Doom reluctantly suggests another reason Ben Grimm is not entirely a malodorous gargoyle fit to be ground under the heel of Doom.

Doom is a man of his word, and his word is bond; none may suggest otherwise. Still, it galls Doom to remember that when he agreed to fulfill the so-called "blogging' duties of the tiny bovine, Doom negelected to remember that one of the features of this weblog is the so-called..."Ben Grimm Totally Rocks."

This subject is anathema to Doom, yet his honor demands he continue. Erm. Benjamin J. Grimm is...Benjamin Grimm has...he is...

Ahem.

A mighty but impudent opponent, Benjamin Grimm is...

...

Benjamin Grimm is a...

...

Arrrrrrgh! What manner of torture do you force upon me, accursed bull? Doom can not and shall not speak the words he gave his guarantee to speak! You have bested Doom at his own game, bovine! Well-played..Doom admires your cunning and subtlety! An admirable opponent is a rare thing these days.

This match you may have won, bull, but this Doom swears: there shall be another day and another battle, and you shall find Doom more than ready for you! Doom shall destroy you, Bull! Destroy you! I SHALL DESTROY YOU, LITTLE STUFFED BULL!









Was that okay, Mister Grimm?

Heh! That wuz fantastic, little guy. Old Doomsie shot off outta here faster than Matchhead after he found out J-Lo's bedroom curtains wuz open. Whadda maroon! Ya done good, little bull.

Awwwww, shucks, thanks, Mister Grimm. T'weren't nuthin'. And...ahem?

Oh yeah! Sorry Bully, I fergot. Here's your lollypop.

Golly, thanks, Mister Grimm! Yum...orange! Slurp...slurp...slurp...slurp...

Careful there, short stuff! Yer slurpin' all over the place.

Well, why not, Mister Grimm! After all...it's slobberin' time!

(Laughter, fade to black, cue Three Stooges end title sting theme)

A reminder from Doom that you would be best to commit to memory if you value your pitiful existence

Attention curs! Doom commands you to remember that the tiny bovine will be attending the San Diego Comic-Con and will be making his base of operations in booth 1714, from which he will be able to spy upon Jim Balent and his pneumatic heroines across the aisle. Doom gently suggests that should you know what is to be advantageous for you, you re-read the bull's post on this so-called convention, a gathering of the most vile scum in the universe. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Doom also suggests that you are a fool should you overlook Tom Spurgeon's Guide to the Comic-Con, thirty-eight pages of wisdom so arcane and useful it might itself have come from the pen of Doctor Doom himself. Miss it at your peril, impudent dogs!

Doom himself will be in attendance at this event and it will serve you well to remember these edicts: Do not approach Doom. Do not speak to Doom until commanded to. Do not touch Doom. Do not look directly at Doom. And most important, Doom requires your slabbed copy of Fantastic Four Annual #2 to complete his collection of comics in which he utterly defeats the wretched Fantastic Four. If you are in possession of this comic, it would be best to fall before Doom on bended knee and offer it to him as the price for your pitiful life, then count yourself lucky that is all Doom takes from you.

As usual, Doom will not be attending the costume party unless there are entrants dressed at the Fantastic Four, in which case I shall show up to destroy them. Destroy them, you hear! Richards cos-player, I shall destroy you!

Ten of a Kind: Doom Triumphant

Attention, lackeys! Doom is informed by the tiny bovine that Sundays are "Ten of a Kind" Day, and while Doom would normally honor this committment by publicly displaying the shackled, helpless bodies of the Fantastic Four, Captain America, Spider-Man, Luke Cage, the Silver Surfer, the traitorous dog Hauptmann, and that whelp who calls herself "Squirrel Girl," he has given his word that he shall in fact display ten comics covers on a single theme. That theme is hereby declared as "Doom Triumphant!" Each of these covers display my mighty hand in besting those inferior to me! And to prove that Doom is not bound by the limits of ordinary man or bull, there shall be not ten, but eleven covers displayed for you to cower in fear at the power of Doom!

Let us begin!























“What if?” ”What if”? What matter of effrontery is this that postulates Doom is not a hero to his native land in this and every other universe? Mark my words, the base microbes behind this so called “funny book” shall be hunted down and made to pay for the gall of daring to insult Doom! Quake in fear, Don Glut and Fred Kida! Ink your last, Dave Simons, for your time on this Earth is soon at an end! Carl Gafford, you shall taste the vengeance of Victor von Doom and rue the day you colored this insult with anything other than your own blood! Tom Orzechowski, you shall live as an example to those who come after you that Doom can be both ruthless and merciful. But most of all I shall destroy Richards! Richards! I shall destroy you! Destroy you!

(Bah! More Ten of a Kind here.)

Comics must, by nature or by force, be worthy of Doom!

Bah! Doom does not comprehend the fascination of these flimsy, overpriced, adolescent power fantasies have to you, unless it is to fuel some inferiority that all beings must feel given the existence of Doom. Nor do I comprehend the concept of "collectibility": while Doom admires and respects a thing of beauty, all items must serve an end and a purpose, whether 'tis to give a castle the regal splendor befitting its monarch, or to serve as a tool with which to destroy the accursed Richards and his foolish cohorts for all time. No purpose is served in storing items which have cost you money in small snug plastic bags and hiding them away that Doom can perceive, especially when you consider the cost of purchasing them on the weekly salary of such poorly paid lackey wages as you surely make. Doom considers comics are poor value for money.

Doom is also angered at the injustice shown to this man by the giant faceless corporations of the industry. He was one of the few men Doom respected enough to allow him to portray me, and he did so with the proper representation of power and regalness. I do not believe this man was afraid of me—his was the personality that suggested he was afraid of no man, Doom included—but I can respect such a man of honor, conviction, and intense skills.

Finally, Doom does not subscribe to the saying "Comics Oughta [sic] Be Fun." There is no true need for anything to be "fun," much less colored pieces of paper stapled together and distributed to the masses like some addictive narcotic. Doom instead demands you subscribe to the undeniable concept that comics must be worthy of Doom!

Let us examine this week's offerings and determine which comics shall fulfill this obligation and which shall fail.


52 WEEK 10: This comic is worthy of Doom. What better way to appease Doom than to offer him a comic upon which a hero falls to his certain death on the cover? Doom admits he does not recognize many of the characters in this so-called "funnybook," but the equal emphasis on the weak and pathetic "heroes" and the powerful and controlling force that some call villains makes this an Earth I would consider a challenge to visit—and conquer. Doom must give especial praise to the considerable space afforded to Black Adam, another international monarch who understands the needs of keeping a tight grip over his country. This Adam appears to be a formidable opponent, and forming an alliance with him at first to use him to my ends may prove beneficial to the Lord of Latveria. Doom was even compelled by the ending, with the promise of an all-powerful worm, and wishes, nay, demands that the next issue be in place in no more than one week's time, available at that gathering place of the great unwashed, the "comic book store." Doom will be waiting for you, 52 Week 11. This I promise.


A MAN CALLED KEV #1: This comic is worthy of Doom. Upon arrival in the place of business where the tiny bovine purchases these comics, Doom swept his gauntlet across the rack of gaudy pamphlets and demanded: "Bah! Show me a book that does not feature a simplistically moral 'hero.' Show me a book that demonstrates the folly of humanity and the righteousness of those in power. Show me a book the tiny bovine would have been afraid to buy; that would make him cower and shake in fear." The shop attendant handed me A Man Called Kev. While it is filled with the uttermost profanities and near-pornographic violence that its possession in Latveria would be cause for instant and justifiable punishment, this story interests Doom for displaying the greed and foolishness of a weak man and the whirlwind of violence he reaps from his mistakes, yet he does not fall into the trap, like the accursed Richards, of trying to do well to others. He is looking out merely for himself, which shall serve him well in his life and career. Doom is also pleased this seems to be the first "Kev" series without those odious guest-stars The Authority, whose appearances have been growing thin in previous series. Doom salutes you, Garth Ennis—you are a dangerous and violent man. Doom can respect that.


DOOM PATROL #18: This comic is not worthy of Doom. Doom has been tricked and betrayed by this comic; he purchased it based solely on its title and was later angered and infuriated that it has nothing whatsoever to do with me at all. Doom does not enjoy being tricked, and vengeance shall fall upon those responsible. I promise, that no more issues of this mockery of the name of Doom shall disgrace the industry—consider yourself, "Doom Patrol," in the parlance of your medium, canceled. Doom has spoken!


THE ESCAPISTS #1: This comic is both worthy, and at the same time unworthy, of Doom. Doom does not subscribe to the sort of "hero worship" bandied about as a theme of this book, and yet it is a story oddly compelling: a man who, despite the foolishness of those about him, works and strives to achieve his dream of total and complete authority over what he wishes. Doom admits a respect for that, as well as a clear and straightforward story with an interesting twist at the end. What Doom does not respect is the realization that he has read this story already in an issue of Michael Chabon Presents The Escapist; it is a reprint to remind Doom of what has happened already, wrapped up in a new gaudy cover by Frank Miller. One might argue that this book was a necessity to launch new stories in this series, and that it only costs one American dollar. Still, Doom did not realize this. Doom demands that if such japery is to be performed in the future, it be clearly marked with a sticker or balloon on the cover that says "Attention my Lord Doom: Contents are a reprint." Take this as warning, Brian K. Vaughan, Philip Bond, and you as well, Michael Chabon, else you learn the truth of an old Latverian proverb: "Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, Doom shall destroy you—utterly destroy you."


THE SENSATIONAL SPIDER-MAN #28: This comic is worthy of Doom. Close your surprised jaw, lackey—you heard Doom correctly. Doom does not make mistakes in that manner. Yes, "this comic is worthy of Doom," despite the fact that it stars that upstart popinjay Spider-Man, one of the most constant and annoying thorns in the regal hand of Doom after the despised Richards. One example of this is Spider-Man's clear sense in adopting an armored costume of great power and versatility; no doubt he has learned his lesson in his many defeats at the hand of Doom that armor will protect his soft underbelly. Even more worthy of Doom, however, is the conceit that Spider-Man has "revealed" his secret identity as the photographer Peter Parker. Doom is greatly amused by and in admiration at this development and raises his chalice in respect to Spider-Man's clear but effective plan to draw attention away from what must be his true identity, for surely this milquetoast tool of the American media cannot be the insolent yet powerful opponent Doom has crossed swords with in the past. Surely this is part of a greater plan to distract and deceive the American public, and Spider-Man is to be commended with paying Parker to "admit" he is Spider-Man. Doom knows the truth, however—no man with the power and strength of the spider would be content to remain a faceless no one, a photographer and teacher struggling to support his trollop of a wife and his infirm and feeble aunt. The true Spider-Man knows and appreciates the meaning of power, and would not lower himself to such a life. His use of Parker as a distractionary pawn is to be commended, and I look with interest towards future stories to see in which manner this pawn must be sacrificed to serve Spider-Man's ends. I salute you, Spider-Man: you are more ruthless and clever than I gave you credit for.


ULTIMATE FANTASTIC FOUR #31: This comic is worthy of Doom. Zombies threaten the safety of the Baxter Building. The whelp Johnny Storm is infected with some debilitating disease. These elements alone would be enough to make Doom content, yet there is even more: in this issue, as should be in every issue, Doom is triumphant over Reed Richards. Is there indeed any other way a comic book should, nay, must end? Richards is broken and imprisoned within the scarred shell he himself inflicted upon me, and I am free and empowered in the body of Richards to destroy the Fantastic Four from within. It is not enough to defeat Richards either, at the end of the issue he is in tears, for I have completely and utterly humiliated him. Not for naught is this character justly named Ultimate Doom, for as he says in the best utterance by Doom of this week: "You told people that I'd made a mistake. You told them the accident was my miscalculation...and that, dear trash, was an insult to my honor." Doom applauds the new direction of this comic heartily and awards it the comic most worthy of Doom this week. Clearly we can look forward to dozens, nay, hundreds of succeeding issues in which Doom inflicts his vengeance monthly upon the Fantastic Four.


MARVEL ADVENTURES: FANTASTIC FOUR #14: This comic is not worthy of Doom. Doom vows vengeance upon the misbegotten creature who slipped this pathetic rag into Doom's pull bag this week. As I have just declared, Doom does not read these simplistic moral fables of his most hated enemies unless they display what is the one true and obvious conclusion: that Doom must and will triumph in every instance, and, barring the appearance of Doom, the Fantastic Four must run from danger like young swatted whelps with their tails between their legs. Doom especially did not find this tripe of the Fantastic Four battling the Grandmaster as fit for human reading—even the younger population for whom it is apparently intended. Instead, Doom suggests this profane piece of propaganda be ground up and fed to the pigs as swill, for that is all it is fit for, although those pigs shall surely vomit it up again. No respect is to be afforded the Grandmaster, either, whose deathtraps and conundrums for the accursed Four are clichéd, hackneyed, and unworthy of the machinations of a truly great mind such as Doom would use. Doom laughed heartily at the foolish Biblical paradox allusion that Richards used to defeat a computer. Were the Fantastic Four in the same situations they are in this magazine but under the thumb of Doom, their lifeless bodies would be even now paraded through the streets. Doom supposes he owes a debt of gratitude to the Grandmaster for allowing the Fantastic Four to believe they can escape from any deathtrap, for it will make their defeat at my own hand even more sweet. Yet Doom has naught but contempt for the Grandmaster, and upon the next time I rightfully reclaim the power cosmic from that glittering fool the Silver Surfer, this universal elder shall at last know the meaning of fear as Doom defeats first him, and then Richards. Despite the ending of this accursed comic book, I shall destroy you, Richards! Destroy you!

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.