Tag Archives: Superman

The Price Of Progress

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The cry was almost inaudible, a faint, plaintive “help!”, rather like the one Penelope Pitstop emits when tied to a railway track.

It wasn’t inaudible to Superman. His super-ears picked up the cry, his super-nose picked up the scent of fire, his super-eyes spotted the wisp of smoke, miles away.

Someone was trapped in a burning building. It was time to shift his super-arse.

Which was why Melanie, staring helplessly out of her fifth-floor window as the smoke thickened behind her, suddenly found herself face-to-face with a man hovering in mid-air outside.

The man was wearing a suit, a shirt-and-tie and horn-rimmed glasses.

“Who are you?” asked Melanie.

“I’m Superman,” said Superman.

“No,  you’re not,” she said.

“I am.”

“Prove it,” said Melanie.

Superman pulled at the buttons of his shirt to reveal the famous symbol beneath.

“Huh,” said Melanie. “You’ve got a Superman T-shirt. Big deal, my nephew has Superman pyjamas.”

“I’m floating five storeys above the ground,” said Superman.

“That’s a better argument,” said Melanie, “But I’m still not convinced. Why aren’t you wearing the outfit?”

“Mobile phones,” said Superman.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said mobile phones,” said Superman. “Now that everyone carries a phone around with them there’s no need for phone booths anymore. I have nowhere to get changed.”

“Isn’t there anywhere else you can do it?”

“No,” said Superman. “I tried changing in the lavatory in the Metropolis branch of Macy’s and was asked to leave unless I was going to buy something. I tried changing in a skip before going to stop a runaway bus, and arrived smelling like a wart-hog, with a banana-skin draped over one shoulder. I even tried changing at the top of an electricity pylon, and found that I was picking up Radio Luxembourg on my belt-buckle for two days afterwards.”

“I never thought of that,” said Melanie. “It must affect you pretty badly.”

“It does,” said Superman, “though not as badly as it affects someone called Madame Zalina, who now has nowhere to leave the business cards on which she describes herself as a Spanking Good Masseuse”.”

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 (PS – To my niece, who’s 23 today and who I know reads this blog, have a really Happy Birthday.

Behind Every Good Man

Sidey’s Weekend Theme this week was “women”……………………

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The book club was in full swing. In other words they had mentioned the selected book, all admitted that they hadn’t read it, and had now settled into chat, which was why they had all come.

“He was out all night again last night,” said Mary-Jane.

“Mine too,” said Lois. “Came in at five and collapsed onto the bed snoring, leaving me awake for the rest of the night.”

“I’m awake all night most nights,” said Vicky. The others moved slightly forward in their seats, but she said “Not like that. Unfortunately. We have to have the curtains open all night in case the Batsignal appears in the sky. I’ll tell you, being Mrs Batman is not easy.”

“Well, in fairness,” said Pepper, Mrs Ironman, “they have to be out at night, because that’s when most of the crime happens.”

The others looked at Pepper. She was the most recently married of them all, and still looking at life as a Superhero WAG through honeymoon-pink spectacles. Lois Lane, Mrs Superman, snorted.

“Wait till you settle into it, Pepper,” she said. “I spend all day in the shops buying Clark clothes, because he keeps leaving his in phone booths.”

“I have to fill my guy’s Bat Utility Belt every morning,” said Vicky Vale, Mrs Batman. “I’ve to make sure he has Bat-Rockets, Bat-Rope, Bat-Laser-Cutters, and two cheese-and-tuna sandwiches.”

“Mine has a big lunch-box,” said Lois.

“Lucky you,” murmured Mary-Jane, Mrs Spiderman.

“I spend a fortune on sea-sickness tablets,” said Steve Trevor. “All that spinning around in a circle makes Diana really dizzy.”

There was silence after this. The girls had never been sure whether to let Mr Wonder Woman into their little group, but since they were all a little jealous of her they’d been hoping that they’d get some good gossip out of him. They had always known that as a Superhero’s husband he’d be really whipped, and they were hoping to find out if there was more than one meaning to that phrase.

“The thing about it is,” said Vicky, “we have to remember that they’re good men, doing good work. It could be worse. I met Mrs Penguin at bridge last week. Her husband spends half his time in jail, he walks like a duck, and she thinks he might be having an affair with Catwoman.”

“Really?” said Mary-Jane. “I always thought that Catwoman fancied -”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” said Vicky.

“I met Mrs Riddler at the supermarket yesterday,” said Pepper really quickly, to change the subject. “Or rather, ex-Mrs Riddler.”

“Holy Alimony, Pepper!” said Vicky. The others glared at her. “You promised you’d stop doing that,” said Lois.

“Sorry,” said Vicky, “but if you had that twit Robin in your house all day you’d eventually start talking like him too.”

“The Riddlers are breaking up?” asked Steve.

“Yes, she said that she got fed up with his riddles,” said Pepper. “She was going to the shop one day last week and asked did he need anything, and he said “what’s made of beef but is called ham, and comes in a bun, not with raspberry jam?”.”

“Did she figure out what he needed?” asked Mary-Jane.

“Sort of,” said Pepper. “She figured he needed a good smack in the head with a frying-pan. That’s why they’ve split up.”

Super Secret

Sidey’s Weekend Theme is (still) “hiding something”….

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“Why don’t you ever wear contacts, Clark?” asked Perry White.

“Yeah,” said Jimmy Olsen. “I mean, those glasses are pretty severe. They make you look like the swot version of a geek version of a nerd. And Buddy Holly.”

“I think I know why he doesn’t,” said Lois. “I think he’s hiding something.”

Clark sighed. He had known that this day would come eventually. Not recognising Superman because he wore glasses made as much sense as not recognising your mother because she was wearing a hat, but the staff of The Daily Planet did not seem to be very bright. Now that it seemed that the game was up, Clark felt almost relieved. He was about to sheepishly own up when Lois spoke again.

“He doesn’t want us to see him without his glasses,” she said, “because we’d recognise him as Robin.”

“What?” said Perry.

“What?” said Jimmy.

“What????” said Clark.

“Is this true?” asked Perry. “Are you Batman’s side-kick?”

“Of course not,” gasped Clark. “I can’t believe you’d think that.”

“Methinks he doth protest too much,” said Jimmy.

“And methinks thou doth talk thit,” retorted Clark.

“What made you realise it, Lois?” asked Perry.

“Well, you never see them together,” said Lois.

“That’s it?” asked Clark. “That’s the whole basis for your theory? You never see Beyoncé and me together either.”

The three of them looked at him for a moment. Good lord, thought Clark, they’re actually thinking about that.

“Nah,” said Jimmy eventually. “You don’t have her legs.”

“Yeah, well I’m not Robin either,” said Clark. “Anyway, if I was, how would my taking my glasses off let you recognise me? Robin wears a mask.”

“Yeah, a teeny one,” said Lois. “That wouldn’t hide anyone’s identity.”

Clark frowned, closed his eyes, then shook his head briefly. “But you can’t really think I’m him,” he said. “I mean, he’s a twit.”

“Says the guy who never gets any stories for the paper,” said Perry, “while Lois gets Superman exclusives every day.”

“You never see Superman and me together either,” said Clark desperately.

“Exactly, because you’re always in the wrong place when the interesting stuff happens,” said Perry.

Clark accidentally crushed the coffee cup he was holding in his hand in frustration. Since it was a Styrofoam cup this went unnoticed. The coffee, though, had had an effect.

“Look, I have visit the men’s room,” he said. “We’ll sort this out when I get back.”

Going to the toilet, when under your suit you’re wearing a skin-tight zipless outfit with the underpants on the outside, is not something that can be done quickly, so Clark was gone for a good fifteen minutes.

Which was unfortunate, because during that time Batman and Robin pulled up outside the bank across the street, just as a gang of robbers were emerging, and apprehended them in a flurry of kapows and biffs. Clark returned to find his three workmates grinning at him, and showing them the pictures they had taken of the whole episode.

“Holy coincidence, Batman?” said Lois. “I think not.”

“Look, I’m not Robin,” said Clark, “and I’ll prove it.” He swung his Superarm, and his Superfist punched a hole in the wall. He watched as the light of comprehension, admittedly a light of a very low wattage, appeared in their eyes.

“I was wrong,” admitted Lois. “He’s the Incredible Hulk.”

Crime Scene

“I’m not really the detecting type, Chief,” said Superman. “I’m more of an action hero, catching women who have fallen from a high-rise, or holding up collapsing bridges, or stopping a runaway bus by standing in front of it and head-butting it.”

“I know,” said the Chief of Police, “but this is the fifth similar case this month, and we’re trying to prevent a panic. We really need your help.”

“Ok then. Who’s the victim?”

“We don’t know. There isn’t a body. There never is. There isn’t any blood, and there are no spent cartridges. There isn’t even a witness willing to offer the helpful information that they had saw a man running away and that, while they hadn’t got a good look at him, they were sure he was black and about five feet eight, or perhaps white and six feet two. Or possibly a woman.”

“Then how do you know that there was even a crime?”

The Chief led the way toward the crime scene. As they neared it, Superman began to get an “uh-oh” feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Have a look at that,” said the Chief.

The Chief was pointing at a pile of clothes. In the corner of a phone booth.

“It’s definitely a serial killer,” he said. “We think he lures his victims into a phone booth (“Seriously?” thought Superman, “how do you lure someone into a phone booth?”), makes them take off all of their clothes, and then kills them and disposes of the body. We call him the Stripper.”

Superman could feel himself start to redden.

“We’re putting all of our resources into this,” said the Chief. “We’re cancelling all police leave, we’re all working double shifts and we’re not even stopping for donuts. It’s going to cost the city and its citizens a fortune, but we have to do it.”

“Maybe there isn’t a killer,” said Superman desperately. “Maybe the people were simply too hot.”

“It’s December.”

“Or spontaneously combusted.”

“There’s no pile of ash.”

“Or got abducted by aliens.”

“There’s no such thing.”

Superman, from Krypton, decided to let this go.

“Leave it to me, Chief,” he said eventually. “I’ll sort it out.”

He didn’t know yet what he was going to do, but he was dealing with people too dumb to see through a disguise that consisted purely of a pair of glasses, so he was sure that he could come up with some convincing story. Everything was going to be fine.

And then suddenly it wasn’t.

“Let me through,” said a voice. “I’m a reporter.”

Superman’s heart sank. He could sense his super plans crashing around his Superears as Lois Lane burst through the “Do Not Cross” tape and stood staring in shock at the pile of familiar clothes, the tie she had bought for Christmas and, lying forlornly on the top, the tell-tale glasses.

“Oh my God,” she said. “They’ve killed Clark.”