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THE 12 SILLIEST DC COMICS EVER PUBLISHED
...OR: "SECRET SHAMES OF THE SILVER AGE OF COMICS"
(PART EIGHT)

Okay. All of that stuff you read about on the previous page for this entry? The stuff with the impossibly stacked cavewenches; the have-I-

gone-white-with-fear? dialogue; the tres cheesy Justice League of America knock-offs; and suchlike...?

That was the good part of this tawdry little two-issue tale.

From this point forward: things really get lame in a great, galumphing hurry.

For one thing: we have an entirely new writer and artist for Part Two (previous penciler Nick Cardy having, apparently, decided that some things simply can't be justified by paycheck alone; and prior scenarist Steve Skeates -- one hopes and prays -- having had his typewriter slagged into molten ingots, just on general principles).

"Less Than Human?" (TEEN TITANS #33; May, 1971; Bob Haney, scripter; George Tuska, penciler) provide something of a mixed blessing, replacement-wise: the former being a more lucid plotter (and possessing a marginally better ear for dialogue) than his immediate predecessor; and the latter being one sharp, vertiginous step downward from the underappreciated Mr. Cardy. So: you pays your money, and you takes your chances.

In any event: upon Kid Flash having bested Trueshot's true shot with the bow and arrow -- for which no lucid explanation is eveer offered, by the by; if Kid Flash (say) used his super-speed to move invisibly and "rig" the contest in his favor, no such mention exists in either issue -- the mysterious door swings open, and reveals --

"Oh, God, Wally!" a terrified Mal shrills. "It's... him! The caveman whose death we caused! I'd know that club and gunman's walk even in my nightmares!"

(You will all kindly bear it to mind: I did say "a marginally better ear for dialogue.")

(... he recognizes the club...?)

"Wally!" Mal shrieks. "I... I can't stick it... got to run... if I'm able...!"

"Stand your ground, Mal!" Kid Flash orders him. (Which -- given that he's the one with the honest-to-Gardner-Fox super-powers in this little tag-team combo -- certainly does come across as rather mean- spirited and bullying, doesn't it...?)

His partner's inspiring, Dale Carnegie-ish exhortations notwithstanding, however: Mal bolts like a panicky palomino, launching himself in the general direction of the aforementioned JLA wannabes of this patently ridiculous otherwhere; and yanks the Superman clone's helmet right off his pointed little head in a single, frenzied lunge.

"THE ARRANT KNAVE -- HE'S FILCHED THE HELMET OF THE DUKE OF THE GALAXIES!" the pseudo-Batman shouts, in a line I'll betcha five bucks the estimable Mr. Haney never so much as dreamed he'd ever be forced to pen for his meager pay, back in the days of his beardless youth.

"THIS CALLS FOR AN EXECUTION!" the boar-headed dinkwater bellows. "LET ME KNOTCH A KILLING SHAFT!" (... yeah, yeah... I gotcher "killing shaft" right here, doofus. Does your mom know you went out and killed "Babe" for that dopey-lookin' hat of yours, incidentally...?)

As it turns out, however: Mal has the right idea, after all. The lumbering, skeletal caveman is -- in actual point of fact -- nothing but an illusion, cast by the sorceress "Cerebella" (nee Lilith); and placing the cast-iron helmet over his own noggin allowed Mal to "block out" her fear-

inducing witchery. (... and never mind how, precisely, the powerless Titan knew that this scheme was a viable one. Writer Haney wants out of this silly faux "Elseworlds" riff very nearly as badly as we do, at this point; he has his own thoroughly rotten story to tell. Any train that takes you where you're going is a good train, ultimately.)

"You have passed the tests!" Jupiterus announces (and rather sulkily, if you were to inquire of moi). "As a reward, I shall aid you to return to your world! Follow me... to the Well of Time!"

("The Hall of Judgment." "The Well of Time." Blamed near everything in this cockamamie world has a fancy-shmancy title of one sort or another, really. Jupiterus is probably wearing "The Shorts of Bermuda," underneath those funky robes of his.) (God alone knows what they call toilet paper, in this dopey dimension. I'm just sayin'...)

Jupiterus offers each of our heroes some chunks of water from the aforementioned Well -- that's right; I said chunks. The actual water, you see, is solid. Or frozen. (Look... I just work here, all right...?) -- and counsels them to the effect that: "... your journey to time past will last only as long as the crystals in your mouths."

"Okay," Kid Flash assents, popping the stuff into his mouth. "I'll try anything once!"

"Likewise, soul brother!" Mal agrees, doing the same. (Have I mentioned, by the way, that Mal Duncan is black...?)

"A funny tingling on two Titan tongues," the next caption provides, with an accompanying mental image I spent a good many years attempting to banish from my consciousness; "... a whirling, warm rush of blackness... and then -- !"

... and then, Kid Flash and Mal get a second chance at taking down a completely powerless opponent, between the two of 'em, without performing any miscellaneous atrocities upon the time-space continuum in so doing. (Doesn't actually sound all that damned impressive when you put it that way, does it...?)

What happens next is very definitely a classic instance of the old "Good News/Bad News" riff. The good news is: Mal is rescued without Wally turning any stray Cro-Magnons into prehistoric pizza; and manage to find their combined way back to their proper time and place, to boot.

The bad news, however...

... they (inadvertently) brought a dinner guest along.

Rather less overcome with the simple pleasure of no longer being big-"D" Dead than one might otherwise consider the norm, the ticked- off troglodyte proceeds to pretty much hammer and wail on everyone and everything in plain sight, until the resourceful Speedy -- in true heroic fashion -- inflicts some mild skull trauma by caving said opponent's head in from behind. With the world's biggest socket wrench, no less. "Titans TOGETHER -- !!"

"I never hit anything -- anyone that hard!" a huffing Speedy confesses, hunched over his shaggy victim du jour. (Well, geez... I should bloody hope he hasn't, anyway!) "Is he alive...?"

No thanks to the team's resident Boy Bowman: the answer is an affirmative one. (Good thing, too; otherwise, we'd all be right back where we bloody started, story-wise. With people wearing dead pigs on their heads, and whatnot. "There, but for the grace of TruValue Hardware...")

After hearing the particulars of their recent temporal shenanigans, an incredulous Mr. Jupiter responds with: "Fantastic story!" [AUTHOR'S NOTE: boy... is he ever easily impressed...!] "But this is quite a situation -- a pre-history Homo Sapiens, trapped here... and I've no way to send him back to his own time!"

"I'm reluctant to fool around with time travel anymore... it's too risky!" the team's adult mentor (and part-time Mad Scientist) continues. "This cage, for apes whose behavior I was studying, will keep him from attacking us!" Plus -- as an extra "side benefit -- it makes it that much harder for "Captain Dime Bag" to whack at him with any stray tire irons which may happen to be laying about the lab. So: it's a real "win-win" scenario, you see.

"What do we do with him now?" the ever-practical Wonder Girl... ummmm... wonders. "We just can't keep him caged like an animal!" To which the other Titans respond (Pick One):

A.) "... but... but we always keep Roy in that cell, Donna! It's his special pla -- oh. Oh, wait. You meant... oh. Okay. Right. Yeah. Gotcha."

B.) "Hey! I've got an absolutely gear and ginchy idea, fellow teensters! Let's dress him up in some real hip glad rags and make a rock'n'rollin' teen singing idol out of our fabulous frekazoid, here! It'd be... like... the ultimate utmost!" [NOTE: don't laugh; had this story seen print but a scant two or three years earlier...]

C.) "Ohhhhh... I dunno... a few throw pillows... maybe some curtains, over there... I'm thinking: 'fixer-upper.' "

D.) "Why is she licking her lips, anyway, fellahs? I -- Donna! Stop rubbing yourself up against the bars like that! Donna! GRAB HER, somebody -- !"

E.) "You're absolutely right. Let's just eat him, instead."

None of the above-referenced possibilities, however, are any sillier, really, than what the Titans do settle upon as a course of action: attempting to civilize their hirsute houseguest, in order that he might "fit in" with the rest of American civilization, circa 1971 (!!).

"[The] next day" (sayeth the accompanying caption), the Titans are startled by the sudden appearance on the scene of founding member Robin, the Boy Wonder -- complete with an armload of various and sundry textbooks.

"Robin-Bobbin!" a stunned Wonder Girl exclaims. (... and -- if it were me gadding about in those trademarked "shorty-shorts" -- I'd make it my personal business to throttle the life out of anyone who called me that, by God.)

"Okay team," the Boy Wonder instructs his fellow Titans. "Our baby's 17 years old, according to bio-correlates from the computer print-out! We haven't got all that time to build his personality... but just days... weeks..."

... and then -- as if in sudden afterthought: "What's his name?"

"GNARRK!" the caged savage snarls, by way of uncomprehending reply.

"Narc -- ?!?" a shrilly-bleating Speedy panicss, diving headlong behind the nearest sofa and curling up into a fetal positi --

... oh, all right. I'll lay off the poor s.o.b. for the remainder of this article. Solemn word of honor. (You Roy Harper fans are so gosh-darned touchy all the time. What're you, on heroin or something...?)

Having thus been ingloriously christened, the Titans' ambulatory "homework assignment" gets to experience the simple, everyday pleasures of 20th Century living: being forcibly sedated by tranquilizer darts; groomed and shaven, while unconscious, in accordance with the airy personal whims of two part-time super-heroines; and having one of these breathlessly coo such studiedly embarrassing and imbecilic things in his ear as: "He's beautiful... like some sleeping young god, waiting for the awakening of a new age -- his own Age of Aquarius!"

The young cave-strippling's initial reaction to his total fashion make-over, however, upon awakening -- only to discover that he now most closely resembles a peculiarly musclebound "Maynard G. Krebbs" (THE MANY LOVES OF DOBIE GILLIS); complete with turtleneck and oversized sandals (!) -- is to take out his violent frustrations on: a.) his mirror; and b.) an unsuspecting Lilith, in that order.

"Stop!" the team's resident telepath commands her panicked Titans. "Don't do a thing... he's not going to hurt me!"

"YOU CRAZY MYSTIC!" Speedy shouts -- casting his eyes about, frantically, for some tell-tale sign of a stray claw hammer; or lug wrench; or what-have-you -- "He'd kill his own brother oveer a bone!"

It seems, however, that the infuriatingly placid precog is spot-on, in this particular... for Gnarrk's confused thoughts are as follow (and I want you all should brace yourselves for this one):

"Why is my hair short? Hair is a man's strength in my tribe! Would you want me to be like a weak woman?"

(Apparently, the women of Gnarrk's long-ago tribe all ran about the veldt and plains in military-style "buzz-cuts," you see. Otherwise: your guess is certainly as good as mine.)

"We did not take all your hair," Lilith responds, telepathically. "In our tribe, a young man can be brave with a smooth face! No one mistakes you for a woman, Gnarrk!" (At least, no one who hasn't ever seen the Russian Women's Olympic Weight-Lifting Team, at any rate.)

Well... once that's all been settled, then: the Titans escort Gnarrk (who is becoming steadily more fixated and dependent upon Lilith; who, in turn, is breathing a whole lot more heavily, of late, and taken to wearing tight-fitting t-shirts bearing the words "Yabba-Dabba-DO ME!" in large, friendly red letters) on his first public "outting," a few days later.

After intemperately forcing his size fifty-six fist through the grille of a nearby Chevvy (he thought it was an animal, you see; yup... a bright, blue, shiny animal) and being frightened out of his simple, stoneaged gourd by the sight of an elevated train... Gnarrk bolts like a big, mesomorphic bunny.

The Titans split up and comb the city for their missing prehistoric playmate... but it is (you're all way ahead of me here, aren't you?) the empathic, ready-to-rhumba Lilith who manages to track him down: quivering and cowering in a grimy alleyway, and blubering like the big sissy "Pebbles" Flintsone he truly is.

We cut, shortly thereafter, to a scene re: the Titans HQ, in which a solicitous (and panting) Lilith is spoon-feeding (!!) Gnarrk some ice cream, while the oblivious Robin observes: "Tears, eh, Lilith? A good sign! His fixation on you as a mother figure, plus such human emotions, show he's developing!"

"Man," Mal mutters, snidely. "You sound like the medical shrinks who could explain everything about the ghetto, except -- why?"

[TITANS "FUN FACT": Did you know that long-time TEEN TITANS member Mal Duncan was -- in fact -- black? That's right: B-L-A-C-K! Go ahead and impress your fellow TITANS buffs with this amazing and informative bit of comics trivia -- !]

Before Robin can respond by impressing his fellow Titans with one of his patented, Batman-like deductions ("Wally... Donna... Roy: I've been observing Mal's behavior and reactions closely, these past few weeks... and: I. Think. He. May. Very. Well. Be. Black."), Lilith interjects with:

"Both of you cool it! Gnarrk's sending ESP again! Something that happened while he was lost!" And then: "Like... wow!"

(It is Unca Cheeks' understanding -- based upon various e-mails received; plus careful scrutinization of the many and sundry comics- oriented message boards -- that some of you, out there, consider yourselves to be "Lilith fans." If such is, in fact, the case: shame. SHAME.)

What happened, apparently, was this: the (then-)terrified Gnarrk -- whilst gathering his primordial wits and seeking lonely solace, hours agone, by dangling, ape-like, from an exposed steel girder at a nearby construction site -- overheard evidence of massive (if unspecified) "white collar" criminal undertakings betwixt a city councilman by the name of "Buckminster" and an unidentified rogue.

"From now on," councilman Buckminster informs his underling, "I give only verbal orders... nothing written or phoned... all pay-offs in cash!" (I never stated or inplied that the councilman was a particularly intelligent criminal, mind. I mean: wouldn't you think the very last thing in the world a politician-turned-fledgling-ganglord would want would be having all of his lowly "street" minions seeing his [comparatively] famous face in the first place...?)

(For that matter: how does Gnarrk even know that what he heard and saw was illegal to begin with, anyway? This is, you'll recall, someone who genuinely believes that cars eat people.)

" 'Santa Claus'," Mal fumes, pounding a fist into his open palm. "The mysterious Big Daddy of all the ghetto rackets!" ("Mysterious"...? C'mon; the guy has a nickname like Santa Claus, f'cryinoutloud! He's probably just a big, lovable teddy bear -- !)

"That creep's gotta pay for wrecking the lives of so many soul brothers," Mal concludes. (Why do I suddenly feel as if I were transcribing dialogue from the collected cinematic oeuvre of Richard Roundtree, here...?) ("They say that cat Mal Duncan is a baaaaad muthaah -- "; "SHUT YO' MOUTH!"; "... but I'm talkin' 'bout Mal!"; "... and we can dig it!")

"Only one answer," a grim Robin observes. "We've got to make Gnarrk a creditable [courtroom] witness! Really put our baby through a cram course!"

The following pages detail the Titans' near-obsessive efforts in service of precisely such a stratagem, by means of such educational devices as (f'rinstance; and, no, I'm not making this up) having the various team members walk around the room holding huge signs reading "Wally," "Donna" and "Roy." (... although... geez... if the big sap doesn't even know their names, after all this time...)

Throughout the endless days and nights of grueling, mind-crunching study which follow ("Okay, Gnarrk: and the seventeenth principal export of Rhode Island...?" "AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE -- !!" "No... no, that's not quite it, actually..."), Lilith arranges for little "breaks" involving just the two of them, strolling hand-in-hand through the city streets. Seeing how amazingly well that worked out the last time and all, I mean.

An attempt is made on Gnark's life during one of said perambulations, via a car-tossed pipe bomb (foiled -- just in the very nick -- by Lilith's precognitive abilities); and the jungle juror begins to "backslide," both confidence- and intellect-wise.

The nurturing and solicitous Lilith takes matters (among other things) into her own hands, at this point; and -- leaving only a brief note for the benefit of her fellow Titans -- hightails both herself and the nervous neanderthal in the general direction of Parts Unknown.

"Blast her and her mother complex!" an uncharacteristically angry Robin emotes. "We've got to find them -- the trial's only two days off!"

"Find them?" Kid Flash blurts, nonplussed. "Where? Lilith herself often disappears for days, and we never know where!" And, then (helpfully): "She's part witch, you know." (Yeah, yeah... and this makes her different from every other woman on the planet precisely how, again...?)

Meanwhile: in a trailer parked near the outskirts of town (woo-woo!), Lilith and her beetle-browed beau are effecting a meeting of true minds. (... and -- amazingly enough! -- neither one has to stoop all that far to meet the other halfway!)

"What... you do... Lil-uth...?" Gnarrk inquires, reasonably. (Translation: "Are you a professional model, by any chance? An actress, mayhap? If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me...?")

"Your horoscope," the flame-tressed femme replies. (Translation: "Me... engaged... in stupid... 'New Age'-y... horse poopie.") "But it's difficult to trace how the stars were aligned when you were born." (Translation: "This... not even... close... to being... real... science.") "Maybe your palm will tell me." (Translation: "Gimme... all... of your... hot... monkey... loooooovve... bay-bee.")

"Your hand," Lilith purrs, holding his meaty paw in her daintier own and all but licking the blamed thing. "So strong... yet so vulnerable!"

"Don't read... Gnarrk's hand... Lil-uth," the Homo Erectus heartbreaker implores her. "Read... my... brain!" (I'm just guessing here, mind... but: I'm thinking "Big Little Book," in this instance. Maybe -- maybe -- Where the Wild Things Are. Or possibly just Go, Dog, Go!)

Lilith -- sensing, in her peculiarly empathic way, that she probably won't be needing CliffNotes for this particular study session -- does so; and is greeted by an outpouring of Rod McKuen-esque sentiment and adoration from the big lug's Inner Tarzan. ("When I am a full-fledged man of your time, you will be my woman...") (Oh, God... I take it all back. This is genuine The Poetry of Leonard Nimoy territory, here...!)

Tragically, however -- before Lilith can respond with something sane and sensible, by way of reply; something involving stiletto heels and a pair of stainless steel handcuffs, perhaps -- a pack of councilman Buckminster's paid jackals start taking some well-aimed pot-shots at the star-crossed lovers; and the gentle Lilith takes a bullet right through the sleeve.

Gnarrk promptly reverts to savage and primordial type, barreling into the stunned and disbeliving gunsels like a seven-foot-tall bowling ball from Hell... and: it is at just the precise moment he's about to play "Pop Goes the Weasel" with the final no-goodnik's neck that the rest of the Titans team comes galumphing over the far horizon.

The Boy Wonder manages to talk Gnarrk out of placing the hysterical hitman's head and torso in separate area codes (a severely disappointed Speedy -- the ball-peen hammer dangling limply at his side -- sulks for weeks afterwards); and -- hey, presto! -- it's the following morning, and time for the case of The People of New York State (and One Seriously Homely and Repulsive Monkeyboy) v. Councilman [No First Name] Buckminster. (Judge Judy, presiding.)

"Now, Mr. Gnarrk," the prosecuting attorney says -- and with a perfectly straight face, I might add; he must have been simply hours practicing in front of the mirror, at home -- "this man whom you saw and heard conspiring to criminal ends... IS HE IN THIS ROOM?"

There is a profound and pregnant silence which seems to last an eternity, as Gnarrk deliberates... and then: the Teen Troglodyte looks the D.A. directly in the eye and responds:

A.) [puzzled]: "... 'room'...?"

B.) "When I am a full-fledged man of your time... you will be my woman..."

C.) [staring at clock on far wall, transfixed; then]: "Oooh! Oooh! TeleTubbie Time! TeleTubbie Time -- !"

D.) [stands up; drops pants; bellows]: "I AM GNARRK... THE MIGHTY! BEHOLD MY MASSIVE WAR-CLUB, PUNY MANLINGS -- !!" [court stenographer leans in for a closer look; smiles appreciatively]

E.) [a la Beavis and Butthead]: "... heh-heh-heh... he said 'ends'... heh-heh-heh... "

(Look: allow an old man his few, simple pleasures, all right...?)

"Yes!" Gnarrk ringingly declares. "That is man... THERE!" An exquisitely dramatic turning point, surely; ruined only by the fact that he was pointing directly at Speedy, at the time.

(Ohhhhhh... all right, then. Killjoys.)

Councilman Buckminster is summarily convicted of... of...

... well: of whatever naughty thing(s) he was doing. (It was a one-witness trial, all right? An influential and powerful New York State politician got a one-way ticket to the pokey on the word of a freakin' caveman, f'chrissakes! We're not talkin' L.A. LAW, here! Sheesh -- !)

" 'Ape Boy' -- ?" loyal Lilith indignantly exclaims,, upon seeing the resulting newspaper headlines. "That's wrong!"

The now-acclimated Gnarrk -- when asked for follow-up comment -- responded by slaughtering every living thing in the room; clubbing a screeching, backpedaling Lilith unconscious; and -- toting her under one arm -- scaling the outside of the Empire State Building, where he was promptly shot down by the U.S. Air Force.

God, but I love a happy ending!

*Whew*! Now: that was a ripe'un, by golly!

Be here bright and early next week, kids and kidettes.

I've got an even smellier "teen-oriented" tale waiting for you.

Don't cross me.

I'm part witch, you know.

"The 12 Silliest DC Comics Ever Published": PAGE ONE

"The 12 Silliest DC Comics Ever Published": PAGE TWO

"The 12 Silliest DC Comics Ever Published": PAGE THREE

"The 12 Silliest DC Comics Ever Published": PAGE FOUR

"The 12 Silliest DC Comics Ever Published": PAGE FIVE

"The 12 Silliest DC Comics Ever Published": PAGE SIX