Fri Oct 24, 2008 — by Michael Davis

I'm Un-American, by Michael Davis

Straight No Chaser

I love comic books. I like to sit down and just read and read. Forget my troubles, forget my work grab some old Kirby forth world books, don’t answer the phone, don’t return texts, don’t return emails just read.

No, really. I’m sick as in I have or I’m getting the flu, not the I want to smear baby oil and bananas all over an cute Asian girl her while pretending to be Chuck Conners from the old Rifleman TV show so I can here the Asian girl yell, “Chuck me Chuck, CHUCK ME LONG TIME!” kind of sick.

Yeah, I’m sick. I got up at 5 a.m. Monday morning and stayed awake until Wednesday afternoon. Some of that time I spent getting ready for a London trip, trust me you would NOT believe what I spent the rest of the time doing. In any case I’m now very sick and writing this under the influence of some real good drugs, some of which are legal.

Being sick is the only real time I have these days to read any comics. When I’m sick I also daydream. I daydream about the projects I’m doing, I daydream about how cool my studio is, how much fun I’m having writing and drawing the Underground the project I’m doing with Dark Horse. I daydream about The Moors the project I’m developing and writing with Denys Cowan. I daydream about the two books I’m writing about the black experience.

“So, what’s your name?” I asked the pretty Asian girl with the long black hair which flowed like a dark river of lust. She looked at me, those eyes as clear as a bright moon over the sea of love. “I’m Susie Dome.” She said. “It’s pronounced, DO ME.”

Sorry, that’s not a daydream, that really happened. Hey, don’t hate the playa; hate the game fellers, that’s how I roll.

“Michael. Don’t worry it’s in the bag.” Angelina Jolie told me as she sat on my left at the Academy Awards Ceremony. She was caressing my knee trying to calm my nerves. “She’s right.” Penelope Cruz assured me as she sat on my right rubbing and planting small butterfly kisses on my neck. “Sweetheart, you deserve this. It’s yours!” Halle Berry’s voice came from behind me where she was seated. “Have another grape honey.” Halle said as she slid a grape into my mouth. “Thanks guys.” I said between bites of the grape. “I really want this.”

“Ladies and Gentleman, Jack Nicholson!” The announcement was made to thunderous applause. When the cheering stopped Jack spoke. “It’s my honor to announce the nominees for best performance by an actor. Daniel Day Lewis for Keep Hope Alive, the story of Jessie Jackson. Leonardo DiCaprio for High School Musical 4, the new war on terror. Michael Davis for Everything You Wanted To Know About Black People But Were Afraid To Ask. George Clooney for Yeah, I Did Her 2.” Jack paused for a moment, then said “And the Oscar goes to…”

I closed my eyes. One of the ladies started to rub my thigh, a bit too high. In fact, it was inappropriate for a family show. I opened my eyes to see Tom Cruise leaning back from his seat, which was in front of me, it was his hand on my thigh. “Michael, this is your night buddy.” Tom said with a wink. “I hope so Tom, but I don’t know, Daniel’s role as Jessie Jackson was damn good. Could you take your hand off my thigh?” Tom quickly moved his hand “My bad… call me.”

(Reality note: I don’t think Tom Cruise is gay. In fact I’ve met him and he is COOL as cool can be. Some time ago there was a guy claiming he had slept with Cruise during that time I was getting calls from reporters on the story. The guy’s name was Michael Davis. True.)

“And the Oscar goes to, YES, Michael Davis for Everything You Wanted To Know About Black People But Were Afraid To Ask.”

When I took the stage after the hour and a half standing ovation I was overwhelmed when I said, “I never thought I would be asked to play the role of every black person in the world when I woke the book. I thought that Daniel would get it. I mean he was my choice. I’m glad I live in a country where my story is possible. I’m glad to be an American…”

I realized that this may never happen to me not because of the seemingly impossible scenario of me playing every single black person in the world but because, according to Michele Bachman, I’m Un-American.

Michele Bachman has called for an investigation to root out people she thinks is Un-American because they do not think like her and her like.

I wonder if this woman has a mirror in her home like Dorian Gray’s? If she did what do you think it would reflect? I think looking out would be the face of Joe McCarthy.

Mrs. Bachman, if you think I’m Un-American because I don’t see things your way I really pity you. My (and yours) right as an American is to follow our American dream. To live free from persecution and fear from doing so. To suggest an “investigation” to those you feel is Un-American is the TEXT BOOK definition of Un-American. That makes YOU Un-American.

What would you do if you found someone who fit the description? How do you suggest we deal with ‘those people?’

I hear that you are in real trouble for those comments and it may cost you the up coming election.

Yeah, I think you are. Here’s a suggestion, pick up a comic book and OH WAIT. NO NEVER MIND!!!!! I WAS WRONG. Don’t pick up a comic book!! There’s nothing to see!!!

In fact all comics are like Archie Comics, just not as hard core.

The last thing you want to do is waste anytime investigating comic books. There’s nothing to regulate. There’s a movie based on a comic coming out called The Watchman is about people waiting for Jesus to come back! It’s swell!

I suggested earlier you may be Un-American. I was wrong. I’m sorry. I just took another look at you on TV trying to explain away your comments. You are not Un-American, you are Un-Attractive. I’m not saying you are ugly, I’m saying your views make you Un-Attractive.

Wait, I’m sorry again. I have an obligation to my readers to be honest. I was afraid that you would take a look at the comics industry and cause us some problems. The truth is in the comics industry we have (according to your standards) some Un-American books.

And since I’m being honest…you are ugly. Butt ugly. The Elephantman would meet you and say “Damn. You ugly.”

She looked at me, her eyes saying everything I needed to hear. But I needed to hear it out loud and so I did “You my daddy…”

Look, I told you I was sick.  

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