When it comes to stirring up the profane and the profound, there may be no better writer in comics than Garth Ennis. His Preacher is a legendary creation for exactly that reason.

The Boys is more often profane than profound, which can be its greatest flaw or its greatest asset, depending on your point of view. There are those (and hell, I'll put myself among their proud number) who enjoy the occasional graphic bit of humor, whether it involve sex, violence, both, neither, or just a good ol' steaming pile of dog crap.

If you are not one of those types, The Boys will put you off almost immediately, for that is a large part of the book's appeal. Unfortunately, it doesn't quite have the level of characterization and depth yet that made Preacher so remarkable. There are hints of it, and it seems likely that it will gain that aspect as the series continues, but for the moment, it's bring on the farts and the pissing dogs.

Darick Robertson is one of my favorite artists of all time, especially for his work on Transmetropolitan, and he's in fine form here; his gift for detail and expression is well-exploited by Ennis' scripts, and there's a grimyness to the whole affair that fits well with the book's tone.

So be warned: You must enjoy the occasionally profane to enjoy The Boys, and when it becomes profound, it will be a book unlike anything else on the stands, and pretty great to boot. As it stands, for fans of superhero lampoons mixed with outrageous comedy and relatively nuanced characterization, it's definitely pretty good.

There's a handful of graphic novels and trade paperback collections that are rightfully deemed "essential" by pretty much

anyone who reads funnybooks for any serious length of time.

You've got your Watchmen, your Maus, your Dark Knight Returns.

And then there's Batman: Year One. Maybe it's not one of the great paradigm-shifting works of western sequential art, but it's a damn good story nonetheless, and anyone interested in the evolution of the superhero comic book (and of course, fans of Batman) needs to pick this up post-haste, if it's not already on your bookshelf.

Frank Miller tackles Batman for the first time post-Dark Knight as a writer on this book, which takes apart the seminal early days of Batman's career and reassembles them into a shape resembling the original, but also wholly unique. One big change Miller makes is that characters like Selina "Catwoman" Kyle and "Lieutenant" James Gordon now have their own major roles to play in the Bat-mythos. In doing so, he subtly expands Batman's foundations to include these vital supporting characters; just as Batman wouldn't be Batman without the fancy car and the insomniac crimefighting schedule, Miller seems to be suggesting that Batman also wouldn't be who he is without the female foil and the long-suffering cop on his side. It's an interesting shift in the Batman mythos, and it starts here.

Miller also gets good mileage out of planting Batman's feet more firmly in a "realistic" setting, as his chief adversaries in this story aren't whacked-out supervillains but instead are very violent and legitimate mobsters. It doesn't help him much that the cops also aren't really on his side, yet another subtle tweak to the early days of Batman that casts this era in some interesting shades of gray.

David Mazzucchelli's artwork is rightfully regarded as stunning and groundbreaking; you can see hints of it in artists today as diverse as Darwyn Cooke and Cully Hamner. Working in shades and the barest of lines, he suggests as much as he shows, which should be the golden rule of drawing Batman, since that's the whole point of the character.

It's hard to believe, honestly, that any self-respecting comics fan would never have read this, but if you're new to this stuff, or if this book has somehow slipped outside your radar, buy it now, and read it immediately.

It's a little-known fact, but Henry Kissinger is a key player in Essential Super-Villain Team-Up.

That's not exactly the type of stuff they're gonna advertise on the cover, but they SHOULD, dammit. Because that in a nutshell is the charm of Super-Villain Team-Up: This stuff isn't gonna earn a spot on your shelf next to Watchmen anytime soon, but it may deserve a place in the corner of your bottom shelf, where you keep the dusty old paperbacks that make you feel silly.

This, right here, is primo seventies Marvel madness: A slew of weird bits strung together by the barest suggestion of a plot, executed with artwork that verges wildly between the superheroic sublime and the simply stupid.

It's a reminder, too, that comics history isn't just stacks and stacks of great classics that we all love and read over and over and let's sing Kumbaya too, while we're at it. Those historic runs and titles stand upon the bending backs of countless other comics, books whose tales will fade quickly or slowly with the passing of time, regular dumb monthly superhero comics, churned out for decades by two major publishing houses in quantities of millions apiece.

These comics weren't great high art, agonized over by ambitious young auteurs seeking to place their creative imprint on the world. These were churned out at what was probably a frightening pace by journeymen craftsmen who knew their trade and plied it well.

That doesn't mean they're bad; it just doesn't mean they're great. Books like Super-Villain Team-Up are good, and fun, and worthy of your brainless time.