Suggested Audio ♫

Madonna “Like a Virgin”

Give it to me straight, does my butt look big in this? Actually, don’t answer that. The day I’ve had, I’m not sure I could take another hard knock. You think it’s fun having to dress in figure-hugging spandex? Again, no need to grace that with a response as I just realized how ridiculous it sounded. I mean, what’s not to like about a material that can stretch to five times its length then return to its original size? I’ll tell you what’s not to like. I’m not currently promoting a fitness DVD, that’s what’s not to like.

Wanna know what else is not to like? Chafing. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep your mind on the task at hand without a tub of talcum powder on hand to help alleviate the soreness? A small price to pay for looking the absolute balls, you may think. Well, that’s all well and good, but not so fun when the only place you can store this container of talc is up your ass. And don’t even think of suggesting a fanny pack as I still have my dignity, thank you very much.

Hashtag awkward. I can see by your face that I’m currently flying due south of your unrealistic expectations and I’m fine with that, if you are. You see, there comes a time during every superhero’s life when we no longer wish to be treated like circus freaks. I happen to be pretty tight with Superman and you may notice you haven’t seen him about much recently. Any idea why that might be? I’ll tell you precisely why that is – pointing and snide remarks.

Don’t think I haven’t heard the vile whispers – “Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No… it’s Superman. Letting himself go a little, if you ask me”. Folk make the critical error of thinking the Man of Steel’s only weakness is Kryptonite, when in fact, it’s the endless stream of harmful comments that truly sap his energy. Don’t even get me started on Spiderman as he’s sick and tired of all the arachnophobes attempting the old glass and paper trick every time he goes web slinging. Actually, I only heard that on the grapevine as I’m still waiting for him to accept my friend request on Facebook. Don’t fight it Spidey, don’t fight it.

I blame the internet trolls. Everything was fine and dandy before it became acceptable to air your thoughts over social networks. I’ve always found opinions to be much like assholes – everybody has one and a fair number of them stink through failure to wipe correctly. It’s a cynical world we live in, one where the President of our proud nation can publicly diss Meryl Streep and get away scot-free. I mean, what the fuck could he have been thinking? Kim Jong-un I get as he looks like he’d rather eat a nuclear warhead with a side order of cheesy fries than fire it in retaliation.

But Meryl? The finest actress of her generation? There are certain things you don’t do under any circumstances and one of them is fucking with the Streep. This kind of shit never would have happened back in the days of dial-up. If you ask me, they should re-elect Reagan. And yes I am aware he’s been dead for over half a decade. But did you see him in Bedtime for Bonzo? At any rate, what the good people of America need right now is a hero. He’s gotta be strong, he’s gotta be fast, and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight. Tell me I’m right.

What the hell are you looking at me for? Oh, I get it. It’s the spandex isn’t it? Here’s a news flash for you – just because I look the part, doesn’t mean I have any inclination to play it. I hear Ryan Reynolds does a reasonably accurate impression of me so let him save the entire free world from imminent ruin. I mean, what’s he done since Van Wilder anyway? If you even think of saying Green Lantern, I’m gonna take a shit in your kitty litter and forget to cover it over.

Seriously, who died and made me Mother Teresa? Oh she did, did she? Well, then my thoughts are with their family and the good people of Calcutta. But fighting crime isn’t terribly high on my to-do-list so go find yourself another chump to exploit for the wider gain. And you can quit it with the “woe is me” puppy dog eyes while you’re at it; although I am starting to get a little swayed, come to think of it. When you put it like that, I guess I could do it part-time.

No. Absolutely no. Categorically no. As in “please no Mr. Cosby, I don’t think I can take another finger”. I’d rather snarf back a bowl of shit and wash it down with a glass of tepid piss than take on that kind of responsibility. When I wake up in the morning, there’s only one thing that interests me and that’s heading over to Denny’s for a Southern Chicken Slugger. Fighting wave after wave of bad guys? If I wanted to do that, I’d dust down my Atari and play Tempest until my eyes cross over. This ain’t my gig.

Besides, I’m a lover not a fighter. I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking, “Where’s the zipper on that costume?” to which I shall remind you that spandex can stretch to five times its original size. When you think about it, that’s actually pretty responsible. Well it saves on prophylactics anyway. Admittedly, dried jizz is a bitch and its auntie to remove come wash day, but I hear it’s also good for the skin and I could do with all the bonus spunk I can get right now after the big “C” paid me an unplanned visit.

In life there are two different types of surprise. There’s the “we have a new TGI Friday’s opening in your zip code” strain of whammy and the “congratulations, you have terminal cancer” bolt out of the blue. No boneless wings, no Frank’s Hot Sauce, just scourge. On the upside, it had only spread to my liver, lungs, prostate and brain, four things I’m fairly sure I can live without and at least I’d no longer be required to shave my balls. But as far as shit sandwiches go, this one was the foot-long with extra relish. And olives… I hate fucking olives. Naturally I asked for a second opinion, to which two quacks sang a duet. Actually it was more of a power ballad, although it would take more than The Power of Love to lift me up where I felt I belonged.

You wanna know what really blew sheep balls? Other than the fact that last-ditch experimental treatment was about to leave me resembling a life-sized Quiche. I’d recently met the girl of my dreams and had just got around to popping the question. Vanessa was all the things I’d ever wanted from a woman and a fair few besides. She was sweet, hot, kind, hot, funny, hot and loved me just the way I was. And she was hot, had I mentioned that?

Indeed under the right light, she even looked a little like the chick from Firefly and I recall shedding a tear when that show got canned purely because I’d no longer have anything to spank it to. There were a million things about Vanessa that I loved, not all of which are repeatable, but the one quality that shone brighter than any other was her ability to accept me just the way I was. Sounds like happy ever after right? I agree, which is precisely why I put a ring on it. However, before we could get around to setting a date for the wedding, this shit happened.

I know right? No more keeping the lights on during our rampant lovemaking sessions. Do you have any idea how unsexy it is to run your fingers down your fiancé’s back and wind up with enough dead skin beneath your nails to whip up an omelette? Of course, the one thing Vanessa certainly wasn’t was shallow and there’s not a single doubt in my mind that she would’ve bought herself a pair of sheepskin mittens and stuck around for the long haul. But that would have meant sympathy fucking and I could do without the commiseration. Thus on receipt of my diagnosis, I simply walked. No Dear John letter, no pendant containing a lock of my hair, I was outta there.

Now I’m not ordinarily one to look a gift horse in the mouth but I didn’t like the way this particular nag was gawking. You see, while the serum they pumped into me had indeed cured the cancer and I was now officially in remission, I also looked the spitting image of something you’d find in the dumpster behind Subway. The way I saw it, I had two options available to me at this point. Either I try out for a part in Sausage Party and hope they haven’t cast the flatbread yet or cover myself head-to-toe in spandex and catch up with my spanking. Actually, that didn’t come out quite right. What I’m saying is that it was time to make the chimi-fuckin’-changas.

I used to be tasty with my dukes and you don’t get dishonorably discharged from the special forces without first perfecting the art of cracking a skull or two. Better yet, with nothing whatsoever left to lose, I had a one-way ticket for the gain train. The problem was that being a superhero never greatly appealed to me and I always thought of myself as more your anti-hero type. What can I say? If a sweet little old lady comes a cropper on the escalator, I’m gonna find that shit funny. Naturally I’d do the decent thing and inquire as to the old girl’s well-being, but not before accumulating snot bubbles and laughing the cancer back.

So this is where you find me now. In the words of Natalie Imbruglia – “Struth Henry, can’t you slap it around a little? Quick, before Madge and Harold get back”. No, that’s not it. “I’m torn” and that’s no picnic when you’re effectively the human equivalent of tear ‘n’ share. I hear Neighborhood Watch are always recruiting so could give that a crack for a few weeks and see how many kittens I can save from trees. But cat claws and spandex are much like farts and flammables – best kept separate – and I much prefer the pounding of pussies when they’re not looking up at me with big doe-eyes.

Slightly off-topic but have you ever seen a cat with a hard-on? Only I think I feel one digging into my shoulder-blade as I speak. Well, it’s either that or an ingrowing back hair. Far more pressing right now is the revenge I’m supposed to be getting on the Limey bastard responsible for making me look like pan-fried phlegm. The cancer I could live with as I’m used to dying a little more inside each day after sitting through the Complete Lost box set. Remind me again, did they ever get off that fucking island? But I planned to be 78 before being deemed legally unfuckable; not smack bang in my sexual prime.

It’s times like these when daddy needs to express some rage. Then it’s straight over to Wal-Mart for a tube of Vagisil. Don’t give me that look, I’ll have you know it’s good for the inflammation. Anyone would think I was looking to lure small children into a panel van with a pocketful of boiled sweets and some Gremlins trading cards. The point I was attempting to make is that Dr. Francis Freeman and his interns might wish to scrub up as I’m about to go McDreamy on their asses and without a lick of anesthetic. You ever see that film Extreme Measures with Hugh Grant and Lex Luthor… I mean Gene Hackman? No reason, just curious.

One thing’s for sure – if I ever hope to finish my ward rounds, I’m gonna need a small army to keep any stragglers at bay. Nothing extravagant, just a Robin to my Batman or perhaps two Robins just in case Robin #1’s genital sclerosis continues to worsen. Ever had a whitehead on your dick tip? Bats really are filthy creatures, you know. My point being that I’ma need myself a posse for such a treacherous mission and that’s where the good folk over at Craigslist are only too happy to hook your shit up. And I quote: “Looking for team buddies. Willing to die for the cause. Must love avocado.” Here’s what they sent me.

Colossus they call him and I guess that would make Mrs. Colossus in dire need of vaginal reconstructive surgery. This hunk o’ lunk is about as fun to be around as an accountant in their late fifties and could cramp a man’s style from three states away. Apparently, he’s one of Xavier’s cast-off mutants and his “special power” is the ability to transform his entire endoskeleton into organic steel or some shit. Big whoop. Who gives an airborne fuck frisbee what you can turn into if the only footwear you can find in your size are knock-off Ugg Boots. Those things will mess up your in-step you know.

Far more pleasing on the peepers is… wait for it… Negasonic Teenage Warhead! Now that’s a name that can roll off my tongue any day of the week including Sunday. Before you go saying she looks like a younger Ripley from Alien³, please let me assure you that our relationship is purely platonic. I mean, I’m old enough to be her pimp and ugly enough to be her first menstrual blood clot. That said, I’d rather be mouth-sexed by her than that Colossus dude. That would be like poking your junk in the trash compactor from Star Wars and I’m all out of wookie cookies. Atomic bursts appear to be her thing and I dig it. Have been known to split the odd atom myself from time to time, if you know what I’m saying.

What was I saying anyway? Oh, that’s right. Bad guys. If there’s one thing Die Hard taught me, other than the importance of wearing two pairs of towelling socks at all times, then it was that bad guys are usually up to no good around yuletide. There must be something in the egg nog at this time of year as the man who came shuffling down my chimney stack with his sack out every December 24th sure as shit wasn’t Santa. I always wondered why my mother used to tuck me in so tightly on Christmas Eve and why she walked with a limp right through Boxing Day. That was until I snuck downstairs and caught them at that. And that was the last time I ever ate mayonnaise. True story.

Speaking of truths, I feel you can handle one more. I’m gonna fuck up more shit than an ass propeller. We’re talking a body count to rival the likes of Deep Impact and Hot Shots! Part Deux. There’s a best before date on these cans of whoop you know and I’ve been shaking this one the whole time we’ve been talking. Like Michael Caine said in Jaws: The Revenge – “I’ve always wanted to make love to an angry welder. I’ve dreamed of nothing else since I was a small boy.” No that’s all wrong, it was Robert Shaw in the first film – “This shark, swallow you whole”. That was me he was talking about, you know. Don’t believe me? Then check my prostate and try not to snag your wristwatch on the license plate.

So you see, I’m here to kick bubblegum and chew ass, which I really could’ve done without right now, having only recently got my teeth whitened. To any bad guys earwigging in, you’ll be pleased to learn that I do intend on presenting you options, albeit only of the nut or gut variety. I can’t promise your deaths will be swift and neither can you bank on painless, but I can guarantee I’ll be checking every last wallet for organ donor cards as I like to do my bit for recycling. Alas, my kindness doesn’t extend to the man who did this to me and, should you be listening now Francis, here’s what I’ve got planned for you old bean.

I’m gonna work through your crew until somebody gives your ass up, force you to fix this, then put a hole in your skull wide enough for me to thread Taylor Swift through. Then I’m gonna finish composing this tweet, toss in a couple of rosy-red cheek emojis, return to your gaping cavity, and hate-fuck your brain hole while singing Shake It Off in Hebrew. Players gonna play, after all. I wish I could offer you an alternative but Justin Bieber has been murder to get hold of since he sussed out which one of his pubic hairs can be pissed through. Besides, I don’t have a mop bucket handy.

This could all have been avoided, you know. Had you made some other douche your guinea pig and left me to slowly wither away like Will Smith’s box office, then I’d likely be tying the knot with Vanessa on some secluded beach in the Seychelles right now or intensive care, wherever’s closest. Instead, I’m wasting my precious time making you suffer, when I could have just forced you to sit through The Hobbit trilogy back-to-back. I didn’t ask to be super, and I’m no hero. But when your best girl will only bang you with the lights dimmed and your spandex suit on, the time has come to be a fucking superhero. Now I’m gonna ask you one more time Francis, does my butt look big in this? What do you mean pleasantly plump? Goddamn that tuna casserole.