Does anyone remember Superman: The Animated Series? It was based off of the popular comic book about the titular comic book hero. Yet what a lot of people don’t know is that there is a missing episode that the WB pulled from its lineup in the mid ‘90s even though many people saw it. I know I saw it, because I was in it. I know what you’re thinking- as I often know what you’re thinking- but listen up. I’m serious that when you realize what Warner Brothers was hiding from you in its seedy underbelly, you’ll wish that underbelly was covered with a shirt, belt buckle and pants.Anyway, I was looking at drawn anime hentai of Joe Camel masturbating on some anime chicks when my phone rang. It was my supervisor, Titus. As he rambled on about my work duties and my job requirements, I noticed something strange from the corner of my eye. At first I thought there were some figs dancing across my floor- but no, they were something else.
I thought nothing of it and popped a VHS of Superman: The Animated Series into my VCR. At first I found it kind of creepy because after the normal intro, I saw only my living room with me sitting in the center of it on my couch. How did the film producers manage to film me in my house looking at camel porn without my consent? Anyway, I thought nothing of it until I saw a video of myself showing off amazing superpowers. I don’t remember doing this! I lifted a garbage can above my head as though to show off some super strength, even though it probably weighed only twenty pounds. Part of the video was just me staring at a wall with a visible erection. I assumed I was supposed to be seeing through the wall, but as far as I remember that was the wall where my grandmother’s (I live with her) bathroom was. Why would I be watching her shower through the wall. As I attempted to websling the door I shut the tape off. I called Titus. While I am a telemarketer and not at all afilliated with Warner Bros., he was the one who gave me the tape. Why exactly did he assign me this tape? This wasn’t my job. Titus sounded disheveled on the other line. “JUST FINISH IT BY TUESDAY!” he yelled and hung up on me. Finish what, you fucking asshole? All of a sudden I saw some strange thing creeping across my window sill. It looked like…a real life version of CG fruit. I knew where this was heading so I abruptly shook it off and sat on the couch.
I put the VHS back on. Now I appeared to be stepping on cans like the incredible hulk. This was so fucking stupid. I mean I didn’t have superpowers, did I? No, no, I am just a humble phone salesman, a seller of cruises to old men who wear pool shorts and shuffleboard while shitting all over themselves. I’m certainly not a superhero.
My grandmother came in from the other room. “Can you open this jar, Clark?” She asked me. Yes, my name is Clark Kernt, but I assure you it’s all a massive coincidence and not a conspiracy or paranormal occurrence. My grandmother’s eyes were bloodshot. She looked as though she had been sticking pencils into her pupils and inhaling air duster. I couldn’t open that jar, I already knew it. I was too weak. She winked at me as I opened the jar with relative ease! Wow! I had super strength. My grandmother smiled at me as though she had some sort of horrible secret to share. “With great power, comes great responsibility, Clark.” She said. And then she started taking a spongebath in the living room. Naked.
I looked out the window. My neighbor was out there, Louis Lane. Ah what a sexy babe, with an incredibly sexy body. I squinted and I swear I saw her naked body using my x-ray vision. My god- I had super powers! This was insane. I think It’s absolutely mindblowing how a common man like me, Clark Kernt, can have massive paranormal powers the likes of which no mortal man has ever seen. I tried my other powers. Super speed? I strolled across the living room. Yes, I did seem a bit faster. Maybe even faster than a speeding bullet.
But this all begged the question. Could I fly? Well, I didn’t have wings, but superman never had wings. That was when I noticed them. Those things from earlier. Crawling across my floor. At first I thought they were living pieces of bird shit. But then I realized what they were. Bird shit can’t play the saxophone.
It was…the California raisins. You may remember them, from the 80’s. They were a popular consumerist mascot used to sell fruit. They were Claymation, but somehow they were real. I became increasingly concerned as they spun and danced across my floor, opened the door with their tiny raisin hands and left. Part of me always knew it would come to this. My entire life had been leading up to this moment of truth, you see. I was never the strongest boy in school, and I was never the most intelligent, or had the largest penis in the gym shower. I always knew I had a divine purpose- my whole life had been leading into this direction in fact.
I went outside and saw a little boy in a wheelchair who had chemotherapy. At first I thought nothing of it, but then he furrowed his left eyebrow as he got onto the schoolbus. I knew it. I knew it was him all along. The raisins sat in his coat pocket, snickering at me. Those fucking raisins. So what did I do? I did what all superheroes do. I went home and I plotted. I used google maps to find the young boy’s school, his D.O.B. (P.s. he’s actually 30) and the fact that his father was part of the klu klux neonazi cult that congregated in the old college on weekends. I also found his name. Lex Lorthor. I know what you’re thinking. That sounds like Lex Luthor. Of course it does. What the fuck else would it sound like it’s only three letters off. And I’ll tell you something. I may have super powers, but it was just like Aurnt May said: with great power comes great respornsibority. Only I, Clark Kernt could stop Lex Lorthor and protect Louis Lane.
I put the VHS back on. And that was when I saw the camera in the corner of my room. Someone had put it in there to film me, perhaps weeks, months or years ago. Someone had been watching me for years. It all made sense now. I had a tendency to sleepwalk. And due to severe war trauma I didn’t know my birth home, it would only make sense that it was Krypton. Y’ know, why is Superman’s only weakness kryptonite? Why, in all cosmic irony is the one thing that can kill superman the one thing his home planet is named after? The answer…is lazy writing.
I knew someone was playing mind games. I shouldn’t have gone to sleep that night with the tv on because I had a horrible nightmare where I was all pixelated and flying through rings. Flying through ring after ring in an endless loop for all eternity. No, this was a nightmare, that was me in the VHS tape. I WAS THE LOST EPISODE! No, this can’t be happening. I was tossing and turning all night until I woke up to the sound of a California raisins advertisement and the feeling of something cold and raisin-shaped in my ear. I screamed and sent the raisin flying across the room in a fit of super-strength induced rage. The Claymation raisin scurried across the carpet and hid under the couch. “I KNOW YOU’RE FUCKING WATCHING ME!” I yelled at the raisin. I leered around my apartment. They were everywhere. Tiny raisins. And there hasn’t been an advertisement for California raisins in over twenty years. And what the fuck did this have to do with superman?
All of a sudden I realized that part where something profound but not really. You see, we’re all controlled by oppressive circumstances. More often than not, our dreams shrivel up, not unlike California raisins in the sun. But it’s not our fault. It’s what we’re born into. And I happened to be born both Clark Kernt and Superman, and while I wear this suit and walk these streets like an everyday pedestrian, she and I both know that only Superman can save her in her time of need.
I realized I hadn’t changed clothes in weeks, or showered. I took my shirt and pants off and saw the Superman costume underneath. Red and blue, like America. It’s who I truly am, I suppose. Despite being Hispanic. Maybe I truly am faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotion. Lex was probably plotting. He and the raisins. I called the police and told them about the California raisins, but they wouldn’t listen. They never listen to my calls. But it was all leading up to this final confrontation. I sent him a letter, telling him and the raisins to meet me under my treehouse (I’m 37) at exactly 11:50 p.m.
Guess what? Lex DID show up, proving to me all along that he had been plotting. It’s always the ones you least suspect. “YOU KIDNAPPED LOUIS LANE!” I yelled and pointed a finger at him. His parents were there. “How could he kidnap her, he’s in a wheelchair?” they asked me. They had given their son…a box of raisins to eat while he stood there, smiling and mocking me. Those fucking raisins. They were in their ears, controlling the mechanisms of their mind. “We blocked your number, stay away from our house!” they said. They called my costume a Halloween costume. They were mocking me. The whole thing was a sham.
The truth was that if the whole playground erupted into smoke and flames, my glasses would get singed off, my suit and pants would burn away, but I and the suit would remain. Only superman can survive such a fire. I climbed to the top of my treehouse and warned them that if I jumped from this distance it would cause a shock sufficient enough to kill every animal in a thirty mile radius. Because I am fat.
Lex took out a raygun and pointed it at me. The California raisins were on his shoulder. Those. Fucking. Raisins. “LET LOUIS GO!” I screamed. They called the police on me. They said that a crazy man in a superman costume was in their son’s treehouse yelling at imaginary raisins. Lex pointed the toy raygun at me. Louis was getting off of her bicycle. “NOOOOOOO!” I screamed, and dove out of the treehouse. As I jumped, I envisioned several magical, floating rings guiding me.
As it turns out, I’m not Clark Kent. I have no special powers. I broke my left leg and put a disabled boy in the hospital for something other than cancer. Louis Lane has since moved from the area, and I later found out it was a man. The parents decided not to press charges, but I was ordered by the judge to take the costume off. But it wouldn’t come off. I’m a dedicated fan, I had it tattooed to my body. Judge, officer, captain, colonel, should I take my skin off to appease the court? No, friend, Clark Kent died years ago. You want to get another crazy man off the street? Pull another actor off the stage? Put him somewhere, make him somebody else’s problem? Well you can’t, not with these marks, far as I’m concerned the police and mental ward are just garbage men who want to clean up a certain kind of human filth off the streets. Filth like us, the loveless, the neglected. You always hear about the Supermen who manage to save the day, put out the orphanage fire, pull the body from the car. But what about the Clark Kents, the people who had no special abilities, god-given or born talents? What about the people who simply fucking died? What about all the plain-faced, oblong, retarded, defective, dying, sickly, broken?
Now then, be a good citizen. They’ll put up some rings, and you can fly through them. And fly through them. And fly. Be a good little citizen, and fly through your rings, or they’ll find a reason to lock you up and put you somewhere that you’ll never be found. Maybe you’ll get to a point in your life where you have enough rings saved up to die. But the whole world is a kind of mental ward, and as I get older I realize that I am the superhero but I’m increasingly finding fewer and fewer things worth saving.
As I lay there in the jail cell, naked, with a man with a dinosaur head, I picked up a copy of Newsleek that the warden had left there for me. The front page was stunning. “Clark Kent is dead, but Superman survived the fire.” As the prison’s guest musicians showed up, Claymation raisins from California, I told them to fuck off, but they kept playing the song “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” for minutes, hours, years. They kept playing it until I finally grabbed one of the fucking raisins off the stage and ate his screaming body. The other raisins scurried off into pies, oatmeal and cookies. There are hundreds of thousands, millions, billions, trillions of raisins. And they’re all alive, and watching you. Be careful at night when you crawl into bed because there might very be well raisins watching you. Staring at you. And if they ever break into song and dance, and they will, you’ll know that this story was real.