Screw you, Stan Lee: 3 things that comics lied to me about
Those people at Marvel and DC Comics have some explaining to do for the lies they indoctrinated me with during my formative years.
Comics misguided me into thinking that any 11-year-old boy could be a billionaire playboy by day and an angry vigilante with a latex fetish when the sun went down. They made me believe that women who ran around with a golden lasso while wearing knee-high hooker boots were of sound mind and available to date. Here’s an important safety tip: if a woman professes to own an invisible airplane, back away slowly.
Let’s debunk 3 other childhood beliefs that came to be because of comics:
Belief 1: That wearing glasses and parting my hair on the side would keep my true identity safe.
A thick-rimmed pair of glasses and container of Brylcreem do not an alter ego make. If I threw on a beret and novelty nose/moustache combination I’d still be a giant, and I’d still get picked out of a police line-up in about four seconds. The only conclusion one can draw is that the residents of Metropolis were as dumb as fuck.
If Clark Kent had worked for a real newspaper, he would have been made as Superman the first time he took his glasses off to sing karaoke at an office function. Or when someone smarter than Lois Lane realised that he could always guess what underwear they had on, including the orange and gold crotchless number that they had custom made in Thailand.
Belief 2: That wearing my underwear on the outside would make me popular and sexually appealing to women.
Publicly displaying your undergarments – especially when they are worn over your jeans at the railway station – is not socially acceptable behaviour. Doing so will make you about as popular as that one monkey at the zoo that insists on flinging its faeces at the other inhabitants of the enclosure.
As for using exposed briefs as a visual aid to help seduce a woman, I now know that capsicum spray and my eyes can never be friends. Apparently women don’t find a guy in underpants curled up while frantically rubbing his eyes sexy. Go figure.
Belief 3: That being bitten by a radioactive spider and shooting stuff from my wrists would allow me to climb walls.
There are two problems with this premise. The first is the belief that radioactive spiders with a proclivity for biting unsuspecting students are in plentiful abundance. Unless your high school is based somewhere near Chernobyl, they aren’t.
The second – and most critical – issue is that public excretions from any part of your body are frowned upon by society. Wearing a mask and skin-tight costume while you egest will only exacerbate the problem. Had Peter Parker walked around in real life ejaculating an unidentified sticky substance from his wrists, he would have been tasered, incarcerated and put onto a myriad of lists and registers before he got five feet off the ground.
So, Stan Lee, screw you. Your tales of deceit have not aided my quest to find horny superhero groupies who find grown men wearing Batman underpants desirable. Further to this small grievance, I still can’t fly.
What did comics – or other children’s literature – lie to you about?
Author’s note: for the sake of this post, comics have been deemed children’s reading material. Deal with it.