By Zach Oberman

The Superhero Diaries – brought to you by those who wear their underpants on the outside. The following is based on recent issues of Justice Society of America, written by Geoff Johns. The first two Superhero Diaries have both been based on Johns' work, but that's purely coincidental. Johns is not the only comic book writer out there, but he's one of the best, and he doesn't seem to suffer from writer's block.

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Author: Ted "The Roarin' Twenties" Grant Mood: Crotchety Listening to: What?

First off, let me say that I don't much like these here "bloogs", or what-have-you. Like I tell Hawkman, the only time I need an Internet is if I'm trying to catch an Interfish. Heh HEH! (Oh, c'mon – that's funny. You young people wouldn't know humor if Jack Benny bit you on your tochis.) I stopped caring about technology right after they came out with the mimeograph.

Mr. Terrific says I sound old. Gee whiz, Mr. Terrifically Obvious, maybe that's because I'm pushing 100! That big T he wears on his face must keep him from noticing that he's the leader of the world's most powerful retirement home. After all, Franklin Roosevelt was President when I first threw on the tights! (Speaking of my tights, has anyone seen them? These days they're the only thing keeping my testicles from drooping below my knees.)

There was a time when the Justice Society was the cat's pajamas. That was during the Great War, or World War One as you whippersnappers call it. With the boys off to the front lines, it was the Society's job to protect the country. I was nothing more than a small-time boxer then, but even a palooka like me could see that there weren't a lot of fellas around and the dolls thought the JSA was the bee's knees. I threw on some tights and signed up. Sure, I felt light in the loafers at times, but it was worth it: I was making whoopee with tomatoes who made Greta Garbo look like Clark Gable. (How's that for sounding old, Mr. Smart Aleck?!?)

Today our most villainous archenemies are incontinence and trying to work our answering machines. Take a gander at the superhero senior tour:

Me (Wildcat): I used to be quite a boxer. I taught Batman how to fight like a real man, without all that kung-fu kicky stuff. Now I have osteoporosis. If I hit anything harder than a Mallomar I break every bone in my hand.

Green Lantern: There's two kinds of Green Lanterns. Both make solid objects out of green light, yet one kind of Green Lantern uses science and the other uses magic. Horsefeathers, I say – they both sound like voodoo. Then again, so does a phone that doesn't have wires. We got the magic kind of Green Lantern, though these days he mostly uses his powers to shuffle our canasta decks when his arthritis is acting up.

Hawkman: He's technically the oldest one of us, but that's because he's one of them whatchamacallits – a reincarnator. You kill him and he comes back a couple years later. It's tough to look like we're still full of piss n' vinegar when one of our members says, "when I was your age…" and then talks about building the pyramids.

Flash: There are a lot of Flashes, and all of them run fast. Ours is a man by the name of Jay Garrick. He tops out at around 55 miles an hour. He also has to pee 40 times an hour.

The Justice League says we're still valuable because we can train the next generation of superpowered kids. They even put us up in a nice big mansion. But I know they just don't want to look at us. I guess us old guys make them uncomfortable. Maybe we remind them of their own mortality, or maybe it's because we smell like mildew. All I know is that they only come and visit when they want us to babysit, and now there's a mess of youngin's running around making a ruckus whenever I'm trying to take a nap.  

What the sam-hill am I doing here? Even in my prime I had no business being on the team – I'm a boxer in a cat suit. I can't fight more than one person at a time and I'm up the creek if we don't take a break every two minutes. And now I'm old!

The other day I was training this new Oriental girl, Judomaster.  Her power is that no one can aim at her. I tried to explain that it's not a superpower – when I was growing up everyone knew that the Chinaman was shifty. But I was shushed because it's not "PC" to call 'em Chinamen. Oh, shoot, I'm not supposed to call them Orientals either. How do I erase on this thing? MAYBE THIS BUTTON OH GOD WHY ARE ALL THE LETTERS BIG oh so that's what "caps lock" means. Why don't they label it right? Maybe it's this key.                        Okay, it's not the tab key. Well, I can't change it, so I'm sorry I called you an Oriental, Judomaster. And for calling you a Chinaman. In my book, you're one hell of an Asian American. Y'know, for a broad. Then again, you don't speak English, so I don't know why I'm worried.

I wasn't too keen on hitting a dame, but luckily that wasn't a problem. I couldn't touch her and she spent the better part of an hour making a monkey out of me. That's my point. I'm going to be sore for two months, and all we've confirmed is that she's a better fighter than an old man. Too bad I don't see a lot of supervillains waiting in line when I'm getting the early bird special at Denny's.  

Everyone thinks I should be happy now because I have a chance to train my son. Oh, you didn't know I had a son? Me neither. Met the kid a few weeks ago. Seems nice enough, and everyone tells me he's mine because he's a were-panther. I'm the only one who thinks that's pretty clear evidence that he's NOT my son. (Besides, I've been shooting blanks since the summer of '63.) I know there's a lot of newfangled science gizmos that go into knocking a lady up these days, but I'm still pretty sure dressing up in a cat suit doesn't mean my kid's gonna come out with cat powers. I mean, hell, maybe Judomaster's mine – I had a plate of chow mein in the eighties.  

I'll say it again: what am I doing here? And this time I don't mean it in an "I'm senile, I've wandered away from home" kind of way.