It’s argued Clark Kent should be outed as Superman because he doesn’t wear a mask. Agreed.
But what about the fact that he is six two, two hundred thirty five pounds, and wears skin tight spandex? He’s a superhero themed chippendale, underwear and all.
And certainly people at work are constantly asking Clark for workout advice. A regular dude journalist built like that? His anonymity would make more sense if he were 5’10”, 180.
“Yeah, he does look like Clark. Lots of people look like Clark though, he’s pretty generic.” but if you know an NFL quarterback sized journalist who looks exactly like Superman, you are going to grab a few work buddies and tell Clark you know what is going on. There aren’t a lot of Uber men running around. So few, in fact, that they abandoned the traditional Santa Claus design in lieu of the modern version.
It would make sense for Santa to be jacked. He has to circle the globe in a single night, lugging presents while breaking into billions of homes unnoticed. That’s a Rambo type fellow. Superman and Santa Claus have more in common than you’d think. But no, Santa is fat with a beard.
Why? Because the malls knew well there aren’t loads of Adonis like unemployed twenty somethings seeking minimum wage seasonal employment. The actual talent pool for the gig is more consistent with fat, 40 something alcoholics lacking other prospects. So they designed Santa accordingly.
Santa’s physique is an exact match to Bill Dauterive, with the beard and hat added specifically to hide the face. Even Santa’s sparkling eyes are a part of the design ruse. Glassy, sparkling, the kids can’t tell the difference. It’s all clever, and I get it. The malls have a lot invested in Santa.
Empty like abandoned ten months out of the year, malls are the only place where you can park wherever you want indefinitely. Handicap spots included. Their parking lots are legally considered parking fields under a certain capacity.
The feeling inside of malls is almost confrontational, with wide eyed workers staring back at all patrons. Equally roused and bewildered by your mere presence, they openly lick their chops in craving of your commission. So you grab a seven dollar pretzel and skedaddle, vowing not to return unless you need a comically vast selection of gum balls.
And then, like magic, the mall is revived. Santa season saves it from the threat of extinction. An annual tradition where parents point out a stranger in costume, and tell their kids to go sit on his lap and tell him what they really want. And then pay retail for low quality goods, so the mall can survive another year.
The Santas themselves are usually catatonic beneath their suits, for the safety of the children. They get an IV for alcohol, gum for nicotine, and an electrode beneath the hat which disables function in the part of the brain that regulates sexual arousal.
The malls do everything in their power to prevent monsters from hurting children. The Vatican is actually considering implementation of the Santa Suit technology themselves.
Superman and Santa should be recognized for who they really are. Superman shouldn’t have to pretend to be a journalist, and be continuously rejected by his dream girl for himself. He should get to wear his red S, loud and proud. And Santa should be recognized too, as the guy who doesn’t mow his lawn during summer. As the man with a dumpster overflowing empty cans of Natural Ice. As the dude who didn’t get around to dry cleaning his Santa suit for the third consecutive year, therefore christening the palette of children to the nostalgic holiday smell of a man excommunicated from his immediate family. Once a year, he too should get to wear his red S with pride. Superman and Santa Claus, deceptively similar.