I would like to share with you my thoughts regarding the recent spate of lycra-clad superhero movies that have come out recently at the talkies:
What would my super power be? I mused, gazing whimsically at a large voyage of mildewed damp across the ceiling. Super strength? Nay. Invisibility? Hmmm, intriguing. But nobody will be able to behold my beauty, so nay. A body, made of bricks, flourished by a pair of royal blue underpants that seem a size or two too small, perchance? Nay, nay and thrice nay.
I have however, dear reader, narrowed it down to a combination of brute strength and sheer beauty. Like a diamond or perhaps a single sheet of triple-quilted lavatory paper with floral accents. Diamond Man or Bog Roll Boy? Which to choose, one wonders? Oh I simply don’t know.
I bought myself a couple of these so-called comics, to provide myself with inspiration. I was flicking through one The Boys, by an Irishman who rejoices under the name of Garth Ennis. Oh-ho I can hear you filthy mind whirring away, dear ready. “Oh Reggie,” you cry, we wonder why you chose a book called the Boys.” Oh shush you. Anyway I was flicking through this and incredulously observing some rather fetching chaps, all muscular and covered head-to-foot in brightly coloured lycra, getting thrashed to within an inch of their lives by a bunch of ruffians. I found it hard to credit that ones so omnipotent can be, not only engaged in, but duffed-up in a simple bout of fisticuffs.
If I, mild mannered N. Reg Mother by day and Bog Roll Boy or Diamond Man by night, were there, things would be rather different, I imagine. For I would deafen the ruffians with the grace of my poetry and blind them with the awesomeness of my physical beauty. Then, having reduced them to naught all but a living consciousnesses, I would simply apply a sound, open-handed slap to their cheeks that will send them comfortably into next week. I would of course be victorious, cue standing ovation and a shower of bouquets. Curtsey, exit stage left. Genius, I’m sure you’d agree. I shall be furnishing Mr. Ennis, if that is his real name with my treatment, forth-with.
Nuts oh hazel nuts, I must begin to construct a costume. Something revealing. Something sexual. “Typical Reggie,” say’s you, the reader. A leopard-skin leotard with a severe back , me thinks. Something that shows off my shapely form and allows me free movement to express myself through the medium of dance. I may be six-foot-six and tip the scales at a dainty five hundred pounds but I am as graceful as a kitten and deft and sprightly as little girl collecting daisies.
Maybe I could be Diamond Man, and Bog Roll Boy shall be my, oh what’s the vernacular, side slap? Left hook? Bottom Punch? Oh I don’t know, ah sidekick, that’s it. If Bog Roll Boy was to be my sidekick like Batman has his Robin and Cannon has his Ball. Oh reader, tihihihi, I can’t possibly tell you how that’ll pan out as it simply isn’t for here, mwaha!
As a child I attempted all sorts of ingenious ways to achieve my dream of superpowers. One time I took my beloved gerbil, Pootube, and attached a naked wire from every power outlet of the house to either side of his cute little head, having secured him to a chopping board with gaffer tape. I then turned the mains back on. Oh reader, I find myself weeping still. In my failed attempt at harnessing the power of electricity to embellish my own attributes, using Pootube as the proverbial guinea pig, I succeeded only in raising my beloved parents pile within a ball of queerly bluish flame. As to what became of Pootube, I am ignorant. One must assume that he is off fighting crime in the rodent world or some such.
Now if you’ll excuse me, dear reader, Diamond Man must rescue a Boost bar from the news agent and devour it with much gusto.
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