I swim. Regularly. I actually cheat-swim in that sometimes I use small swim flippers, which makes the difference of racing through the water in an 1,100-horsepower cigarette boat or dragging an abandoned refrigerator across the bottom of the pool via a rope in my teeth.
I should just bite the bullet and purchase the next size up in flippers because they are just a devil to slip into or out of. It got me to thinking. If I have such trouble escaping a simple pair of swimming fins, how does Iron Man go to the bathroom? We’re not talking IM’s alter ego, Tony Stark here. Tony’s a trillionaire. He has bathrooms galore. And? He’s a casual dresser. But when Tony’s all dolled up as Iron Man, what happens when Nature Calls? Ditto with Batman, Wonder Woman, Spider-Man or the many Marvel or DC Comics characters who are poured into their form-fitting post-latex costumes?
Aquaman?
Aquaman going to the bathroom?
Duh. That’s a no-brainer.
It also makes me not want to swim in the ocean, ever, ever again.
Superman and The Flash have post-lightning speed, so they could do their business, wash their hands, check the restroom mirror for spinach in their teeth and catch all 60 seasons of “General Hospital” in less than a millisecond.
I’m far from the first person to notice this, but Donald Duck and Daffy Duck don’t wear pants. But Mickey Mouse does. So does Goofy, but not Pluto. Goofy’s sort of a weredog in that he can go, “Haw-yuck” and act sheepish. Pluto’s a 100% mutt. Minnie Mouse’s underwear shows. And if she were human, she’d be wearing a size 147 pump. That little rodent has HUGE feet. But perhaps these observations are for another opinion page think piece. Weirder? Donald Duck doesn’t wear pants, but he wears a towel after showering.
How does Iron Man follow the law of what all living species must obey and eventually leave behind the unlimited free refills of Dr. Pepper from lunch and the 147-ounce sun-dried burrito? Not that I’m staring Down There the entire two hours of an Avenger movie, but I don’t recall seeing a zipper on his superhero suit. Or buttons. Or a red flannel trapdoor in the back of his injustice-fighting pajamas.
Does Iron Man have a mom, somewhere off screen, who lovingly chides, “Anthony. You better go now before you leave the house because you may not have an opportunity to go, later.”
And there’s another thing. Who came up with the genteel verb of “go” to describe what we all do, at least a few times a month?
I know this is a family newspaper, but why does The Hulk’s shirt completely disappear when he goes from a size Medium to Theater Drape, but his pants stay on? Did his underwear get completely ripped to shreds and they’re stuck somewhere in his torn, and I’m guessing, Spandex trousers? Here’s a question. You’re a Christian. A practicing, daily prayers Christian. Hulk shows up at your front door, legs crossed and in obvious pain. In green tears, Hulk asks if he could use your restroom.
Well.
Do you let him?
Underdog is the anthropomorphic mutt who is a parody of Superman. All the dogs I’ve ever known are not the most disciplined about making it to the great outdoors for that just-right tree. Worse? Underdog’s cape is far too long for his height of, I’m guessing, about 18 inches. No flea collar. And there’s never any damning evidence that he’s been rolling in the hay. Underdog, like Superman, has a confining suit, and yet — no hands. How does Underdog navigate pulling his britches down, let alone, tearing off that just right amount of Charmin? With no opposable thumbs, how does he pull his britches back up?
At the other end of the assembly line, I never seen superheroes eat. I’ve had actual, one-sided conversations with real dogs about why they eat so fast. Eating is profoundly the most wonderful thing a dog does during his day. It’s not like they’re snarling in a pack, trying to snatch a good chunk of protein off a carcass. The dogs I’ve known are usually alone, all by themselves in the kitchen. Same as riding a bull at a rodeo, dinner’s over in eight seconds. I’m not sure they even taste what they’re eating. I’ve asked them, “Why don’t you take it easy, savor the moment. Enjoy your food.” They just don’t seem to have much self-awareness, let alone, aesthetic.
Does Underdog eat that way?
The Invisible Man?
I’m guessing visits to the bidet are not an issue.
If I were an intergalactic super genius — and mind you, I’m not saying I’m not — I’d invent a villain called Iced Tea Man. ITM can produce copious and irresistible amounts of saltine crackers and soy sauce. Through his demonic and hypnotic power, he gains the trust of a crime fighter with superhuman powers and tricks him into drinking several gallons of Southern sweet tea. An hour later, when the hero with the six-pack abs is called away by forces greater than himself, me and Iced Tea Man could rob a bank or kidnap the pope or something.
That’s me. Always thinking.
Captain America. Shazam. Black Panther. Green Lantern. Mr. Fantastic. Santa Claus, for that matter. How do they hold it for so long?
Can you imagine? Going on a cross-country trip in a station wagon with a half-dozen caped crusaders? I mean, heavens. Any one of them could just climb out the window of a moving car doing 70 and carry said vehicle lightning speed to the next truck stop.
Still.
At some point, unless you’re Thor or Tarzan, you’ve got to pull down a loin cloth or find that atomic zipper.
Atomic Zipper. Band name, or the newest, ribald superhero?
While Superman can leap tall buildings with a single bound, Santa Clarita’s John Boston is the most prolific satirist in world history. Visit his bookstore at johnbostonbooks.com.
