David Bullard writes on how even the Superman family has fallen prey to the wokedemic
OUT TO LUNCH
I always had my doubts about Clark Kent. There he was, posing as a freelance journalist for that imperialist mainstream media publication The Daily Planet and leading, outwardly, a normal life while hiding his true identity as Kal-El. That name alone should have alerted the authorities to possible radicalisation.
But it was his habit of shooting into the nearest telephone kiosk and ripping off his clothes to reveal an eclectic selection of undergarments comprising a tight fitting blue onesie with a big S on the chest and a red Speedo (or budgie smuggler) worn on the outside of the onesie that should have been a dead giveaway.
This sartorial metamorphosis whenever the planet was threatened by disaster was a constant problem for Clark Kent. The main challenge was not to be seen because men stripping off their clothes in telephone kiosks tend to attract attention, particularly from the #MeToo movement.
Then there was the problem of what to do with the clothing he had just removed. When you’re off to prevent a speeding meteorite from destroying a small US town you can’t waste time wondering where to stash your day job clothes.
One theory is that Superman (for it is he) had a small knapsack arrangement hidden under his flowing cape and that’s where he put his day clothes but that would surely have affected his aerodynamics. Besides, the last thing you need when you’re fighting the bad guys is a pair of heavy Oxford brogues crashing around in a knapsack behind your head.
The other problem though would have been the hot Kansas summer weather. It’s well documented that when Clark Kent crawled out of bed in a morning he would pull on the Superman outfit after his shower and then put his journalist working clothes of shirt, tie and suit on top of all that.
Temperatures in Kansas in summer can reach the mid thirties and the humidity is high too. Surely this perpetually perspiring man would have betrayed his true identity to even the dumbest of detectives? ___STEADY_PAYWALL___
But despite the obvious problem of excessive body odour Clark still managed to hitch up with fellow journo at the Daily Planet, Lois Lane, (Clearly the rule about dipping your pen in the company ink hadn’t been thought up at this point) and they had a son called Jonathan who apparently inherited many of his Dad’s superhuman powers.
The original publisher of the Superman cartoon strip created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster in 1938 was DC Comics. Sadly Messrs Siegel and Shuster never got to share in the royalties of subsequent Superman franchises because some smart corporate lawyers acting for DC comics got them to sell the rights to Superman for $130.
Now DC Comics have climbed on board the Woke LGBTQQIA+ bandwagon and announced that Jon Kent, son of Superman, is bisexual and will share a kiss with a pink haired Japanese journo called Jay Nakamura.
Personally I prefer my super-heroes to be asexual or, at the very least, to keep their private lives a secret. If there’s something going on between Batman and Robin then it’s none of our business and if their relationship keeps Gotham City safe from villains then that’s all that matters.
But as Mr Robert Zimmerman observed, “The times they are a-changin’ ” and you haven’t got a bat’s hope in hell of getting published unless you pander to a popular Woke cause such as gender fluidity or the climate crisis.
Mr Toad’s passion for fast cars in ‘The Wind in the Willows’ is completely unacceptable these days, even though the character of Mr Toad is clearly representative of a privileged, exploitive type of toxic masculinity. Today the reformed Mr Toad would be aware of his carbon emissions and would have solar panels on Toad Hall and an electric car in his garage.
Which brings me to Bertie Wooster and Jeeves and the urgent need for a rewrite of some of PG Wodehouse’s literary gems to bring them in line with modern thinking. For example, Bertie has remained unmarried and now, in early middle age, announces to his manservant Jeeves that he wishes to identify as woman from now on despite the devastating effect this will have on his Aunt Agatha’s health. Here’s an early draft from the forthcoming blockbuster “Jeeves and the Unkindest Cut”.
I was sitting up in bed sucking down the early morning restorative cup of tea and watching Jeeves busying himself laying out the apparel for the day.
“Jeeves” I said
“Sir” he responded.
“That suit you’ve laid out for me to wear. Give it to the poor. In fact, give all my suits to the poor and my monogrammed shirts and collection of flamboyantly coloured socks. All to the poor please Jeeves”
“Very good sir. But may I ask what you propose to wear today to go to the Drones club luncheon?”
“Well here’s the thing Jeeves. I won’t be going to the bally Drones club luncheon today because I have decided to identify as a woman from now on and since the Drones is a misogynistic male only preserve I would feel personally violated.”
“Very good sir”
“Actually it’s very good madam from now on Jeeves. I need you to rethink yourself as a lady’s maid rather than as a gentleman’s personal gentleman henceforth”.
“Very good sir. Shall I lay out our Laura Ashley print frock and the white open toed sandals?”
“Thank you Jeeves, and the wide brimmed sun hat too please.”
“Will that be all sir?”
“Yes Jeeves, that will be all and its madam, madam, madam for heaven’s sake. If I can imagine that I am a woman after all these years then surely you can also make some effort”.
I could tell the poor fellow was having some trouble in adjusting to the fact that the young master, previously known as Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, was now the not quite so young mistress Beryl Wilhelmina Wooster.
I took a quick shower, shaved, slipped on a new pair of Victoria’s Secret panties in the extra large size and struggled into my Laura Ashley print frock. It was the work of a moment to attach a fetching brunette wig to the Wooster bonce and wander out to the breakfast table in search of the welcoming plate of e and b.
On my place mat lay an envelope neatly addressed to me in Jeeves’s immaculate handwriting. In it was his resignation letter. It was only then that I realised that for all these years I had been harbouring a trans-phobic bigot.
In a speech to what is known in political circles as “the people on the ground” the EFF Commander in Chief, Julius Malema, chided his supporters for being so lazy and only having three or four children which they can barely afford to support.
Addressing a crowd of unemployed people with nothing better to do with their time in Emalahleni, Mpumalanga last week he urged them to emulate their grandparents and have as many as ten children.
“There is no shame in having ten children and even if you can’t feed them an EFF government would” Malema told the gullible crowd. But that’s not all, as they say in the radio ads. The EFF government would also pay for basic education and all university fees. In fact, poor people would have everything paid for by an EFF government and I presume that includes housing, free electricity and free water. No mention was made of jobs but why spoil a good illusion with a harsh dose of reality?
Mr Malema didn’t go into specifics as to how an EFF government would be able to afford such largesse other than referring to it as taxpayer-based funding. But since Mr Malema and his buddy Floyd (Fingers) Shivambu have such a knack for withdrawing bank deposits that don’t belong to them I feel sure he has a plan.