Went to see Superman last night (For free! At Warner Bros! Thanks Jeff!) and was totally transported. I mean, I haven’t enjoyed a movie that much in I-don’t-know-how-long. I squealed. I squirmed. I swooned! A lot.
Every time Superman scooped up a girl, every time Superman lifted planes and boats, every time Superman (as goofy Clark Kent) longingly gazed at Lois Lane…I swooned. If this was a drinking game, I’d be wasted.
As my friends can attest, I’m hardly likely to go for that “type.” If I had a choice, I’d probably pick Kent before Superman in a lineup any day. But somehow, in the theater, I’m all, *sigh* Superman’s so dreamy…Why can’t it be like that? Why can’t you (hypothetical guy) bounce bullets off your chest, or throw small islands into space, or know EXACTLY what I need, EXACTLY when I need it?! Super Man would use his super hearing to sense that my period was approaching in T-minus five, and he’d zip over to Rite-aid and back with a gossip magazine and a chipwich before I even knew he was gone. He’d appear just as I was exhausting my limit of patience searching for parking at the Grove, pick up the jackhole SUV parked in two spaces, and launch it into the stratosphere. He’d never ask me what he’d done wrong, he’d just apologize and take me night-flying.
But somehow I know even that wouldn’t be good enough. I’d be all, Night-flying again? Come on, guy, how about a little imagination? While we’re on the subject, your lovemaking has been super-boring lately…eleven orgasms used to seem like a lot, but…whatever. You know what? I don’t think I can do this anymore. The way you just let Lex Luthor walk all over you the other day…I know you were on an island made of kryptonite…yeah, yeah, and that you were also stabbed with a kryptonite shard…but you just looked so…so weak. I’ll never see you in the same light again. I’m sorry, but it’s too late. Everything’s changed.
Also, your hair is gay.
It should cheer my exes up a bit to know that I would make even the Man of Steel feel inadequate.