Upsetting Day: Here Comes Whiteman! 🌭

Good morning! Ever read comics by the American Nazi Party?

Wanna see their spin on Superman?

Today, we meet Whiteman. No new slurs, but a marathon of the classics. Brace your soul, it’s swastikas all the way down.

And part of a series! The Stormtrooper—a magazine I hope you don’t know—loved this shit. Here’s John Patler’s thoughts on hair:

Economic anxiety’s wild.

Traitors claim nothing’s uglier than hate. Patler’s pen defies them. I respect alt and cape art more after watching him botch both. That’s how you keep bloodlines pure: an unfuckable back catalog. Like most enemies of mixing, Patler has no offers.

Outside-goers take this for granted, but hate melts your brain. Fades take less time than this sentence, and smart bigots upcharge. Yet Stormtroopers choose poverty. Baffling. Whatever color your robes are, I hope you see that labeling the “blood splotched operation room uniform” ruins perfectly viable hate speech.

Put on your lunatic goggles: what’s “50 Evil Facial Expressions to Make While Cutting Nigger Hair” doing here? The power fantasy’s the joke–why remind readers they pay for Mein Kampf picture books? Making faces behind the enemy is less Varg and more Vance.

Still, this has educational value. De jure segregation puts this in police stations, and de facto segregation keeps it there. Badges let Stormtrooper fans live off their passion. Helpful, after your barber shop defaults.

Per tradition, this strip follows wounded eulogies for White America. Fair, given the Great Purge of 1866. The last ten blondes cower in the gutters, fleeing the Million Sentinel March. To honor the fallen and his employer, Patler challenged censorship. With a little less subtlety than modern martyrs:

The noses only get worse from here.

Nazis haven’t changed much–it chafes with the premise. They only leave manji off today’s hats to cut costs. The American Nazi Party chair, George Lincoln Rockwell, liked these strips enough to make Patler an editor. We’ll come back to that. For now, imagine the staff that couldn’t compete with “Lesson in Free Speech.”

Then there’s Whiteman.

That’s Captain Marvel.

Yes, swastika, bleak hatred, ant genitalia, etc. But the fucking master race ripped off the wrong superhero. The rest of this stillbirth cites Superman, and we have Captain Marvel’s design and gimmick. Whiteman looks like Billy Batson with worse parents.

As for Whiteman’s day job: turns out that dairy supremacy predates imageboards. Radio, even. So your worst neighbors are dumb and dated. Fresh ideas are vital—that’s why they let Clarence into meetings. No one outside of real estate puts up his numbers. I’ll admit it here: we’re really stealing their jobs.

Evil Superman technology’s peaked. In the present, not this shit. Patler left “Uber-Vision” on the table, so I wonder why we’re even here. After Stormfront, this isn’t even the best nazi Superman gag.

Honestly, most dialect writing attempts read this way to me. Sissynecks are rare. It’s the third rail of dialogue. You can do it, people have, and I’ll be impressed if it works. Just like juggling knives.

Our hero leaps into free speech.

White Jesus wept.

I shouldn’t give Patler’s heirs on the podcast circuit help. But I’m stuck with their work for the long haul, and would love to focus more on their dead souls than craft. Put your innocence and murders on two separate pages. At least throw a beat panel in there. I know you have Billy Batson Clark Kent jokes to mangle, but “Black people burn down their own churches” needs time to breathe.

There’s no gun throw gag, because that’s a Superman thing. We do, however, name-check the Man of Steel. The joke has a Bizzaro sniper’s precision.

That’s our warm-up antisemitism. A quick lap to numb the spirit, before jumping to the “jew from outer space.” Direct quotes, not scare quotes.

Alright, the human decency filter isn’t working out. From here we’re all in. I’ve raved about breaching hell for years, and now it’s time to dig. Here’s the alien. Your imagination wasn’t far off:

Remember the good times, back in “You Can Cut Nigger Hair?” Brighter days. Maybe we can inch back to that innocence. Until then, we have the core of microthought: Jewish warlocks summoning Black people like the Putty Patrol.

I never got that theory’s appeal. It weighs simple, ancient hatred down with a billion canon questions. Most race warriors treat hate like mountain climbing anyway. You do it because it’s there.

For parity: here’s the more literal hate crime I cut earlier.

Fun fact about Patler: later on, he tried the changed man routine. It sounded like horseshit, but it stuck. Today he’s a lynchpin of the Southern Poverty I’m fucking around. Pat’s face turn lasted an interview. Today, he’s riding the Trump train right off a cliff.

Anyway, blood libel Zedd makes his monster grow.

Supercoon’s hard to describe. I’ll borrow the technique of an old master.

More on that conviction later.

Another tip for Freedom Caucus creatives: the same tip. Focus. There’s no reason a five-page screed can’t just open on Megaminstrel or Space Scapegoat and stay there. The actual hook is a caped race war. Or rather, tap-dancing followed by a felony. I could get better Aryan tracts from black undergrads for a rec letter. I might make that a contest.

Whiteman and Supercoon face off for the fate of nothing. I’m typing a lot of words for the first time, so I’m hyped. The rest of this cafe is too– half the crowd’s spectating over my shoulder, and tense. Even the staff!

Ready for the showdown?

My demands? Bring back Uber. It’s this conflict by sane adults. In 1945, a desperate Wehrmacht figures out Captain America juice. Forcing the US to use a black supersoldier they didn’t even want to make. It whipped, and then died of Publishing Disease. Tons of great work dies young, while The Stormtrooper ran for three years. Now the world must pay.

Pat had three semi-coherent lines, and couldn’t choose. Been there. Help me pick one:

A) Pat’s really letting Walt Disney down.

B) Pat writes the way he thinks I swim.

C) If an Aryan president gave the State of Thule before a hundred Aryan senators and reporters from ANN, The New Berlin Times and Fox News, Patler would still own none of the Earth’s wealth.

Forget nukes, we have a more pressing issue.

What’s going on here? What in birthrate panic am I looking at? Supercoon’s drifted from racial insult to visitor from the ocean floor. There’s a line between caricature and cosmic horror. Unless you’re the OG, I suppose.

Back in the action, Whiteman’s in trouble. But also fine, because he’s a genius. But doomed, because the enemy’s extra-genius. Fascism’s a dense continuity snarl in dire need of a reboot. Sadly, the fans don’t care for big changes.

Let’s see his perfect/futile plan.

Maybe psychic poison-tasting has warped me, but I expected more pop from this fight. The devil’s present, but Patler’s a weak vessel.

Put your lunatic goggles back on. This was a campus handout; Patler wants to make young failures laugh. How do you botch racism plus golden age comics? Superman’s funny by default, if you actually read. And bigotry’s loaded with stock imagery. Merging hate and dorkdom opens infinite gates to comedy hell. What’s the Beer Hall of Solitude like? What specific nazi/minstrel themed powers could these two have? What ends would Blackface Bizzarro pursue? I had answers to all of these before reading panel two.

I guess that’s nazi effort. Lightning out the gate, followed by meth withdrawal.

“Splurp” is great, leaving us with a final score of 1. I give comics five points for existing, but life finds a way. Somehow, Patler will die thinking he’s better at this than Art Spiegelman, or a child with chalk.

Unlike Patler, we have a punchline. Ready?

His semi-talent made Patler The Stormtrooper’s best and only cartoonist. But all submediocre things end. Did hackwork kill The Stormtrooper? Shame? The FBI? No, extra no, and raspberry noises.

The Stormtrooper was the private soapbox of George Lincoln Rockwell. Each issue opened with a prose poem against colors darker than porcelain. Or, for Stormtrooper insiders, darker than untouched toilet brushes. Rockwell liked white pride, but loved Rockwell. As his stock header demonstrated:

A birthday party Goebbels. Larper is our era’s best insult, capturing the transparent performance infecting everyone but larpers. But Rockwell was right—America had a pack of mindless, subliterate chimps running wild. One killed him for his ideas.

I like a happy ending.

“Thanks an awful lot” shows real creative improvement. Right before John entered public housing in Supercoon’s striped uniform. Likely blaming aliens. While jurors didn’t dig “my boss wasn’t enough of a nazi,” as a motive, I might’ve let it go. It’s the best joke Patler ever wrote.

I feel you, failure hurts. But more anger won’t fix this. Only education. I’ll take the metaphorical/literal bullet for all of us.

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