Reverse Superheroism

I think the happiest people on earth are the “bad” guys, the super
villains. You see them on TV, in movies, in comic books. You know that
they’re fine specimens of persistent optimism because they always
laugh, even when they’re plotting against superheroes who they know, in
the pit of their guts, they’ll never ever defeat.

I can’t think of any villain that doesn’t have that peculiar laugh.
My head is full of memories of villains chortling on screen. There’s
the Joker, the Riddler, Lex Luthor, Dr Evil, my old professor in
advertising. I don’t have a long list with me, I don’t remember every
name, but I recall faces and always that laughter. Always that
unsinkable optimism.

Take Penguin. The guy would scheme an elaborate plan to blow up
Gotham City, and when I say elaborate, I’m talking about
Rube-Goldberg-machine elaborate. Of course, we all know he fucks up
each of his attempts. But that’s okay; he has his birds, his monocle,
money, liver. When the shit hits the fan, he just laughs and escapes
and vows to return…again and again and again.

Something tells me a guy like Penguin should instead be emulated by
kids as some sort of “idol.” He’s the champion of the fat and short,
the patron saint of the ugly and miserable but happy, the de facto hero
of people who never win but who never cave in. Penguin should be
mentioned by authors of self-help books. Oprah should guest him. Bush
and Blair should have photo-ops with him as some sort of reinforcing
hope in hopeless situations like Iraq and Michael Jackson’s face.
Somebody should whisper to Fidel Castro’s ear as he’s lying on his
deathbed (assuming that he did come close to lying on a death bed, and
that somebody actually wants him to remain alive), “Remember the Penguin.” Celine Dion and Charlotte Church should mention the Penguin in one of their saccharine songs.

Penguin and Joker and the Riddler—that’s some holy trinity, if you’d
ask me—should be the poster boys of shrinks so that shrinks could talk
about them with patients. “Look at them fabulous wankers,” the shrink
would tell some manic-depressive during rare lulls in a session. “They
always fuck up. Is Gotham City destroyed? No. But are they giving up?
No, no, and no. They’re still at it in all these years. Shining
examples of positive-thinking, never-say-die individuals. And here you
are, all you think and talk about is your aches and pains, your Xanax,
your Prozac, your ‘they don’t understand me’ bullshit.”

Maybe the shrink would never say “pain” to a patient’s face, but you get the picture.

The funny thing is, these villains are mortals: they go about their
honest business of trying to destroy the world by the sheer power of
their wit, cunning, and humor. I remember jumping up and down at home
chanting “Lionel Luthor! Lionel Luthor!” after the guy survived for the
umpteenth time in a Smallville episode, then realizing a
piece of wisdom I’ll pass on to my great grandkids: Lionel Luthor is
very die-able, yet he survives. Superman is invincible by default, and
of course, he will always survive. Between the two of them, who do you
think I’ll give my candy?

Which brings us to the subject of Lex Luthor, who is also awesome.
Does anybody have any idea how tough it is to travel all the way to the
Fortress of Solitude in Antarctica, in the middle of fucking nowhere,
just to snoop in on Superman? If there’s anything we know, it’s that
going to Antarctica when you’re bald and a weakling is a fucking
superhuman feat.

Shoot a bullet through Luthor’s head and he’ll die; do that to Superman, and he’ll just flash a Colgate-y, American Dental Association smile. Which reminds me of a line in the film Angus. Angus’s grandfather tells him one night why Superman is the biggest coward in the world. So Angus asks, How is that so?

The grandpop says something like, It’s because Superman does not
know fear; he’s immortal, indestructible, kryptonite notwithstanding.
He has no capacity to be brave. Courage is the territory of guys who
can feel physical pain, who can be hurt, who can and will in fact die;
courage is doing something you know will kill you but you do it anyway
for the sake of something you believe in. Not Superman. He’s forever
out of the whole bravery business.

Grandpoppy words of wisdom you’ll always love to live by. But here’s my question:

Who’s the dumb motherfucker responsible for Superman’s outfit?

And why?

The best answer gets candy, too.

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