Kyle Rayner Verklempt Over Attention Paid Hal Jordan

BPD HEADQUARTERS - It took hours to console him—parts of which involved my hands in places I can only hope will not incur a lawsuit. Yesterday Kyle Rayner, AKA Ion, sat in my office a completely heartbroken man.

Kyle, a good friend, just needed someone to listen while he got his rant on. Dude just couldn't understand why Female Fandom loves Hal Jordan so much and he so little

"I'm sick of it. I'm not a jealous guy, but aren't I just as good as Hal? I'm cute. I'm a graphic artist. I've got stars in my aspect and in my eyes. I mean, I'm straight-up poetic!"

"Maybe you don't get hit in the head enough..." I ventured.

"I've been hit in the head," he replied vehemently "and, anyway, I found my girlfriend in the refrigerator...that's gotta be good for something. Pity. Pathos. Something!"

One can't argue with that logic.

I've got a great booty too. Look! Look, okay, now feel it." I took a quick glance around the office. Martin ducked under his desk shaking with mirth. Drew made some excuse about a toe-nail trimming appointment and ran past at the speed of sound.

Great, I thought to myself. Then I squooze his love hump. "Um, it's really nice Kyle. Really." I paused then, "But, I gotta tell you, Emo is a choice. Fight it, man. Fight it!"

"But tell me why. WWhhhyyy won't. they. love. meeee?" At this point I grew weary and elected to weep, fallaciously, for the great crushing tide of angst that gripped him. "Yes, Yes," I intoned, "you have borne the weight of persecution...You might as well be a black man...or a Jew. John Stewart ain't got nothing on you. Neither one of them." [see also Jon Stewart]

I held his head to my bosom in the effort of consolation. This seemed to calm him. Although, it is also possible he simply couldn't breathe.

Finally he looked up at me with pleading eyes "Will you call Ragnell and ask her to do a Butt Touch Comparison?"

Unable to say no I quickly agreed and encouraged him to go home. But not before handing him the box of Kleenex off my desk—in which I had slipped the business card of one Doc Samson.