A Letter From Superman To Lois Lane

loisfalling1

                                          “Ah, not this shit again…”

Hello Lois, it’s Superman here, the real deal. No, this isn’t a fake letter from any of my various super-villains trying to trick you. This is the real fucking-A Superman writing this letter, so sit down and shut up while I get some annoying facts about you off my massive, “S”-emblazoned chest.

First of all, please stop trying to find out my secret identity. I mean, it’s just pathetic. You search all over Metropolis with your reporter “instincts” attempting to discover what I do on my off-hours. Meanwhile I’m the guy at the Daily Planet who just happens to be as tall and massive as Superman, and his EXACT TWIN except with a shitty haircut and shittier glasses, but you NEVER put two-and-two together. Somehow, to you (and the people of Metropolis, I might add) a pair of cheap spectacles from LensCrafters completely disguises me from my super-powered alter ego. I live in a city of morons led by the Queen Moron, which is you, Lois.

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            “It’s a valid question, Lois. ANSWER ME.”

Also, please please PLEASE stop throwing yourself out windows to get my attention. What do I look like, a flying free-range escalator? I swear I’ve lowered you to the ground more often than the elevator at the Daily Planet. Don’t you know I’m BUSY? I could be off saving fucking CANADA from a fucking METEOR but NOOOOOOOOO, Lois just hurled herself out the window AGAIN. I’m sure all those millions of screaming Canadians won’t mind me popping over to the other side of the planet to save your individual selfish ASS, LOIS.

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“I weep not for the lost Canadians, but for their sweet, sweet maple syrup. Kids everywhere are going to be eating bare pancakes because of you, Lois. Live with that knowledge. Live with it to the end of your DAYS.”

And if I’m not saving you from certain death by terminal velocity and stupidity, I’ve still got to rescue you from the bad guys because you “dashed off to cover a dangerous assignment”. Lois, please listen to me. This is the 21st century. Reporters DO NOT COVER DANGEROUS ASSIGNMENTS. Most (as in 99.9%) so-called “journalists” these days are fat, sweaty, and so cowardly that they drop their Hostess Cupcakes every time someone behind them farts. Maybe city reporters in the old days ran off to eavesdrop on the Mob, or gather factual research on the political crimes of Metropolis, but trust me, not anymore. The only reason a city reporter will leave his or her desk to cover an important event these days is because free beer and nachos may be served. But no, not YOU. Throwing all logic and self-preservation instincts out the window (get it?), anytime something real big and invariably life-threatening is about to go down in this fair city of ours, you’re the only reporter there on the scene. Which is commendable. But a massive nuisance for me because ONCE AGAIN I HAVE TO SAVE YOUR PRECIOUS DERRIERE.

THINK ABOUT IT, WOMAN! These days if Perry White told someone to go downtown because the 50-foot tall stampeding robot stomping orphans there would make a good story, that reporter would say, “Fuck you, Perry. Fuck YOU.” Even Jimmy Olsen. And that red-headed little bastard kisses so much ass his face is vertically bisected by a permanent brown stain.

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“And on the eighth day God said, “Now let there be the most annoying life-form in the universe, and let it possess red hair and shitty fashion sense.”

But not you, oh no. You love almost getting killed just so you can talk to me for five seconds before I have to go save the fucking Canadians again. Lady, read my super-powered lips: I’M A BUSY MAN. STOP DISTRACTING ME BECAUSE IT KILLS PEOPLE. And, sometimes, kittens. Yes, Lois, that’s right. Your continual quest to involve your weak Earth ass in my life has delayed me many times from saving a kitten from a wood-chipper. I’m serious.

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                         Meow meow why did you kill me Lois why meow meow

Sure, sometimes RARELY you are of actual help to me. Like that time when Lex Luthor put a chunk of kryptonite on my chest and I was so weak I couldn’t knock it away, but you could since you’re unaffected by the green-K. But I’ve given it some thought, and I’ve come to realize that anything you can do to help me can also be accomplished by an Orangutan with a massive brain injury.

So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m flying off to goddamn Malaysia now to befriend the first mentally challenged Orangutan I see and name him ‘Hairy Jimmy’. I’ll train him to do the very few things you do that assist me. I’m confident in the knowledge that I WON’T have to train my helmet-wearing Orangutan pal Hairy Jimmy NOT to throw himself out of windows or into the Niagara Falls, because that fact is pretty well fucking encoded in every lifeforms’ DNA except, apparently, one Lois Lane.

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“Aw, knock it the FUCK off, CRAZY EARTH WOMAN! Haven’t you been LISTENING TO ME?!? Nobody try to stop her, OK? I’m serious here.”

And a half-witted Orangutan should confuse my super-villains enough to get the drop on them. I mean, can you see some henchman reporting to Luthor that, “Superman’s flying towards us, and he’s carrying a drooling Orangutan.” Now that shit would confuse the hell out of ol’ Lex. Jesus Christ, it’d even give Mr. Mxyzptlk pause, and he’s more bat-shit crazy than you, Lois. But even that midget bald-headed prick knows not to jump out a window around me. Try getting the hint there, Lois.

In closing, please take this letter very seriously, Miss Lane, or I’ll throw your whole family into the Sun. That’s right: your Mom and Dad and little brother William and Aunt Sally and Uncle George and your pet hamster and even your fucking GRANDMOTHER right into GODDAMN SUN! And I’ll make you watch from the Justice League satellite no matter how loud Batman yells at me.

Have a GREAT goddamn day and never, ever, EVER bother me AGAIN,

SUPERMAN

P.S. I’m serious here, this ain’t no game, Lois. I SWEAR if you throw yourself out one more window, or Niagara Falls, the Eiffel Tower, or whatever else is tall on this planet, all I’m bringing to the game is a box of fucking popcorn to watch you go SPLAT. Hopefully you’ll land on a baby carriage and make everyone hate you at your funeral. I promise to attend with my ape buddy, Hairy Jimmy. He’s the only one who truly understands me these days, since the Human race is so terminally FUCKED. I wish I’d stayed on Krypton…

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“DAMN RIGHT, LOIS! See? See?!? DIDN’T YOU JUST READ THIS LETTER?!?”

 

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