[Writer’s Note: Since my original column this week seems to have gotten pre-empted by another one which I had written earlier (well…actually…later) suddenly arriving from The Future, I am going to go ahead and post two of these this week even though I really only ever planned on doing that whenever the first entry was so short that Bob was afraid his website’s readers would riot if we didn’t give them just a little more red meat. So this is the column I wrote last week which was originally supposed to be what you would have read on Sunday. -Spamrider]
As of my writing this, Bob Semitram and Stephen Johnson are the only two people on earth in this Present timeframe who actually know that I am the Spamrider of the Apocalypse. Well, maybe also that woman who is always sitting around in their office painting her fingernails. I’m not sure what she knows. But I’m pretty sure she must know a lot about fingernails. Especially her own.
Now what Bob and Steve do not know is my secret identity, or who it is the rest of the world thinks that I actually am.
Now that I consider it…was Clark Kent the secret identity, or was Superman? I guess it depends on which person you knew. Or thought you knew.
But in that particular case the name of the comic book was “Superman” and not “Clark Kent,” so I guess that is what makes Superman the real person and Clark Kent the secret identity.
Somebody should make a comic book called “Clark Kent”. It would start out each issue with Superman flying home from work after just having saved the world again. He’d take off his costume and maybe slip into a bathrobe and then just lounge around his apartment on the couch and eat cereal while scratching his supernuts and watching TV. He’d probably be watching old “Seinfeld” reruns. Or maybe “Urkel”. Then the phone would ring and it would be his mom asking him when he’s ever going to stop trying to save the world all the time and finally make something of his life.
Later on maybe he’d go out and get a beer with Jimmy Olsen and they’d end up at the strip club tucking away their Daily Planet dollars while wearing some stripper’s bra and panties on their heads. After that they’d probably go to Denny’s for some late-night breakfast.
I have never hung out with Bob or Steve socially, and for ethical reasons I am afraid it has to stay that way.
If they ever found out who everybody else thinks I really am then I fear their lives could suddenly be in great peril. And I would never want to put them in a position like that because from what I can tell they’re basically decent guys.
Weird, but decent.
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