Friday, May 14, 2004

So, you think Superman is cool, huh? Well guess what? Superman ain’t shit.

Come on. I can see it in your eyes. You think Superman is the baby’s rattle because he has his own comic books, his own movies, and his own American Express commercial with Jerry Seinfeld. You couldn’t be more incorrect. The dude is a complete joke. Everyone tries to make him out as some kind of superstar because he can take a bullet to the chest without flinching. Big fucking deal.

I’ll tell you who’s a real superhero. Me. And I don’t have to wear a prissy costume to prove it.

Archenemies, you say? I have plenty. Most notably, this dude Carl at work. He works in Collections and he makes Lex Luthor look like the limp-dick thumb-sucker he is. Carl hates the shit out of me and I fucking despise him. That’s why we’re always trying to mess with each other’s minds. Like last week, he brought in a big Tupperware container full of leftover spaghetti and left it in the community fridge. Big mistake. I balled up a giant glob of earwax and mixed it in with the meat sauce. And even though he didn’t say anything, I know he’s already plotting his revenge. I walked by his office yesterday and he was just staring at his computer, not typing or moving his mouse or anything. It really made me nervous. The mighty Carl will exact his revenge; it’s only a matter of time. I wouldn’t be surprised if we went back and forth with this shit the rest of the summer.

And, yeah, every superhero has a weakness. But Superman’s weakness is laughable. I mean, seriously, kryptonite? That’s not a weakness, it’s a green rock. Any real man would just pick it up and throw it in the river. But cheap booze? Now that’s a weakness. Do you have any idea how hard it is to turn down a double shot of Beam with a Schlitz chaser? Damn near impossible. Trust me. And loose broads—there’s a real weakness for you. Fuck kryptonite; you don’t know what weakness is until you roll over in the morning and find yourself face to face with some gap-toothed skank you met at the Laundromat. I mean, see how weak you feel when you’re sitting on the floor of the shower, rubbing your skin raw as you try to wash the smell of Tea Rose Eau De Toilette and Bounty Fabric Softener out of your pores.

I’ll admit Superman has a fucked-up background. There’s no denying that. Nothing sucks a fatter hog than learning that your home planet exploded, killing your entire family. Well, nothing except discovering that the house you lived in from 1983 to 1985 was recently bulldozed to make room for the expansion of a mini-storage facility. That’s exactly what happened to me two weeks ago, and it was some devastating shit. I loved that house. I buried my dog Bam-Bam in the backyard of that house. And now it has been vaporized to make room for more concrete storage units where smelly old people can keep their antique furniture and treasured keepsakes. Give me a fucking break.

You want more? Maybe legendary battles? How about the summer of 1992 when I beat that kid, Shelly, twelve games in a row at Street Fighter II using only E. Honda and Zangief. It doesn’t get much more legendary than that. If you don’t think that epic conflict solidified my status as a hero to the masses, go ask the gearheads and burnouts who used to hang out at the 7-Eleven on Colfax. My exploits were mythological. I was the Perseus of southeastern Denver. I was bigger than John Elway.

You’re kidding me, right? You think Lois Lane is the all-American love-interest? Please. She’s nothing but a Carrie Bradshaw wannabe who throws her poonanski around Metropolis like it’s going to rot if it doesn’t get a regular hot beef injection. My enviable list of lovers reads like a sexual checklist from the pages of Maxim: three virgins, two hot moms, a contortionist, an amputee, a Canadian fur trader, and the sultry daughter of a true Southern gentleman. Lane has that damsel-in-distress thing going for her, but I’ll take a sweet piece of ass over a perpetual victim any day of the week.

Sure, Superman has powers. The flying, the amazing speed, the whole “Man of Steel” thing. B-O-R-I-N-G! You want to talk about powers? How about the power of complete O-ring control? You’re probably ruled by the whims of your O-ring; whenever it tells you it’s time to take a dump, you scurry around with a peeking turtle looking for the nearest toilet. Not me. I once held in a shit for the duration of an entire 68-block cab ride. And believe me, I really had to shit. I’m talking sweating, shivering, goose bumps, the works. But, being the master of my O-ring, I held that shit in. Nothing came out. Not even a nugget. Impressive, isn’t it?

What’s that? You mean that thing where he flies around the earth hella fast and reverses time? I’ll give you that one. That’s pretty sweet. But I’m working on something similar that involves significantly less interstellar maneuvering and much more sitting on the couch. Believe me, it’s going to make Superman look like an even bigger douche bag than before.

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