I admit that I have sometimes claimed to be Batman in the past. But only when really, really drunk.

If you believe that your thoughts originate inside your brain, do you also believe that television shows are made inside your television set?

Read comics. All comics. And then cut them open to steal their power.

You're miserable, edgy and tired. You're in the perfect mood for journalism.

So this Zealot comes to my door, all glazed eyes and clean reproductive organs, asking me if I ever think about God. So I tell him I killed God. I tracked God down like a rabid dog, hacked off his legs with a hedge trimmer, raped him with a corncob, and boiled off his corpse in an acid bath. So he pulls an alternating-current taser on me and tells me that only the Official Serbian Church of Tesla can save my polyphase intrinsic electric field, known to non-engineers as "the soul." So I hit him. What would you do?

Cheap! But not as cheap as your girlfriend.

He was in blue jeans and a work shirt, which is another weird quirk of Rich Old Men. Just one of the guys here. Blue jeans and a work shirt, salt of the earth, working man like yourself. Like they're somehow uncomfortable about being rich enough to sleep in a bed made of vaginas being pulled around the town at night by a fleet of gold-covered midgets.