Fiction is stranger than truth. Consider the following:
Mary had a little lamb,
His fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb was sure to go.
Really? The lamb went everywhere Mary went? Grocery stores? Shopping malls? Restaurants? The Women’s Washroom? No zealous security guards, or anyone else, tried to stop her?
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
So the king’s horses and the king’s men worked together trying to restore Humpty Dumpty. How did they communicate? Did the horses speak English? Were they telepathic? Were the king’s men telepathic? Did the king’s men speak Horsesh?
By the way, how long did they work at trying to put Humpty Dumpty together? Five minutes? Five hours? Five days? In fiction and in truth, union rules would allow only a certain time to restore a broken giant egg. There’s no mention of a union in the rhyme, but I’m sure it existed.
“Sorry Humpty,” says a horse, “we’d like to keep working on you, but the Union says our restoring-giant-egg time is up.”
Regarding Superman, they want us to believe that black-frame glasses are good enough as a disguise to prevent people from seeing that Clark Kent is Superman.
I got a pair of black glasses when I was a kid, and put them on as a disguise. But everyone, including my parents, always knew it was me.
Once upon a time . . .
I know my past three blogs said that truth was stranger than fiction. Now I am saying that fiction is stranger than truth. I am consistently inconsistent, and that’s the truth.
I can handle the snow. I can handle the bitter cold. I do so by wearing forty-seven layers of winter clothing. Sometimes I overdress, but that is no problem. I can always take off clothing if I get too hot after I have left home. But I cannot put on extra clothing if I did not put it on before I left home. And this leads me to the one thing I hate about winter: going to the bathroom.
Going to the bathroom becomes such a chore in getting through forty-seven layers of winter clothing. Public washroom stalls are not big which makes the taking off and putting on of clothing—if you will pardon the pun—a pain in the ass.
How does Superman cope with going to the bathroom? Are the blue tights and top, with the red S, one piece? If it is, then that makes things worse in taking it off to go to the bathroom. Let’s say that the blue tights and top are two pieces. Superman can only pull the tights, with his red panties, down to his knees because of his red boots. And then there is his cape. How does he keep his cape from falling in the toilet when he sits down? What if he has to go to the bathroom while he is the mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent? He has to deal with his Clark-Kent clothing as well as his Superman suit.
Poor Superman! Thinking about what he has to go through, when he goes to the bathroom, gives me some perspective. Perhaps my fighting with my forty-seven layers of winter clothes, when it is time to do my business, is not so bad.