How do Superheroes pee?

The other day I had an intense viewing of Batman, the 1989 movie: the one with Michael Keaton and the “clownishly homicidal Joker.” I saw it with a friend, Joshua, who is absolutely enthralled with the notion of superheroes. Not in a regular boy-like way, when they’re impressed by muscly airborne men lifting cars and crushing beer cans on their head. Instead he’s interested in them existentially.

Joshua gave me an interesting running commentary on the deeper layers of Batman. How good and evil are intertwined, how one cannot exist without the other: Joker created Batman, Batman created Joker, Darth Vader is Luke’s Father… I think I just grew a prostate.

“Hey did you know that Jack Nicholson has man boobs now?”

“What was that?” Joshua said looking at me nervously while I played with his mint condition action figures.

“I saw a picture of him on the beach in US Weekly. He got all chunky. I think he’s a B cup now,” I shrugged as I arranged Joker and Spiderman in an embarrassing position.

“Hmm, Joker as a middle-aged overweight man. That would slow down his evil plotting.”

“Penguin did fine. And he waddled,” I paused as I tried to fashion Batman’s felt cape as Superwoman’s scarf, “I don’t understand superhero outfits. Tights, a cape, really?”

“The get-up is a representation of their archetypes. They are the pure essence of human kind’s different sides. Batman is a bat, representing fear and darkness, Captain America is well… patriotic. It’s all very metaphoric.”

“What if they have to pee? Do they have to pull the entire thing off? Does Spiderman have a fly? Velcro maybe?” I asked while I examined his newest superhero action figure: Spider-Hulk. Essentially Hulk’s body in a Spiderman suit. Very surreal.

I don’t think I ever got superheroes. Maybe it was because I was bothered that nobody could tell that Clark Kent and Superman looked exactly alike or how he kept his cape so seamlessly tucked into his suit jacket.

Still, when I was a kid, I wanted to be one. I used to tie a blanket around my neck and run down the corridor which ended with two steps I’d jump off of, hoping I would take flight. I assumed the corridor was enough of a head start, and the blanket was as good as any superhero cape. When that didn’t work I hoped yelping “Sup-ermaaaaaaaaaaan” before my running start would activate my superpowers. No dice. So I tried “Sup-ergiiiiiiiiirl,” then “Sup-erkiiiiiiiid,” and then “Batman! Duh-na-na-na-na-na-na.” But Batman never actually flew. Neither did I; not even a little gliding. Maybe that’s when my disillusionment towards superheroes started.

Maybe it was because I was always upset that Superman would lie to Lois Lane, never telling her who he really was. Superheroes are all the same, so secretive.

Soon after the Wright Brothers incident, I started sympathising with villains. They were always upfront about who they were: they said what was on their mind. Besides, they were the ultimate underdog - they never got to win! So I’d root for them. I rooted for Lex Luther, even with his freakishly shiny egghead, I cheered for Penguin (I liked his cuddly penguin friends), and I’d do a special victory dance whenever it looked like the Joker was going to succeed in his elaborate, cleverly conceived plot.

But now the Joker has man boobs.