Punching Day: The 6 Golden Agiest Comic Book Heroes (Patreon)

You may have heard the story of the media outlet that was sold to an investment firm and then got rid of all its staff. Yes, you're right, that's the story of every media outlet. But recently, one media outlet went even further and got rid of all its content. Of course, you're right, that's the story of every media outlet again. Look, I'm talking about Cracked. They recently nuked their archives including the 175th column I wrote for them, "The 6 Golden Agiest Comic Book Heroes!", which ended up being 7600 words long, so it got split into two parts and also became my 176th column. Enough intro! From 2016! Remastered from the grave! I bring you, in its entirety, parts 1 and 2 of…

The Golden Age of comics refers to the late '30s to early '50s-- an era where icons like Captain America, Batman, and Superman emerged. It was a time when every problem, especially Hitler, was solved by punching it in its fucking face. And in this article I want to honor that radness by remembering 6 heroes who were far too Golden Agey to exist outside of it. Read the rest of this intro! Without it, this article is going to look like -spoiler alert- hundreds of unexplainable dick attacks.

Let me try to explain another way. Here's the standard structure for a Golden Age comic, as demonstrated by Tom Kerry: District Attorney:

You obviously get it, but the very curious among you might be asking, “Besides having dead Nazi all over your fists, what makes a superhero uniquely Golden Agey?” It’s tough to explain. After all, curiosity wasn’t invented until 1956 as a vegan alternative to punching. So I did my best to narrow down the Golden Age to six distinct traits:

1. Maniacal Awesomeness

2. Casual Massacre

3. Animal Punching

4. Stunning Stupidity

5. Double Head Bonk

6. Vintage Racism

For more information, please study my official, well-organized, and easy-to-read Research Board ‘n Fun-Time Golden Age Checklist:

In 1940, a group of true maniacs published Weird Comics #1. Wizards and superheroes slaughtered each other in adventures barely coherent enough to establish a plot before everyone except one character was dead. One reason for this was because the protagonists were hardly ever the good guys. There was Sorceress of Zoom (an evil space queen who murdered for a bit before her stories simply ended), The Voodoo Man (who was so exactly what that sounds like), and Dr. Mortal (who unleashed monsters for reasons never explained). Weird Comics was exclusively for readers frantically searching through the debris in their kidnapper’s trunk.

The first and greatest Weird Comics superhero was Thor, God of Thunder, which got a little confusing when five issues later they added a second, less amazing Thor to the comic: “Dynamite” Thor: The Explosion Man. Let's watch him gear up!

Oh, I guess "A BELT WHICH CONTAINS STICKS OF DYNAMITE!" is all the equipment he carries. He was a combination of all the crappiest parts of Bruce Wayne and Timothy McVeigh-- a wealthy miner who used his knowledge of explosives to bomb crime! His adventures were almost too basic to be called stories. He heard about crime, went to the crime, then blew it up with dynamite. Here’s a scene from his first issue:

HELLO, POLICE! I NOTICED YOUR GUNFIGHT! I’M A LOCAL WHITE MAN WITH BOMBS! MIND IF I TAKE OVER?

The thing about Dynamite Thor is that dynamite was more than the solution to all his problems. It was how he did everything. Dynamite was his only verb. He tossed a stick of dynamite at police involved in a shootout just to get their attention which would probably be my findings if you gave me an unlimited research grant to discover the worst possible time to throw dynamite. But throwing dynamite never didn’t work! The cops took one look at a man dressed in a dozen sticks of TNT and zero pairs of pants, who had just thrown explosives at them, and instantly put him in charge of negotiations. And do you want to guess Dynamite’s plan for those negotiations? You’re right! It was fucking dynamite!

”GLAD I COULD HELP, OFFICERS! AND IF YOU NEED THIS FOR YOUR PAPERWORK, THE SUSPECT OR SUSPECTS' LAST WORDS WERE ’WHAM!’”

It cannot be overstated how little Dynamite Thor did other than throw dynamite. Hours after it is born, a mayfly dies knowing nothing but mayfly orgy, and each of those dead insects had a wider variety of interests than Dynamite Thor. The only cliffhanger in a Dynamite Thor adventure is if he will stop his enemy by bombing an inanimate object near him, or by turning him into 5,000 new inanimate objects. Here are two examples from the same issue, and I didn’t alter these or change their order in any way:

Even that guy can’t believe he’s alive.

”AND WHEN WE GET TO THE STATION, I’LL THANK YOU TO BE COOL ABOUT HOW I BLEW UP A CAR, QUARRY, AND PERSON WITH DYNAMITE.”

Obviously, Dynamite Thor was the best. But in the short window of time between his 1st and 2nd appearance, it occurred to the Weird Comics producers that the idea could never last. He’s covered in nitroglycerine. What if he bumps into something? What if someone takes a single moment to consider him?

"THIS UNIFORM ISN'T STRANGE! THESE ARE FACTORY STANDARD DYNAMITE BRIEFS!"

What if he goes up against a foe with the ability to stand closer than his only weapon’s blast radius? Like so many things, he was an accidentally awesome mistake made by idiot madmen. But instead of replacing his pages with a man and a boy dressed as flags and never mentioning him again like most Golden Age heroes, they added the perfect superpower to Dynamite Thor. Suddenly, and for unexplained reasons, he became “immune to the effect of explosions.” Also, between his 1st and 2nd appearance, he apparently exploded all the mafia and had moved on to fight Nazis.

Somehow dumber! Somehow more rad! Dynamite! Thor!!! If you read that gripping intro, you probably noticed the words “HE CAN PROPEL HIMSELF THRU THE AIR WITH DYNAMITE.” It’s true. Dynamite Thor could now fly by dropping bombs. And it is truly terrifying how many bombs it took. Every page was filled with panels of Dynamite Thor traveling like this:

BOOM! "SORRY, FISH!" BOOM! "SORRY, FISH!" BOOM! "SORRY, FISH!" BOOM! "SORRY, FISH!" BOOM! "HA HA, SORRY, FISH!" BOOM! "SORRY, FISH!”

As America’s leading uncertified dynamite scientist, I can assure you this is nuts. Look at how close together those explosions are-- this fucking guy is dropping a new bomb every six feet! Even at the speed of human running, that is 300 bombs per minute. If he traveled like this all day, and he does, that’s almost more dynamite than you can fit in a pair of belted panties! Why, he’d barely have any left to throw at the Nazis! I’m sorry, but this dynamite math simply does not work out.

Checklist Check-In!

Of the six defining Golden Age traits, Dynamite Thor only achieved three. His series was cancelled after only five issues so he never got the opportunity to punch an animal or to say anything racist. And since seeping grenades was his only ability, his enemies’ heads were splinters and slop long before he was close enough to ram them together.

However, he scored outrageously high in the categories of Maniacal Awesomeness and Casual Massacre. In his five adventures, nearly everything he did turned human lives to liquid in spectacular ways. As for Stunning Stupidity, he was a superhero who blew up everything and the men writing him had to sneak in later and add the words “except for himself.”

This simple but somehow confusing power became even more confusing since exactly 40% of his adventures involved him getting tied to explosives and left to die. This implied Thor was immune to his own dynamite, but not other people’s dynamite which is now a series of words so incoherent and stupid you may have skipped straight to the next sentence which is, surprise, just the words. Ham tits. Don’t try to outsmart the Checklist Check-In by jumping around to whatever part you want, reader.

”Dynamite” Thor, The Explosion Man! 3 Golden Ages out of 6!

Kay McKay is the perfect example of a Golden Age heroine. Banner Comics wanted a female adventure hero, but without any ill-intent, they couldn’t conceive of a girl knowing how to do anything. So they made Kay a stewardess, and not just any stewardess. She was a terrible stewardess. Without exception, Kay McKay never got on a plane that didn’t crash.

"THANK YOU FOR TREATING THE SITUATION WITH SUCH URGENCY, KAY."

"OF COURSE, CAPTAIN. HERE’S AN UPDATE: I’M ON FIRE."

"THERE’S NO NEED TO YELL, STEWARDESS."

"I’M SO SORRY, CAPTAIN."

Call it bad luck or incompetence, but when you work on a plane and all your shifts end in a fiery jungle wreck, you have to be considered a failure at what you do. The only thing Kay McKay brought to the table was balls. If you were a mid-flight explosion, a gun in her face, or a swarm of poisonous snakes, Kay McKay’s response was always the same-- here are my giant nuts and you can suck them.

"OH. NO, A CROCODILE. EAT STICK THE WRONG WAY, SLUT. ANYWAY."

I was never sure if Kay McKay was a master of danger because she spent so much time dealing with it, or if she was simply too stupid to know what was going on. For instance, jamming a stick into a crocodile’s face and casually walking away implies a serious expertise in jungle animal combat. I mean, she isn’t even looking back to see if the stick is holding-- she must do awesome shit like that all the time. And yet later that same issue, when she expertly fishes up an electric eel, she has no idea what it might be.

”I… I DIDN’T THINK YOU’D ACTUALLY DO IT, KAY. I JUST THOUGHT SARCASM WAS MORE POLITE THAN MANSPLAINING EELS.”

This is what made it so hard to read a Kay McKay comic. One minute she was shooting guns out of Nazi hands, and the next she couldn’t figure out which electric fish she should touch. Is she an idiot? A clown? A steely-eyed badass? You never knew when you were supposed to be worried for her. Let me show you what I’m talking about-- here’s how the momentum can swing in a single page of a Kay McKay comic:

”WHAT A WOMAN!” - Kay McKay's ceaselessly horny hostage

First she shoots the gun, and no fingers, from a man’s hand while in the howling window of a moving plane. Amazing! Then she locks the two villains in the baggage compartment. Wait! Kay, are you sure baggage compartments were designed to hold human prisoners? Does that door even lock? Won’t they just shove th… never mind, you’re the stewardess. Let’s assume you know what you’re doing and they’re taken care of forever!

”SHE HAS A LOT OF NERVE FOR A DAME.” - The less, but still very horny one

You might have seen this coming, but one panel later, the men got out and punched her unconscious. It turns out baggage room doors are fortified against suitcases, not men with thumbs. Think about what that means. It means the men producing Kay McKay’s comic knew how airplane doors worked, but they thought the woman who worked on that airplane and was in charge of that door didn’t. It means the gods creating her entire universe were conspiring to make her stupid. But the joke’s on them because the combination of Stupid and Giant Balls has undone the work of gods far more powerful than them. Despite their best efforts, Kay McKay and her bumbling, suicidal bravery beat everything her writers threw at her.

”YOU SONS OF BITCHES BROUGHT A BOMB ON MY FLIGHT!? WELL HERE’S AN IDEA! LET’S BLOW THIS FUCKER UP!”

”I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF YOU’RE THE BAD GUYS, BUT KAY MCKAY: AIR HOSTESS NEVER LOSES AT CHICKEN, BITCHES!!!”

Okay, so maybe giant dogs with human faces rattle her. They went too far! Run, Kay! Run!!!

Checklist Check-In!

Kay McKay’s career only lasted five issues, but her aggressive habit of diving tits-first into danger generated decades worth of animal punching and awesomeness. She was nearly everything that made the Golden Age fantastic and absurd. I stole this next line from Donald Trump’s cabinet selection committee, but the only thing she could have done to improve was to be a little more racist.

- Editor's note: I wrote that joke in 2016 and it still fucking works as a timely reference here in 2026. Great job, America.

Kay McKay, Air Hostess: 5 Golden Ages out of 6!

The Dart’s history sounds less like an origin and more like a test to see if 1940s comic book publishers were even capable of rejecting ideas. It began in ancient Rome, where the gods gave Caius Martius “THE SECRET OF DARTING THRU THE AIR” to battle evil. This ended up being a bad dart-secret investment for the gods because the very first wizard Caius found beat him and transformed him into a rock. He then stayed a rock for 2200 years. It was a story embarrassing for both the character and the writer, so they didn’t spend a lot of time on it. In fact, here’s how they told it in its entirety:

“DANG IT, THAT GUY WAS GOING TO TEACH ME HOW TO FLY! WAIT, DOES THIS MEAN NOBODY STOPPED THAT EVIL WIZARD AND DARKNESS WILL REIGN FOR 2200 YEARS? DOUBLE DANG IT!”

Waking up in his new home of the modern Rocket Age, the first thing Caius does is confusedly wander into traffic where he sees young Ace Barlow’s parents get gunned down by criminals. It was a lot for a recently unfrozen ancient man to take in, so maybe we can forgive his decision to immediately take off that little orphan boy’s pants and teach him to fight.

“HOPE YOUR PELVIS LIKES YOUNG LAD HEAD, YOU RAT!”

The Dart’s Ace appeared in comics just weeks after the first appearance of Batman’s Robin. And while they dress the same and have the same backstory, it’s easy to tell them apart. For one, Robin was “The Boy Wonder” and Ace was “The Amazing Boy.” And secondly, Robin trained in acrobatics and martial arts while Ace Barlow battled only with dick headbutts.

”SON, THERE MUST BE SOME MISTAKE. I ASKED FOR A FEMALE PROSTITOOF!”

The Dart and Ace tried their best to battle crime like an ordinary comic book duo but could never quite get the details right. For instance, superhero banter. Violently beating a suspect to death without light-hearted jokes can get pretty dark. Ace, as you can see above, had a style of banter that was a little too light-hearted. Telling your opponent you’re going to have quite a party while you slam your face into his dong can send a mixed message. As for The Dart, he went the opposite direction. He came from an era where they decorated malls with crucified blasphemers, so he had no idea where the line was between “cute” and “tasting the sweetness of your enemy’s last breath.” If he bothered with banter at all, he went with a clinical description of how he was torturing you. The Dart actually beat out black lung to win 1941’s Least Funny Way to Die, and his acceptance speech was silently ripping the head off the last desert rat-kangaroo.

”Sorry to drop in, Chuckles! Guess it’s time for the FLAMES OF HADES TO RENDER THE FAT FROM YOUR CHILDREN’S CORPSES.”

The Dart carried a sword which sounds a bit severe for a hero, but it’s not unheard of. Lots of superheroes used swords for non-murdery purposes. He-Man used his to block lasers, Leonardo used his to cut pizza, and Bibleman used his to probe for early signs of homosinuality. The Dart, however, was the only one who used his like a sword. He carved men in half for crimes ranging anywhere from racketeering to sass to aggravated nothing. To readers it was ridiculous. To local police-- a bloody trail of unsolved stabbings.

Three silent panels of brain puncturing was a very ordinary story beat for The Dart.

Ace always tried to knock their enemies out rather than kill them, which was strange since his brain-damaged combat trainer only knew one moves and all three of it were head stabs. Whatever the misunderstanding was, Ace never seemed bothered by the decapitations and The Dart was okay if Ace only wanted to lightly cave in a man’s genitals. That diversity is part of what made them a great team.

”AND HERE’S THE NEXT! WAIT… DART, DID YOU? OH MY GOD, DART! DART WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!? WE NEED TO GET THE SHIT OUT OF HERE!!” is something you’d never hear Ace Barlow say.

A lot of Dart’s brutal slayings were the result of being a fish out of water. He came from a time when sword murder was how you gave your wet nurse a bad Yelp review, but he may have genuinely had no idea swords kill people. It’s possible, maybe even likely, that being turned into a rock for 2200 years was bad for his sanity. For instance, here he is cleaving a man’s taint while Ace bashes his head in. And as his colon-spilling corpse tumbles down the stairs, he tells it, “THIS WILL ONLY STUN YOU!”

”I COULD BE WRONG! TAINT CLEAVING ISN’T AN EXACT SCIENCE!”

Here he is teaching another man a lesson by slicing off the back of his head:

”OR IT WILL AT LEAST TEACH THE MAID HOW TO MOP UP BRAINS!”

Here's a few more examples of The Dart’s teaching methods:

So he never quite got the hang of superhero’s banter or even what kills human bodies during a fight, but he was especially bad at superhero secret identities. His was a mild-mannered school teacher named Caius Martius Wheeler which was just his actual name with a “Wheeler” on the end. It was a risky move for two reasons. One, he taught only with sword. And two, he worked with a woman named Miss Tilbury. Miss Tilbury was the classic archetype of sexy but violently insane grade school teacher. By the first page of every issue she would somehow find a fist fight with a serial killer or a mob boss. And she never won one of these fights.

This is Miss Tilbury, enjoying her only hobby.

I’m not kidding. This is Miss Tilbury’s whole day.

Luckily, The Dart was surrounded by the dumbest police force in history. He worked with a woman who was the only witness in a tremendous number of ongoing murder cases. The lead suspect in those crimes, The Dart, was a man with his same build, height, age, and face. The two also shared the community’s only -260 B.C. Roman accent. And still, the police couldn’t catch a man who considered “changing into different clothes” to be an escape plan from a sword killing spree. Also, it’s worth noting that Caius’ little boy friend was named Ace Barlow and the mysterious boy who fought crime alongside The Dart went by “ACE FUCKING BARLOW.” He announced this constantly.

”ACE BARLOW! TELL THEM IT’S SPELLED JUST LIKE IT SOUNDS! BUT TELL IT TO YOUR DICK DOCTOR FIRST!”

To complicate things further, The Dart was stupidly, whimperingly in love with Miss Tilbury. He asked her out every day as Caius Martius Wheeler, and her response was always the same-- mocking him for being less manly than The Dart. He stammered and apologized, swallowing the humiliation to protect his secret. But why? It was a secret he couldn’t protect since he was so fucking plainly The Dart and his sidekick gave it away to anyone too dense to notice. Plus, he had no reason to protect his secret identity since all his enemies were dead from sword murder. Was it to protect his friends? Because his only friends were Ace Barlow and Miss Tilbury and it was literally impossible for them to be in any more danger. Miss Tilbury left every room by getting punched through the window and it was only a matter of time before Ace shattered his head against a belt buckle or a boner. Why did The Dart let all his stories end like this!?

He ate her shit so often that “I… I’M SORRY, MISS TILBURY!” was the closest thing Dart had to a catchphrase.

”FINE, HARPY BEAST. ON BEHALF OF SCHOOL TEACHERS EVERYWHERE, I’M SORRY FOR NOT STOPPING ALL THE CRIME.”

”YOU’RE RIGHT. I, A SCHOOL TEACHER AS FAR AS YOU KNOW, SHOULD HAVE HELPED YOU RAID THAT GANG HIDEOUT WITH OUR ZERO WEAPONS AND ELEMENTARY EDUCATION DEGREES.”

”THESE… THESE ARE UNREASONABLE EXPECTATIONS OF A CO-WORKER YOU OPENLY DESPISE!!!”

”THAT MISS TILBURY… IF SHE ONLY KNEW I MURDERED 38 PEOPLE THIS MORNING! OH, BUT NO ONE MUST KNOW MY POINTLESS SECRET!”

It wasn’t long before the dialog writers ran out of natural ways for Miss Tilbury to bring up The Dart.

”I GET IT, MISS TILBURY. I GET IT.”

”GODDAMNIT, I SAID I GOT IT.”

Checklist Check-In!

During his 15-issue career, The Dart exclusively stabbed white humans to death, so he scored badly in the categories of Animal Punching and Vintage Racism. But he easily made up for it in the category of Casual Massacre. It’s like he was trying to wipe out famine and disease by making them statistically irrelevant compared to the world’s leading cause of death: fucking with The Dart.

The Dart! 4 Golden Ages out of 6!

Dick Cole was a huge star for most of the 1940s and part of his appeal was how each issue was different. He might get involved in a superhero adventure, a thrilling sports tale, or a gritty war story. Readers would pick up an issue and shout, “What will I find in my Dick Cole today?” You know what might be fun? Three times fast, shout that yourself! Right now in your home, school, or office!

I definitely have more to discuss about the name Dick Cole, but first I want to talk about his origin story. When he was a baby, Richard’s mother abandoned him on the doorstep of Dr. Blair, a disgraced professor. Included with the baby was a note explaining how if Blair wanted, he could fill the baby with discredited science to see if it made some kind of superbaby. Nine universes out of ten, that story ends in tentacles forcing their way down a throat shrieking, “You can’t do this! I CREATED YOU! I AM YOUR FA-AAIIIIEEE!” In this one, it made Dick Cole, an above-average baby.

“And in local news, a mother throws her baby in the trash, only more Hitlery than that sounds!”

The professor injected Dick Cole with “SPECIAL VITAMIN SERUMS” and exposed him to various rays. Some of them were harmful radiation, while others were ordinary sunlight. No one should expect a 1940 comic writer to be an expert on baby science, but two panels into this origin story it’s clear Professor Blair is just fucking around. He has all the scientific method of a cat researching an unexpected cucumber. The comic never says how Blair’s work was discredited, but his easy-going smile implies it’s not the first time he’s filled a baby with random poisonous things to see if anything cool happens.

Now say, “Isaac Sofa King Much.”

Dick grew up to be faster, smarter, and stronger than ordinary teens, but no one writing the comic seemed to know what that meant. Some issues he would lose a fist fight to a Japanese spy while in others he effortlessly yanked the brain from dinosaur robot skulls. Comics have always been sort of like this, but Dick Cole was so outrageously inconsistent I got suspicious. Was there some kind of coded message hiding in these adventures?

Or was Dick Cole’s arch-enemy, Reggie, really some kid reading sorcery books and swinging cats? Oh, and the answer to Question no. 2 is D’Brickashaw American Samoa.

Let’s start by talking more about Dick Cole’s name. He was created 76 years ago but any history book can tell you men still had dick holes back then. So these comic writers knew what they were doing. And for anyone who still thinks his name was an accident and not the Golden Age’s most extravagant dick joke, let me show you Exhibit A: Dick had a brother named Rod. Any time they were in a scene together, the narration and dialog sounded like a lukewarm review of a gay porn movie.

”The action was slow and the boars never actually got dick and rod inside them. 2 stars.”

It’s easy to pull something out of time and snicker at the words that meant something different back then. In fact, at the rate we invent fetishes, 40% of all English words, Latino names, and Scottish dog breeds will be hilarious sex acts to our grandchildren. So you might still think this “Dick Cole” thing was an accident. And I admire that. You live in a world of miracles where a guy in 1940 can give two brothers the names of penises and not notice. But let me show you Exhibit B: Dick and Rod’s best friends were named Slip’ry and “Carrot.” Which brings me to Exhibit C: Carrot was their crew team’s “cox.” Is it still possible you think these are all coincidences? Because unless you’ve helped a boy scout file a police report, you’ve never seen this many cute euphemisms for penis in one place.

”TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT AND STUFF THAT HOLE BECAUSE YOUR NAME IS, AND I QUOTE, COX’N CARROT!”

You may have noticed that Coxswain Carrot is wearing what appears to be megaphone head gear. Maybe it’s of some kind of canoe-screaming technology that’s fallen out of use, but it doesn’t seem very necessary. After all, Dick is holding up his end of the conversation with zero cones strapped to his face. So if it’s not for carrying messages across one small boat, what’s it for? Maybe I should ask that a different way. When I lurked into an adult store and whispered, “h-hands-free semen guzzling?” what exact product do you think they handed me? I-it was for a scavenger hunt.

Here’s an ordinary Dick Cole adventure where he visits a torture museum and is immediately attacked from behind. In only 4 panels and 73 words, the comic manages to say, ”dick enters, stool, queer, punish, queer, bongo, ties dick, stool, leather thongs, woodenhead, ...o-oh!, gay, and sorry.” Anyone who’s used the men’s room at any good truck stop will recognize that as sex code followed by a safe word. And maybe it’s all another amazing coincidence, but the entire plot of the story is “mysterious man slaps Dick at a queer torture museum.” Is that a story worth telling? Would anyone write that if they weren’t communicating to an underground orgy society? At this point I’m 98% certain Dick Cole comics were how the Greatest Generation sent secret sex messages to one another.

Dick Cole as a title is only slightly less subtle than The Adventures of Abilene Swinger's Club Every Wednesday Night Man (And His Sidekick, Always “Needmore” Tops!).

Not all of Dick’s adventures were thinly disguised casual encounter ads. Some were very, very well disguised. For instance, if you don’t have the cipher, this comic won’t seem like anything more than a jarring tempest of insanity and racism.

What? Fucking WHAT, Dick Cole!?

Jesus, there’s a second waiter who talks like that? What’s going to happen next?

Whoa! Okay, this story is starting to get pretty good.

This is a gripping tale about a professor who thinks he’s a goat who kills three identical waiters asshole-first while they’re competing in the Hurtful Stereotype Olympic Finals. That is not anything close to a plot. That has no meaning other than something very secret to a very specific cabal of racist swingers. Is that you? If so, you are 76 years late to the big masked orgy.

Despite this being a comic about a genetically perfect white man, I didn’t see Dick as a specifically white supremacist character. After all, “Dick Cole” means “urethra,” a traditionally African-American name. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there are no secret sex messages here... no white power agendas. Maybe the only thing going on here is a couple comic writers having no respect for minorities and also no idea they gave everyone penis names. But let’s look at one last Dick Cole adventure to see what happens when he leaps onto a Chinese warship.

”WHY FOR YOU JUMP OFF BLIDGE?” - Their Words Not Mine

Let’s say you’re this Chinese guy and one night, two men appear on your boat wearing Earth military uniforms. Uniforms you’d definitely recognize from general knowledge or minimal training. They are speaking English and traveling by an everyday method known as “jumping.” Even if you’re a comic book character being written by the world’s most ignorant fuck, I find it hard to believe you’d immediately announce them to be from Mars in your second language, then commit treason, then prepare velly good soup. Look, I’ve asked enough Chinese waiters if their restaurant sells throwing stars to know a little something about racism, and those three things aren’t Chinese stereotypes. The only thing those can be are encoded instructions on where to meet for discreet group sex, how to know who you can pee on, and also bring snacks.

Checklist Check-In!

After reading 30 issues of Dick Cole, I saw him get knocked unconscious 57 times, kill at least 5 men, and invent 209 all-new racial stereotypes. Today we’d call him “mentally unfit to stand trial,” but in the ‘40s, they called him hero. Tell everyone around you, very loudly and quickly, “there’s nothing better than Dick Cole!”

Dick Cole! A perfect 6 Golden Ages out of 6!

The fastest way to explain Miss Victory is to run directly at the listener and punch them in the face. In fact, a full power face punch actually means “Miss Victory” in sign language which is why deaf people think boxing is two shirtless comic nerds having an agreement. Cut that joke, forget I said it; the point is: it is inconceivable we will ever see a more efficient superhero than Miss Victory. She destroys 1.5 men per panel:

"YOU SQUEAL WHEN CORNERED LIKE THE RAT YOU ARE!"

The main reason for her efficiency was because she only starred in 6-page stories. It took one page for an introduction, a second to establish her secret identity as secretary Joan Wayne, and a third to explain the plot. That left only three pages for Miss Victory to discover, investigate, and punch each mystery. And that is 2.9 more pages than she needed. Let me show you:

For confused modern readers, this story took place back when “Nazis” were the bad guys, but it shows how a typical Miss Victory story unfolded. She would meet an enemy and if he seemed interesting, she’d give him four or five sentences to explain how his insecurities led him to be a Nazi vampire and give one last heil to Hitler. Then she’d scream “HEIL YOUR GRANDMOTHER!”, kick him in the ass, and ask him how he likes it. Fucking fuck Miss Victory was sweet.

If you didn’t seem interesting, she silently threw you out a window.

And if you seemed stupid, she called you stupid while she punched you. These were the only three ways she engaged with you.

One of the best things about Miss Victory was how terrible she was at anything outside of knocking people into comas. She was always in trouble at work because she had no idea how to type and left whenever a Nazi was going unpunched. She also had no idea how to do ordinary superhero things. For example, most Golden Age heroes ended their stories by breaking the fourth wall to wink at the reader. This gave them and the reader a little shared secret and set up the narrator to plug the next issue. Watch how Dynamite Thor does it like a pro.

"TIME TO LEAVE THOR AND GLENDA ALONE, READER. THE DYNAMITE IS ABOUT TO BLOW."

Miss Victory talked to the reader like this, but at completely random, inappropriate times. She would be talking to characters in her own universe and suddenly say something to you mid-sentence. In this absolutely-not-the-last panel-of-the-story, Miss Victory tells police she’s not going to explain a pile of bodies and then drops the bomb that their reality is nothing more than a story scripted by a deranged Creator.

“WE’RE IN A COMIC? AND YOU’RE NOT EVEN THE TITLE CHARACTER? B-BUT I’M REAL! I HAVE A PENSION! A D-DAUGHTER! OH GOD... MY WIFE… SHE’S A LIE? T-THAT MEANS I'M FREE. I'M FINALLY FREE!”

Miss Victory is historically notable because she combined Nazi punching with Nazi punching for an entire year before Wonder Woman came along with the exact same outfit, day job, and powers. The only difference between the characters was Wonder Woman spent more time getting tied to things by perverts. "Two can play at that game," Miss Victory thought, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

As that copycat, Wonder Woman, started getting more and more attention, Miss Victory became more and more bitter. In 1941, Miss Victory was like a Golden Age “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, hilariously talking shit while she beat you. By 1944, she was more like a knockoff Stone Cold Steve Austin shirt sleevelessly explaining how the "O" in "Obama" is actually spelled with a "Fart".

Earlier I emphasized how pragmatic Miss Victory was with her punches. Well, she brought that same efficiency to her intolerance. Watch how much racism this hatred dynamo could fit into two word bubbles:

”MISS VICTO-- WAIT, WHAT DID SHE CALL US? IS THIS BITCH INVENTING HER OWN RACIAL SLURS?”

Right after that unfortunate outburst, Miss Victory was captured for the first time ever in her crime-fighting career. The Japanese soldiers put her in a cell then discussed every detail of their plan outside her door. She listened, escaped, and killed every last one of them with her hands. The close call ended up being a learning experience for her, but not the way you think.

It occurred to Miss Victory that getting captured saved even more time than picking a direction and punching, so she made getting captured her new Plan A. And she revealed the first step of this plan in the following issue when she debuted a costume perfect for being taken prisoner. Well, “costume” is a strong word. It was more like a collection of small arrows pointing out her erogenous zones.

It worked. From then on, the very first thing everyone wanted to do was capture Miss Victory! Which was fine. She was a walking sex tank in a world where no one else had super powers, so she didn’t really need a complicated plan. She let herself get tied to easily escapable chairs and waited until one of her torturers revealed the u-boat codes or a leotard schematic with more side boob or whatever. And sometimes she’d pretend she couldn’t break free for way, way too long if it made for a funnier escape. Like the time she waited for Japanese scientists to announce a secret formula, then stayed in her chair while she kicked over their supply of nitroglycerine.

”GOT TO BLOW MYSELF UP! HA HA HA! IT’S MY ONLY CHANCE! MISS VICTORY RULES!”

I’m making it sound like she was some kind of mastermind. She wasn’t. Not that it mattered since she was invincible, but most of her plans backfired because of her own impatience. She would go into a situation with every intention of playing helpless prisoner then give it all up if her captors’ skulls were too enticingly punchable. The only unknown quantity in a Miss Victory story was when she would stop screwing around and end things.

”OH NO. PLEASE DON’T CAPTURE M-- ACTUALLY, YOU KNOW WHAT? DOUBLE HEAD BONK INSTEAD!”

Checklist Check-In!

Miss Victory’s only personality trait was fist rampage, so she scored very high in Maniacal Awesomeness, Casual Massacre, Stunning Stupidity, and of course Animal Punching. As for Double Head Bonk, if she was in the room with any two heads for more than a minute those heads were getting smashed together. Hundreds of her enemies died in double homicides where they were also the murder weapons. Unfortunately, she was a better puncher than she was a pornographer, and her career dried up when she tried beating Wonder Woman at her own game of getting sexily tied up. But in its own way, there’s nothing more Golden Age than a woman having no goddamn idea what her role was supposed to be.

Miss Victory! A perfect 6 Golden Ages out of 6!

So far in this article you’ve seen a man who throws dynamite, a flight attendant, an unfrozen serial killer, a dick hole, sorry a Dick Cole, and a woman who was every Steven Seagal movie combined in a bikini. But that’s not indicative of the Golden Age at all. From 1941 to 1950, 70% of all comics were about slightly different men dressed as flags and their teen companions.

Or, sure, their “BOY PAL ASSISTANTS.”

Captain Battle was the greatest of all the Captain America clones. Be like him! All the boys will envy you. I’m not sure how to start explaining him other than that. His backstory of being the youngest one-eyed scientist soldier of the first World War was complicated enough to warrant half a page every issue. Before you could see what Captain Battle was getting up to that day, you had to get through a wall of text that read like fine print on a dildo warranty in that most of it was boilerplate, but a few things stood out as horrifying and bizarre. He had a Dissolvo, which was a gun that, quote, “MELTS DOWN NERVE AND BONE TISSUE INTO A GELATINOUS MASS,” end quote. I mention it because that exact wording is used a lot, and because it means the hero has a power that can only be used for ruining food and murder. If you have 20 hours, you can read more in this sample Captain Battle intro:

”CAPTAIN BATTLE ALSO LOVES EGG SALAD AND BIRD HOUSES! CAPTAIN BATTLE THINKS YOU SHOULDN’T TELL A GUY YOU WANT TO SEE HIM AGAIN AND THEN, LIKE, NOT CALL. CAPTAIN BATTLE THINKS, ‘WHY SAY IT THEN?’ AM I BABBLING? IT FEELS LIKE I’M BABBLING. CAPTAIN BATTLE HAS ONE EYE AND A JETPACK!”

The Dissolvo was maybe the most gruesome weapon in comics. Not only because it melted humans, but because it did it slowly enough they could look down and howl as everything they were turned to pudding. And don’t forget it was also described, every time, as a color ray that “REDUCES ALL BONE AND MUSCLE TISSUE TO A QUIVERING GELATINOUS MASS!” It was so unthinkable for a superhero to carry something so grisly, a group of Nazis once shot themselves with it simply to prove the Dissolvo was a bluff:

”DISS VAS A MISTAKE! FOK! FOK!”

I kid, but comics are my favorite art form and they’re as deserving of thoughtful analysis as any film or painting. So let’s take a break from dick jokes and talk to the art lovers. As you know, art lovers, in the early 1400s, Renaissance artists laid the groundwork for all future illustration. Brilliant ideas like linear perspective and foreshortening let painters create realistic depth and bold action. Today, it’d be unthinkable to draw without these rules unless you’re something called a “Pre-Raphaelite” or another thing called a “toddler.” However, in the 1940s, “not knowing what the hell perspective was” had a Renaissance of its own. Most of the men with working fingers went off to load rifles, and the ones left drawing comic books were smashing shapes together and hoping they looked like punches.

Art lovers, this combination of incompetence and uppercuts birthed a style movement that has gone undiscovered until today. Once you recognize this phenomenon, you’ll start to see it in every piece of Golden Age artwork. See, if a penciller wanted to show Captain Battle punching a henchman’s jaw, he’d draw the figures a moment after the hit connected. Rarely, the intent was communicated perfectly. But most times, sloppy use of perspective and burst effects led to a phenomenon I call Golden Age Dick Attacks. You’ve been tricked, art lovers. This whole thing is about dicks. In fact, the last nine letters of this paragraph are just: 8=======D, and those weren’t even them. In your face: 8=======D

Above: A fifteen-act story of art history told with one part. Get it? Face again: 8=======D

Now that the art lovers are gone, I’ll make my point: in most comics all these thunderous punches to the junk seemed like misunderstandings in the artist/viewer relationship. I don’t think that was the case with Captain Battle. Captain Battle and his boy pal assistant were straight-up punching dicks.

”SAYS WHICH?” Captain Battle demands as he punches three penises!

With another mighty dick blow, Mummy Master’s hash is settled!

Most superheroes die every few years. Captain Battle punched the Grim Reaper in the dick twice a month.

”THAT’S NOT MY CHIN,” complains Satan. “THAT’S MY DICK.”

"I INSIST IT'S YOUR FUCKING CHIN," replies Captain Battle.

73 years later and still no one has broken his record of five dicks crushed with one headbutt.

Captain Battle had an entire Boys’ Brigade, though his favorite was a lad named Hale who he called Hale Battle. Hale didn’t appear until the 10th Captain Battle issue (out of 12), but he was the best. Here he is getting choked, gassed, thrown into Nazi Hell by The Actual Devil, and punching dicks.

Hale embraced cock attacks with an almost suspicious enthusiasm, though he seemed to think something about it was wrong. He fell weirdly silent during a dick punch frenzy and sometimes screamed things like, “I’M ONLY A LITTLE BOY!”

He really did! He really did scream “I’M ONLY A LITTLE BOY!” while he punched dicks!!!

Most times he was fine with it.

Consider your hash settled, pal.

”OUR HELMETS WILL PROTECT US! NO WAIT, IT’S CAPTAIN BATTLE AND HALE BATTIIIIIEEEEE!!!”

Of all the superheroes to focus on the dick punch, Captain Battle and Hale should have been the last. Their main enemies were bird monsters, gelded cultists, and a mummy. You could not ask for a more smoothly groined rogues gallery. So why bother? I was hoping we’d get this question answered a few years ago with the film, Captain Battle: Legacy War. It was a modern reboot made mainly because Captain Battle’s film rights come free with every sixth sandwich purchased at full price. It didn’t answer any of the questions I had about dicks. The only question it answered was, “Are there enough illiterate comic book readers to make a movie a hit? Wait, I see the problem now; never mind.”

From the writer of Look, We’re All Going to Die Anyway So Fuck Everything.

Checklist Check-In!

Nobody did the Golden Age better than Captain Battle. He was awesome all day and settled every hash dick first.

Captain Battle! A perfect 6 Golden Ages out of 6! The End!

Seanbaby is an American humorist and hash settler.

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