Behold a comic with writing on it from some unknown hand in some unknown town circa the summer of 1972. Then look at me, feverishly reading a partial manuscript as I write the following chapter, brain veins showing my antagonistic excitement. I really could have used the help of Pixie Pie this last week of carnival horrors. The United States citizens could have used Pixie Pie. And if she was the new VP candidate, I'd bet there would be no PixiePieGate. Certainly there wouldn't be a country song called "Moose Shootin' Mama," and if you don't believe me (or my psychosomatically and psychotropically induced friend Pixie Pie) then just Google it. I'm certain PixiePie--oh, by the way, I haven't slept in about 32 hours now--would have incinerated the CEOs of AIG with her CEO Incinerator Breath. She would use her Alter Reality Vision to change the name of the Dow Jones to Tony Dow and Nasdaq to Jerry Mathers as The Beaver. At this point, I'm afraid to sleep, I'd much rather be on Earth-14, where I was on the docks, saving a week's paycheck so I can afford a Kryptonite-laced condom in the event that Earth-14 Supergirl (she has a crush on bald and badly aging dockworkers) will decide to seal the deal with the girl of steel. Someone call a psychiatrist, please. One from Earth-20, because their rates are cheaper (or so Doc Fate told me).
