Superhero Diaries

The Superhero Diaries: by those with their underwear on the outside. (In this case, she wears her underpants on the inside.  They’re pink.)

By Lois Lane

My husband is Superman.  More often than not, this is a good thing; for example, super strength, speed and the ability to fly really come in handy when you’re moving to a new apartment.  Still, just because I save a lot on air fare doesn’t mean I don’t have troubles.  There are some problems that can’t be solved by a closet full of diamonds made from charcoal briquettes.

For starters, I don’t feel like my husband pays enough attention to me.  We’ll be halfway through dinner, I’ll be mid-sentence, and all of a sudden he’s out the door because yet another citizen of Metropolis has found a way to fall out of a high-rise.  (Frankly, I would support legislation banning windows; in Metropolis they’re as dangerous as guns.  At the very least, we should prevent them from being opened between the hours of 8-10pm.  That’s Lois and Clark time, people.)

Other times he gets this far-away look in his eyes.  He swears  he’s distracted by how hot I am, which made me blush the first couple hundred times I heard it, but by now it’s like he’s looking right through me.  Literally.   As in, he’s using his X-ray vision because something behind me is on fire.  It just occurred to me he might also be using his microscopic vision to stare at a blackhead on my nose.   Great; now I’m ordering five grand worth of Neutrogena products as soon as I finish this post. 

Which brings up another thing; I’m constantly worried about my looks.  No one talks about that part of the job.  It’s not that Clark has given me a reason to doubt him, but he spends half his day on the moon with a bunch of superpowered hussies.   Am I really supposed to believe that Clark has never thought about it?  Look at Hawkgirl, Vixen, Black Canary - I’m sorry, but I just don’t see the need for those outfits until someone proves that the forces of evil are afraid of Camel Toe.  And cops have stopped crime for hundreds of years without needing brazillian waxes to do it; I’m sure Wonder Woman could find a way if she tried.  She could start by, I don’t know, WEARING PANTS.  Slut.

Okay, okay, that was uncalled for; she’s actually very nice.  I’m just stressed out right now (and I haven’t gone to the gym in a while.)  I’m stressed because the real trouble with being married to Superman is that my husband spends all day getting shot at.  And no matter how invulnerable he is, I’m never going to be okay with that*.

I’ve seen Clark die.  Sure, he came back, but that’s not the kind of party trick I want to see him repeat, and yet there’s always some intergalactic threat for him to fight.  If it’s not Darkseid, it’s Brainiac.  If it’s not Brainiac, it’s Luthor.  If it’s not Luthor…well, some days it’s like they’re handing out Kryptonite bullets on street corners. 

Tonight I’m a little more worried than usual.  Earlier, I was having dinner with ex-President Pete Ross, an old buddy of Clark’s.  Out of nowhere, Clark wandered into the restaurant looking awful.  He saw Pete holding my hand (perfectly plutonic; Black Canary should take notes) and he burned him with heat vision.  Then he ran out, grabbed a tanker truck, flew it into the air and exploded it on his head. 

Admittedly, he did the exact same thing a couple years ago, but that was after he and Pete split a bottle of Jaeger.   But if that were the case, by now Clark would be up to his favorite drunk-tivity:  “Pissles.”   On the off chance that some of you are not familiar with the game, here it is, broken down into three easy steps.

1) Fly to an altitude of 10,000 feet; incline penis at a 45 degree angle
2) Blow light freeze-breath aimed approximately six inches in front of penis
3) While exhaling, urinate at maximum possible velocity

There aren’t many things that make drunk-Clark happier than breaking the sound barrier with a javelin of frozen pee.  And since he hasn’t shown up with his fly hanging open, shouting, “Six miles, Lois!  High-five!!!!” I’m going to assume he’s not drunk and something else something else is wrong.
 
I don’t know what to do.  Deep down I know he’ll be alright – he is Superman, after all - but I’m still worried.   I thought it might help if I called Batman, but boy, was that a big mistake.  First he landed his jet on the roof of my building, and I just KNOW I’m getting a letter from the co-op board on that one.  Then he broke in through my window (even though I invited him over) which meant he didn’t take off his shoes at the front door.  And all he did was ask a bunch of questions I could’ve answered over the phone.  

On top of that, the guy is a total drama queen.  When I asked him if he knew what was happening he replied, “What I don’t know could fill this building,” then turned out the lights and jumped out of the window.   I get that the whole Bat-mystique is built on shadow and mystery, but you’d think he could drop the act in my apartment.  Before he showed up, I was sitting alone in my apartment, worried.  After he left, I was still sitting alone in my apartment, I was still worried, but now there were boot-prints on my carpet and I had to feel around for the light switch.  Thanks for stopping by, Bruce. 

At this point, there’s not much I can do but hope everything will be okay and try and get some sleep.  And if a bubble bath and several glasses of chardonnay will help me get to sleep, then so be it.

I’ll update when I know more,

-LL

*Full disclosure:  I have shot him a couple times, and I will admit that it was a lot of fun, not to mention a terrific stress reliever.  But I’m his wife; I get to do these things.

This diary was based on Superman/Batman #39, written by Alan Burnett.  The part with Batman turning off the lights while Lois is still sitting there actually happened; it was quite bizarre.  As for the storyline, I’m reserving judgment.  It could turn out good, or it could turn out to be another contrived Superman vs. Batman fight, and it feels like there have been a lot of those lately.  In my opinion, the last good one was in the Batman “Hush” story, by Jeph Loeb.

The Superhero Diaries: by those with their underwear on the outside.

By The Hulk

It’s good to be me.

Hulk here. What’s that you say? “It doesn’t sound like the Hulk”?? That’s probably because I’m conjugating my verbs now. For the most part, I’m through with the whole “Hulk Smash” sentence structure. True, it gave me a unique voice, but I found it limited the range of ideas I could express to merely who was smashing (me), and occasionally what was being smashed (other stuff). All rationale and reason behind my smashing went unspoken - no one ever knew if I was smashing to express my existential angst stemming from my monstrous exterior, or if I really had to pee. I believe it was this shortcoming in my communication skills that led to several misunderstandings between myself and my peers; misunderstandings which then resulted in extensive property damage. So a while back* I decided to change, and I’m smart now. Smart as a tack. A big, green tack that can punch through a tank.

Here’s where I should admit that some time ago I destroyed a significant part of Las Vegas. In my defense, a nuclear bomb went off in my face. Luckily that’s not lethal to me, but it is a lot like stubbing your toe, so understandably, I got a little “teed-off”. And even though I’m trying to be the type of Hulk who uses words to solve his problems, nothing feels quite like the ol’ Smashy-Smash. So yes, I did it, Hulk Smash Las Vegas. Looking back, I felt bad about it, sure, but in my opinion, there’s no need to rehash old stuff. Water under the bridge, bygones being bygones, no crying over spilled milk and destroyed casinos…that sort of thing. Unfortunately, several of the world’s most powerful people didn’t see it the same way.

I’m referring to Reed Richards, stretchy brainiac from the Fanatstic Four; Black Bolt, leader of the Inhumans and world-class mime; Doctor Strange, “Sorcerer Supreme” (Siegfried sans Roy and tiger); and Iron Man, tin-plated asshole. These four guys decided I was too “dangerous”, and therefore had to be “put on a rocket” and “sent into outer space”. (Sorry, I tend to overuse quotation marks when I get angry. It’s an outlet I’ve found for my “murderous rage”.)

In an attempt to make a long story short, I landed on a barbarous planet where I was enslaved and made to fight in gladiatorial combat. Eventually I inspired an uprising against a sadistic emperor, killed him, and was declared king. People often point out (rather derisively, I might add) that this is the plot from Gladiator, and as much as it hurt to spend several months not doing much else than get stabbed, to come back and hear that my ordeal was one big case of copyright infringement is a kick in the big green nads. But rather than get angry and throw those movie geeks into orbit, I use art to release my frustration, such as when I fold their cars into origami swans. Besides, I haven’t seen the movie, but I say that my story is more tragic, because my wife and unborn child were killed. I bet that didn’t happen in Gladiator! Oh. Apparently it did. Goddamnit! HULK SMA- no, Hulk. Hulk be cool. Hulk take deep breath. Hulk be like one giant green Fonzie…

Yes, that’s right, I had found a wife. Her name was Caiera. She was a warrior, she was strong, and she understood me. She also had a great rack. And just when I had finally found peace among a people that accepted me, the shuttle that landed me on that godforsaken planet blew up, destroying the entire planet, including her. It’s true what they say: breaking up is hard to do.

(Also, earlier, when I said that it was good to be me, I meant aside from the whole “dead wife” thing.)

The survivors were an eclectic mix of aliens who fought alongside me in the arena. We are friends, despite our differences, because above all we share an interest in, and are highly proficient at, destroying stuff. Plus, when you’re fighting lava monsters and death robots in a giant pit, you kind of become blood brothers whether you like it or not. (Luckily, no one in my posse has intergalactic hepatitis.)

Here’s my roster:

Korg: a big rock

Hiroim the Shamed: He’s got a lot of fancy names for it, but really he’s a ninja made out of stone. He and Korg insist there are huge differences between the two of them, but I say they both beat scissors and lose to paper. I forget why he calls himself the shamed; it’s in the middle of an incredibly boring story I’ve heard like five times and it would be rude of me to ask him again. It probably has to do with some frat prank or something.

Elloe Kaifi: She’s like Rizzo, from Grease. If they raced space ships.

No-Name of the Brood and Miek the Unhived: Insect-like alien creatures. Also known as “Slimy”, “Icky”, and “Oh God it touched me again!”

We had a serviceable spacecraft, and we headed back for Earth, to take our revenge in a very smash-like fashion. And here’s where things get good for not-so-little old me, because I am kicking ass. As of my last count, we have kicked the living crap out of everyone. Not just the guys who sent me out into space, I’m talking about the Avengers, the X-Men, every miscellaneous hero in New York City and three branches of the U.S. Military. I’ve chained them in Madison Square Garden, where soon I will make them fight to the death. I can’t wait; my newfound mastery of words has given me an appreciation for irony. Plus, I’ll get to wear a toga.

I feel like a little kid. I mean, c’mon, who hasn’t dreamed of being the star at the Garden??? Sure, I always imagined I’d be wearing a Knicks uniform, but the warm feeling one gets when he fulfills a boyhood fantasy isn’t diminished just because he had to kill a bunch of people to get there.

But that’s enough for now. The betting windows are going to close soon and I need to put ten bucks on She-Hulk. People think that’s it’s terrible for me to bet on my cousin’s fight to the death, but so what? I don’t care if she is a long shot; she’s family and I want to support her.

*I have no idea when this happened, because I don’t usually read The Hulk.

This Superhero Diary was brought to you by recent events in Planet Hulk and World War Hulk, mostly by Greg Pak, who has done an amazing job making me care about a character I always thought was dumb.