, is a party animal? Don't make us laugh, little stuffed bull! you say? But...it's true! It's all true. I shall prove it, and in the manner of an algebra exam, I shall show my work while doing so, and for extra credit, I shall prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Dr. Doom is worthy of filling in for me on this blog, because not only is he a wild and crazy guy, he is a comic book fanboy at heart.

So let me pose you this tricky question, Marvel Fanboys: you think you're so smart, then answer this: what Marvel character has been seen with a drink in his hand more often than any other character put together?

Oh sure, sure, the snarky, Wizard-inspired answer is to reply this guy:


Skeptical ladies and gentlemen, may I present exhibit A:



And exhibit B:



And exhibits C, four, and E:







Heck, even action figures and collector statues feature Doom's big gold goblet by his side:



But unlike unshaven, sweaty, Kentucky bourbon-craving Iron Man, there's really no proof that Doomsie did anything more than take the occasional, measured sip of fine European wine:



In fact, Doom is much more likely to use his trademark heirloom jewel-encrusted goblet to make a dramatic, well-phrased toast rather than to swill down refreshment in the uncouth manner of a common peasant:



Not everybody is so well-mannered to accept the hospitality of the Cup of Doom, though:



Whoa, calm down there, Subbie! A simple, polite, "No thanks, I'm driving," would suffice!

I mean, it's not as if sipping a cup from that fancy-ass beaded chalice is anything to be afraid of...is it?



Well, maybe it is. Although maybe not so much something to fear as Doom's splay-legged slouch while quaffing his thirst:



For a boy who loves his mama so much, he sure didn't learn to sit up straight and not slouch at the dinner table, did he?

You begin to see why Vic has that beautiful Franklin Mint-quality goblet around all the time when you realize he's prone to dramatic proclamations and grandiose toasts:



Now wait a minute, true believers, who's that shadowy figure with a healthy dose of Latverian-inspired fear who's guest-starring as Doom's drinkin' buddy? Why, none other than his contemporary 1970s would-be world-dictator, another Doctor we all fear, Dr. Henry Kissinger!



That's right, fanboys! Vic the Slick is not the sort of common man who sits about a Latverian bierhaus, quaffing frosties with Hans und Fritz during the Doomstadt Oktoberfest! He's a world power, and as such he hangs out with the leaders of the other superpowers:



It's true, Doom really is the Original Pimp Daddy. Whether he's hoisting a bejeweled goblet, or in this instance, taking a well-deserved Spring Break on the French Riviera, the Man in the Iron Mask knows how to party with the best of 'em:




But in the end...and you just knew this, didn't you?...Doctor Victor von Doom is just like one of us, a lonely, misunderstood fanboy, obsessed with his hobby, whiling away the hours playing with his HeroClix figures...



What? You're not buying that Doctor Doom is the biggest comics fanboy of all? Here's the ultimate proof, True Disbelievers! Doom is such a fanboy that even in the heart of battle he can't resist riffing on the title of his favorite Roy Thomas book, Avengers #58:



All hail Doom—the original Sidney Mellon! 'Nuff said.

'Appy...'ow you zay?...Bastille Day!

Celebrate today by letting a Frenchman take a free shot at you!:


cover of Captain America #303 (Marvel, March 1985), pencils and inks by Paul Neary
By the way, Doom's driver just phoned...they're stuck in traffic on the Kosciuszko Bridge. As often happens on that stretch, "one of three lanes may be closed westbound from 7:30AM to 10:30AM weekdays for NYCDOT Bridge inspection work." Doom had thrown this driver off the Kosciuszko Bridge and will be proceeding shortly.

For more real-time traffic updates, tune in to 1010WINS on the eights.

Doom is coming...later today!

Later today, because he may be lord and master of all he surveys...but even Dr. Doom has to take the BQE in from La Guardia.

"Discovered by the Germans in 1904, they named it San Diego."

I know most of you are besides yourselves with excitement over the fact that Doom is coming, but it might be worth reminding y'all not to forget the less-important yet still fanboy-appealing event looming on the horizon like some giant, horizon-looming thing: San Diego Comic-Con International 2006, starting Wednesday night, July 19! I have also heard it described as some sort of prom, so I have to get my tiny tuxedo out of storage and start looking around for a date. Remember: don't wait until the last minute to ask your date to the prom—you will never get your first choice of cute girls!

But Bully, you ask...go ahead, ask it...go ahead...say it! say it!...are you going to be at Comic-Con? Mais oui, mon Internet ami! I know I've cut my teeth on industry trade shows like BookExpo America, but in the great PSAT of industry trade shows, BEA:Comic Con :: Curious George:King Kong. I fully expect to be overwhelmed, disoriented, have my senses shattered, pay too much for a dollar hot dog, and get lost at least twice. I also hope to shake Kevin Church's hand.

If you're interested in shaking the hoof of a little stuffed bull amateur blogger, keep your eyes out for me scurrying through the crowds underfoot—or, if you don't want to have to step careful everywhere you go with your gigantic clophoppers, drop on by the W. W. Norton booth (#1714, adjacent to the fabulous folks at Fantagraphics) and be sure to tell the big goofy-lookin' guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt: "Hey! I want to meet the famous Bully!" He will look at you in dazed, Comic-Con-esque bemusement until I come out and shoo him away. If you're in a shopping mood, I'll gladly sell you a copy of Will Eisner's The Plot or The Contract with God Trilogy or James Vance and Dan Burr's Kings in Disguise or other fine graphic novels published and distributed by Norton. (Please be sure to drop some dimes buying some fine Fantagraphics books and comics as well...their list is a doozy!) Stopping by may be your best chance to meet me, as I have the feeling I might be tied to the booth much of the show, although it being my first SDCC, I do hope to get a chance to wander out and about, catch a few panels (here's a handy schedule so you can plan your attendance well!) I especially would be eager to attend panels at which Mark Evanier is participating. I also hope to have my Bender outfit finished in time to enter a costume contest. "Bite my shiny metal ass, meatbags!" Hah! I'll be bringing my tiny Macintosh laptop and my little digital camera and I hope to do some evening blogging to keep those of you who couldn't make the great pilgrimage west in on the fun.

Still, my schedule, unlike Ben Grimm, is not yet set in stone. So, for maximum Bully-enjoyment at SDCC, clip and save this handy reminder coupon (everyone who hands me this coupon gets a free Bully prize, while supplies last!)

At Comic-Con
Bully is keen
Find him at booth
Seventeen-fourteen.

See ya at the prom, fanboys and fangirls!

Doom is coming...tomorrow!

Separated at birth?

Doom is coming!

And he would appreciate you not trying to peek up his miniskirt, 'kay?

Doom is coming.

Places I WON'T go on my summer vacation

Doom is coming.

Ten of a Kind: Must...smash...LOGO!

(More Ten of a Kind here.)

Doom is coming.