ISSUE 32

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  Superman. He’s an alien. His arch-enemy is an average venture capitalist, and if anyone gets past his flying, strength, laser eyes, x-ray vision, hearing, speed, ice breath, rugged good looks, and journalistic integrity, they still can’t do anything.
 Anyone can figure out who Superman is. It doesn’t take much to know the reporter at the Daily Planet who looks like Superman with glasses on is probably Superman. But he doesn’t care; he doesn’t even own a mask. He has a giant “S” on his chest and red pregnancy briefs. He has a super attractive girlfriend. He has a chin that could open a can. What if someone figures out who I am? [Shrugs] If it happens, it happens.
  It’s not like Spiderman, who loses credibility once the public realizes he’s a teenager in tights who should be studying for a math final, or Batman, who loses… his money? Maybe? It’s unclear what Bruce Wayne has at stake. His parents are dead. His girlfriend is off somewhere doing something not Batman-related and/or is dead. His butler Alfred is a paid friend and therefore is not actually Batman’s friend.   
  And what about Superman’s job? It’s weird to think of him interviewing eighth-graders for their… ugh… some crap. It’s not like anyone cares. But for an all-powerful alien who redirected a comet into the sun, it must be even harder to care about the volcano with baking soda and vinegar.    
  Let’s be glad that Lex Luther gets out of jail just in time to destroy the world, and Superman never has to do his real job, though thank god he has one. See no one pays Superman to save the world. He doesn’t meet with the president and negotiate how much tax payer money it will cost to get rid of the giant floating snake. 
  Instead Superman squeezes into his yoga pants and does it pro bono—because he was raised in the Kansas, and Midwesterners are nice people. If he was from New York, he would be unionized and demand cost-of-living raises and a pension plan and health benefits, even though he has bullet-proof skin. So, the whole situation could be a lot worse.
 See outside of the superhero business, Superman’s powers are useless, like a high school counselor would never tell you to go to college to be Superman. His abilities are cool in the way pen tricks or playing the guitar intro to “Stairway To Heaven” are. Will they impress someone who’s drunk? Yes. Will they get you a job? Not unless that person is drunk.  
  The military would seem the rational choice, but it doesn’t take many times of being shot in the face by a braindead Arab before you think, This is nothing like that Army commercial that was on during the Super Bowl.
  He could get a job as a construction laborer… or a TSA agent… or a CT scanner. How many people has Superman diagnosed with cancer? He must’ve lost track of the times he has stopped before getting off the subway, looked at the businessman across from him, and said, “So… you’re gonna want to check that prostate.”
 But what happens when the demise of print journalism affects The Daily Planet? Imagine Clark Kent getting laid off, moving back to his parents' basement, and spending six hours scanning Craigslist for entry-level jobs that all require two to thirty years of experience.
  Interviewer: So… on your resume, you put laser eyes and super strength. And also that you saved the world from [squints] General Zod and, uh, Kryptonite Man on seven different occasions. That’s very… interesting. You realize this is Starbucks, right? Have you ever worked with coffee before?
  And then some young, attractive girl will get the job because that’s how the world works. And Clark Kent will end up washing dishes at The Cheesecake Factory, earning minimum wage, and occasionally impressing his alcoholic boss by lasering glassware with his eyes. It’ll be an okay life for an okay superhero. Not great but certainly okay.
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