I love it when Icelandic sagas attribute every microscopic inconvenience that befalls a hero on his journeys to “witchcraft”. It makes me picture a really bored witch just micromanaging the hell out of this one particular guy’s daily travails.
My favorite bit of Icelandic saga is when one dude’s house is invaded by not one, but two bands of zombies (because he pissed off a witch, obviously), which did such terrible zombie things as taking the best spots by the fire and throwing clods of dirt at each other.
The homeowner, being a fine upstanding Icelandic farmer/warrior type, did what you’d expect a Viking warrior to do when faced with invading zombies.
He sued them. In court. With lawyers. As one does.
Norse mythology fails to convey the sense of terror that must have hung over Asgard every time Loki was gone for longer than eight months and three weeks
Also you know that Loki regularly just…brings back random baby animals. That he found in the woods. Claims he gave birth to them. And people believe him every time.
so, I tend to HC Bruce as being 24/25 and having been Batman for literally a year when he adopts his first kid, because. you know. Dick was literally introduced to comics the year after Bruce. that’s just meta canon.
so we have this emotionally stunted 20-something who’s currently navigating how best to fight crime while dressed up as a bat meeting another orphan and deciding “oh, shit, I should do the noble thing and adopt him. what’s the worst that could happen?”
so much
once all the excitement of catching the peeps who killed Dick’s parents wore off it gradually dawned on Bruce that he was now responsible for a whole ass human child living in his fancy house
there’s this, like, grieving but shockingly well adjusted and sociable pre-pubescent boy doing cartwheels up and down the halls, breaking the antiques, and gradually it hits Bruce that this kid is going to need, like. outlets for all that energy. and kids his own age. school? probably school.
(Alfred home schooled Bruce from the age of 8 until college – and yes, I have a LOT of feelings about Bruce Wayne’s college years – so he’s a little out of his depth here)
emotionally stunted manchild with no real friends Bruce Wayne listening with an increasingly furrowed brow as young Dick Grayson cheerfully chats about his favorite classes and which of his classmates he gets along with and the birthday party he got invited to and which teacher was mean. Bruce realizing that this child is going to be so, so much healthier than he is and almost choking because he is absolutely terrified of fucking that up.
picture: 25 year old Bruce Wayne, still perfecting his idiot billionaire act, sitting in a parent teacher conference with an increasingly flustered teacher. (flustered because Bruce is hot? because he’s weird? you decide!)
honestly what would feed that harmless idiot playboy image better than spontaneously adopting a little circus boy and bringing him along to inappropriate places like Wayne Industries board meetings or fancy formal dinners?
they absolutely have system worked out where Bruce makes a certain very small gesture and Dick immediately causes a disruption, such as:
[mid-board meeting] “oh I’m so sorry, gentlemen, I’d love to keep talking about these numbers for another hours but as you can see, I’m sure, my young ward is doing a handstand on a rolling chair and we really need to have a word about that”
[at a fancy dinner] “goodness gracious I wish that I could keep talking about this very interesting socialite gossip but it seems that my young ward has just knocked over quite a large number of champagne glasses and I must go tend to him”
once they’ve ducked out of this latest obligation Dick asks which bad guy they’re rushing off to fight. sometimes there isn’t one and Bruce was just shamelessly using the child as an excuse to leave something extremely tedious.
what do kids eat? Bruce has no idea, having spent a quarter of a century mostly eating whatever Alfred put in front of him. conversely, little Dick has never been allowed to go ham and get whatever he wants in a grocery store before. suddenly Wayne Manor’s cupboards are overflowing with frozen pizza and poptarts and sugary cereals.
food is basically an afterthought to Bruce, who is actually delighted that calories and sugars are now so readily available in quick and easily consumed packages.
I implore you to imagine Bruce and Dick in full costume sitting on the kitchen counter eating cold slices of pizza and handfuls of dry cap’n crunch for breakfast after a particularly hellacious night
actually if you can draw I implore you to do that too
I keep thinking of the Stranger Things directors talking about how working with kids is weird because sometimes they just show up covered in glitter or red in the face because they’ve been slapping each other? sometimes Robin goes radio silent on stakeouts and Bruce panics and goes looking for him, only to discover Dick found a stray dog or he’s perched outside someone’s window watching their TV because a movie he likes is on or he’s staring in the windows of a candy store.
the first time Bruce Wayne realized Dick had fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the Batmobile and he had to awkwardly lift him out and carry him to bed was an Experience
Bruce and Alfred methodically “babyproofing” the manor before Dick’s first birthday with them so that he can invite friends over without having to worry about them finding the cave
Dick realized pretty fast that Bruce doesn’t have any concept of how money works and that he’ll hand over 200 dollars for a night at the movies without even questioning it. Alfred had to step in and tactfully course correct on this one
for the record, Bruce never actually stops doing it. to this day, any one of his kids could ask for his credit card (the Batcredit card, Steph insists on calling it) and be given it without argument. does Bruce trust his kids? does he just not give a single solitary shit about money? you decide!
Dick is easy to travel with, even internationally – he got plenty of that in the circus, and he knows when to just sit down and take a nap. but he’s not accustomed at all to the kinds of places where Bruce stays. you know the opening of Spider-Man: Homecoming where Peter is losing his mind and jumping all over his hotel bed? it’s a little like that, with a side of Dick trying to drag Bruce off to look at everything that looks even remotely interesting.
at some point Bruce and Dick inevitably got into an argument and as it was getting heated Bruce said “don’t make me ground you!” and Dick shot back “you can’t ground me!” and their fight came to a SCREECHING stop as they both stared at each other and tried to do the mental math to figure out if Bruce actually could effectively ground Dick or not. like, he can say it all he wants, but will Dick respect his authority and listen?
neither of them knows the answer
they don’t want to know the answer
“well, don’t make me then,” Bruce grumps, before twirling his cape dramatically and storming off to cover his parental panic.
as the weeks and months and years go by Bruce starts getting better at remembering all the little nuances of Dick’s social life outside their vigilantism. there’s a tiny segment of his methodical brain dedicated to it, tucked away behind all the knowledge of combat and crime solving techniques, a mental map complete with figurative yearn connecting the different pictures and snippets of information. when Dick talks about the Titans, his school friends, teachers, Bruce knows exactly who he means. he just wishes he had better advice to offer. he wishes he was better at showing Dick that he cares about all of his life, not just what they do as Batman and Robin. he wishes that Dick wasn’t so perceptive, because after a while Dick realizes that Bruce is out of his league with personal stuff and stops sharing so much.
when he looks back at all the bumps of figuring out his first kid, what Bruce remembers most is how much Dick wanted to talk to him about ordinary things. none of the others do that; they’re old enough to know – or think they know – that Bruce isn’t a guy you talk to about college applications or crushes. he never gets to hear about their day-to-day. he misses it.
‘I implore you to imagine Bruce and Dick in full costume sitting on the kitchen counter eating cold slices of pizza and handfuls of dry cap’n crunch for breakfast after a particularly hellacious night
actually if you can draw I implore you to do that too’
– A literary analysis claiming that Jekyll was gay and strongly insinuating that Hyde was his drag persona
- 500 words on how Despacito has changed the American music industry (in Spanish)
- Literally didn’t even write an essay just turned in a picture of that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where the cartoon angels are playing the trumpet w their asses
– We were supposed to make a ‘diary’ from the pov of a character in Romeo and Juliet. I chose to write as a gay servant who was hopelessly in love w Romeo and plotting to murder Juliet. It’s entirely handwritten w my left hand and stg every single word is spelled wrong. One page just says ‘today I saw a geese’. There are no fewer than 6 thinly veiled sexual innuendos.
Sorry to be the person to add unsolicited personal stories to posts, but I do very similar things with essays that I’m quite proud of and wanted to share, so here are a few of mine in chronological order:
– the assignment (freshman year) was to write an instructional essay about a mathematical concept we had used that year, “preferably the quadratic formula.” I wrote a 5 paragraph instructional essay on how to add single digit numbers. I received a grade of 105 for creativity and accuracy.
– the assignment was to write a summary of the uber-important grade-wide government simulation as a reporter from a mainstream newspaper. I chose the onion and wrote about the European Union changing its name to the European Disunion because they felt bad about all the anti-brexit voters who got let down
– we were supposed to watch a historical movie and write a compare/contrast essay on how accurate it was to actual historical events. I chose Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter and did not mention vampires AT ALL until the last sentence of the essay.
– in health class we were assigned to write a “letter” essay convincing a teenager not to try drugs. I wrote an impressively sinister 6 paragraphs posing as the FBI agent stalking the teenager filled with lines like “they’re trying to hurt you. don’t ask me how I know- I always know. I’m here even when you can’t sense me. Drugs kill more effectively than the yakuza- and I would know.”
These are incredible
Freshman year of high school, for my Bible class (private school Christian education, whattup) we had to write a diary entry from an Egyptian’s pov during the period when Moses came to free the Israelites and the whole 10 plagues bit happened. I turned in three pages of hand-drawn hieroglyphics. 100.
Sophomore year of high school we had to write a poem in the style of a poet we had covered that year. I chose Alfred Noyes (he wrote “The Highwayman”) and, being that I was fully obsessed with Avatar the Last Airbender, I wrote “The Cabbage Man.” 100.
Junior year of high school we had to write a persuasive essay about Hamlet. I wrote mine arguing that Hamlet was very poor-sighted (he thinks Polonius is a fishmonger, he doesn’t recognize Ophelia, he literally thinks Rosencrantz is a sponge, etc.). It was complete bullshit, but I provided textual evidence for every claim and ended with the assertion that, had Hamlet a good Ophthalmologist, a good amount of nonsense could have been avoided. I got a 100 and the teacher read it out loud to the class
Senior year of high school, for my college admissions essay, I was supposed to write a letter to someone who changed my life. I wrote it to the monster who lived under my bed as a child. I got into every college I applied to.
Early on in my master’s program for library and information sciences I had to write an essay examining how archives are used by records creators and researchers for the purpose of preserving and accessing information.
I wrote about the Journals in Gravity Falls.
Once I wrote a paper for an Elizabethan Literature class that was basically “Shakespeare would have approved of Blackadder because it was hella gay” and then just talked about my Blackadder ships for five pages.
This was at an Ivy League school.
I got an A.
In an English class I wasn’t allowed to test out of (and furious at the teacher) I wrote a seven page paper, with sources cited, on how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
gather round, folks, that i may pass down the tale of Fuck-It Jonn, because that dude is just the GREATEST FUCKING CONMAN in the WORLD, and he WASN’T EVEN TRYING. he absolutely fucking STUMBLED ON ACCIDENT into THE SCAM THAT WOULD DEFINE HIS ENTIRE LIFE. the lie that transformed his ENTIRE EXISTENCE out of SHEER RANDOM BULLSHIT.
and his sole motivation was to EAT FINGER FOOD.
consider:
in the Wayback Days™ before i was born, the people who would later become my parents had this friend named… yeah, let’s say jonn. i’d rather not say his real name. bitches not snitches, and all that.
so. france in the late 80s. jonn and my parents had just finished school and all found jobs in computer engineering. (not that they STUDIED computer engineering, mind you. no, they were all studying how to become fish farmers or some shit. but those were simpler times, when knowing how to turn the fucking screen on got you a comfortable salary at the ripe old age of 24 years old.)
except that jonn, who was a chill hippie kind of dude, was bored to death by his desk job. so bored that he decided to just up and quit. “fuck it”, was basically jonn’s motto. fuck it, he’d find something better! fuck it, and things would work out! EXCEPT (as you may have guessed) THEY DIDN’T. for months and months he didn’t find another job. and so he ended up depressed, struggling, and eating dinner at my future-parents’ tiny apartment, three times a week, so he wouldn’t literally starve.
time went by. jonn was still unemployed. so before his resources hit rock bottom, jonn did the only logical, reasonable thing. what’s that, you ask? begged for his old job back? went back to school? crawled home to his parents? ha ha! obviously you do not share jonn’s ADVENTUROUS AND ENTREPRENEURIAL SPIRIT. and also you lack his BIZARRE LOGIC AND PLAIN WEIRD APPROACH TO LIFE.
what jonn did was: say “fuck it” (again) and leave for thailand.
because you see, thailand was cheap by french standards. so cheap that even a penniless dude on unemployment could live there for weeks on end, spending much less than he would have in france, as long as he didn’t mind roughing it. and jonn didn’t mind! “fuck it”, he’d said. and by god, he would stand by his words!
so jonn gamely scrounged up the money for the plane ticket and then… yeah. basically bummed it out in thailand. for two months. seeing the sights. sleeping on the street. making new friends.
and one of these news friends turned out to be very adept at FORGING PAPERS.
huh, jonn said to himself (probably high at the time) this sounds not at all shifty and more like a ONCE IN A LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY; what could POSSIBLY GO WRONG. my new thai best friend is even offering me a FAMILY DISCOUNT. for fake papers. fuck it! let’s have some!
as far as i can tell, jonn… didn’t even need fake papers?? like, he was literally just trying not to pass up on an opportunity here. so he smoked some more weed (i can only assume) and got A BRILLIANT IDEA. fake ID card? LAME. fake driver’s licence? HACKNEYED. fake medical degree? PEDESTRIAN. no! jonn got himself a fake press card.
but why??
well, OBVIOUSLY, just so he could get into cultural events for free – conferences, art premieres, etc – and eat all the finger food. that was his grand plan. stroll into press-only events, wave his poorly-made card around, and gorge himself on canapés. no more going hungry! ever! jonn would live off tiny slices of toasted foie gras and flutes of cheap champagne for the rest of his life!
so now jonn, Very Obviously Fake Journalist™, is back in france and he’s DOING THE THING. and guess what? this was before google. before facebook. before linkedin. impersonating a journalist was very easy. if people asked where you worked you just said you were freelance, then steered the conversation to current politics and stealthily devoured the entire buffet while everybody was busy debating.
and so. this is what jonn is doing. his monumentally stupid plan is actually working. this is how he eats. with thai-made fake papers and sheer fucking confidence. and of course people start noticing him eventually! jonn is always fucking there! at all and any events in paris! because, again, THIS IS HOW HE EATS! but it’s always the same people running around in these circles, anyway. so nobody’s surprised to see the same dudes popping up over and over again. jonn blends in! and jonn is very good at making friends. and changing the subject. and eating canapés.
and then ONE DAY
one of jonn’s newfangled journalist friends (a REAL journalist, mind you, who has NO IDEA that jonn isn’t What He Seems) basically goes: “dude i’m so swamped rn. everyone wants everything all at once. fuck. shit. are you swamped too?”
“oh, for sure,” jonn says through a mouthful of his twenty-ninth serving of canapés that night. “not a second to myself”
“god. fuck. tell me about it. shit. i’m just so damn swamped.” Real Journalist shakes his head. “if i could only find someone to cover for me on this one article.”
now, i know i said before that jonn was smoking weed. but i must confess now i said it for humorous effect. i have no idea if jonn’s ever been within five hundred yards of a blunt his whole life. but what you must understand is that jonn is Chill™ on like. a soul-deep level. his whole mind is one long exhale of smoke followed by the words “fuck it”. this is a man who left his job for no reason, lived in thailand on a tourist’s visa for two months, got fake papers there for the lol of it all, and is now living off press-only events in paris. jonn was BORN HIGH.
SO. when RJ asks him: “dude. jonn. you said you were working freelance. i know you’re busy but don’t you think you could maybe cover for me? just this once?”
jonn NATURALLY answers: “fuck it. sure”
then goes to an unemployment center and applies for one of their free one-week classes. on journalism. jonn spends ALL OF ONE WEEK learning How To Write An Article Like A Real Journalist With A Real Press Card. then writes the article. basically bullshitting his way through that thing. half-assing the life out of it. faking his heart out. because why not? FUCK IT.
i have NO IDEA if he actually did a good job or not. but it was in fact good enough for RJ who really must have been truly swamped, and was so truly grateful that he told all of their mutual journalists friends. who were ALL SWAMPED. i’m given to understand it’s the natural state of the journalist in the wild.
and so jonn is now REGULARLY COVERING FOR ALL SORTS OF JOURNALISTS.
not making much money i assume. but still, not bad for a dude who studied journalism for five whole days.
and well, it’s kinda fun! better than moping around at home waiting for the next free canapé press-only premiere. so jonn keeps at it. and eventually it occurs to him that hey! he spent two months in thailand. why not make an article out of that? so he writes himself a lil paper, retelling his Bumtastic Adventures in the Land of Thai People, Cheap Living and Forged Papers (That Last One Having Nothing to Do With Him Personally of Course). and he’s kinda proud of it. so much that he gives it to his journalist friends. can they maybe pass it around? see if anybody would be interested in publishing it? for a modest fee and some more canapés?
and yeah. someone was in fact interested in publishing it. and that someone was:
THE
NATIONAL
GEOGRAPHIC
(french edition.)
so jonn got a REAL press card. got a FULL-TIME JOB at the national geographic. and spent the REST OF HIS WORK LIFE traveling abroad for six months, then going back to paris the rest of the year to write about his wacky journeys. he’s retired now, having published several books full of his articles and photographs. he’s bought a b&b in the french countryside with all his money. and continues to say “fuck it” to any problem that comes his way like the absolute fucking legend he is.
as far as i know, none of his journalist buddies nor his boss ever found out about any of this.
it’s an ideal height distribution tbh because then whenever bruce, as an adult, is talking about how larger-than-life his father was everyone just feels bittersweet about it because the last time he saw his father he was a tiny boy and it just seems like, “oh, bruce’s memory of his father is always trapped in this time when his dad seemed like a giant”
but no, that has nothing to do with it, bruce is being completely factually correct and thomas wayne was enormous
“I assume your dad’s going to be the one that looks like you,” Clark said, adjusting his glasses as he scanned the crowd beneath the mezzanine.
“Just look for the biggest guy here,” Bruce said flatly.
Clark fought a smile.
“What.”
“Nothing! Nothing.”
Bruce waited.
“It’s just—you know.”
Bruce said nothing.
“You haven’t seen him since you were twelve.”
“Correct.”
“You maybe weren’t the tallest kid.”
Bruce said nothing.
“I’m just going to look for the guy who looks like you, rather than going by relative size.”
“And you must be the fellows who were chit-chatting with my wife!” came a voice, booming and boisterous as arms were thrown around each of their shoulders. Clark jumped; Bruce flinched.
Thomas Wayne was a good two inches taller than Clark, who was himself an inch taller than Bruce. Thomas had a glass of champagne in his right hand, which he had not spilled on Clark. There was a ping-pong ball floating in it. He had a half-empty bottle of wine in his left hand, which he had not spilled on Bruce. Between the fingers of his left hand dangled a bag of red plastic cups, unopened.
No one in the ballroom was using a red plastic cup.
Thomas’ coat and the top buttons of his shirt were undone; his bowtie had not been a bow in quite some time.
“Martha wouldn’t tell me what exactly it is you were up to,” he said cheerfully, “which I can only assume means I’d hate it!” He paused, squinting at Clark. “Oh, she must have loved you.” He gave Clark a proper once-over, down to his shoes and back up again. “Were you raised on a farm or what?”
“Why does everyone keep asking—”
“Anyway,” Thomas continued, somehow managing to pound them both on the back as he disengaged despite still having his hands full. “You two go on ahead and keep not telling me what you’re doing, if you need me I’m heading downstairs to set up a game of wine pong. It’s like beer pong, but if you’re doing it right it costs several thousand dollars! And it’s good for your heart! I’d know. I’m a doctor.”
He downed his glass of champagne and caught the ball in his teeth. He then somehow managed to arrange the items in his hands such that he could shoot them both fingerguns, clicking around the ball and waggling his eyebrows.
They watched as he slid sideways down the banister.
“I apologize for doubting your memory,” Clark said finally.
“Hm.”
“I feel like this explains a lot about your sense of humor.”
“I’m not convinced that it does.”
“… does he look how you remember?” Clark ventured.
“Usually I remember the way he looked one specific summer when I was a kid,” Bruce said thoughtfully.
Clark softened, almost reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Then he narrowed his eyes. “No.”
“Hm?”
“I know what you’re doing, and we’re not doing it.”
“You asked.”
“I recognize that look.”
“This is just what my face looks like.”
“You’re going to make me think we’re having a moment so I let my guard down for the punchline,” Clark said, “and you’re not going to say it like it’s a punchline, so when I laugh, I look like an asshole.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not allowed to laugh about this. You know I’m not.”
They were silent, the sounds of the party surrounding them from below.
“He had a horrible moustache,” Bruce said.
Clark pressed his knuckles to his mouth.
“I think my subconscious is trying to make death seem like a mercy.”
Clark made a muffled and hideous noise.
“Clark,” Diana scolded, and they turned to see her frowning as she approached. “This is a very difficult mission for Bruce, you mustn’t laugh.”
Clark threw up his hands in disgust.
“Or—wait.” Diana looked between them. “Was he doing it again?”
Clark nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.
“I think I remember this party,” Bruce said suddenly, looking out at the ballroom.
“What?” Clark and Diana asked simultaneously.
“It’s the one where that senator got thrown out of a window.” He pointed toward a commotion downstairs.
“What is your father doing?” Diana asked, leaning over a railing.
There was a crash of shattering glass, a series of screams, and scattered applause.
And he’ll insist he’ll be fine, “cause he’s a doctor” ?
Thomas raised an eyebrow with a level of disdain achievable only by those born to great wealth, and not at all befitting a man in the middle of using a meat cleaver to cut the nozzle off a garden hose. “Oh, I think I can handle it,” he scoffed. “I went to Yale.”
The dean of students took the wheels from my heelys I feel like Lucifer stripped of his wings
I have to walk down the hallways like a common wench and I’m LIVID
this is 100x more tragic than the story of icarus, fight me
one time the math teacher stopped me in the halls and said “hey! no skateboarding inside!” so i stopped and then he was like “wait, where’d the skateboard go” and i started heelying and he looked really surprised for a second and just said “look, i’m not sure if thats against the rules or not, so i wont stop you. but if it turns out that it is against the rules, i didn’t not stop you.”
Your super power is that you are average, at everything you do.
no, no- imagine how amazing this would be! you’re average- but the key here is at EVERYTHING you try and do
try and get the cure to cancer? well, aint a fingers snap and done cure but its a cure. doctors worldwide are astounded
try and learn how to communicate with an alien race? well, youre not fluent but its passing and humanity hasnt even invented deep space flight- you just managed to get their signal and have a chat
want to fly? well- youre a bit wobbly but goddamn its working
being average at everything is amazing bc if we assume anything you try works then eveything is at least working a bit
Jack of all trades, master of none, better than a master of one
DarkestElemental616 