This is nearly over, you'll be relieved to hear. The jokes are getting
worse too.
I disclaim. Mark's mine but no-one else.
Segment 6
Mark the Mad, against the opinion of every purple prose novelist since the invention of publishing, was not seeing red in his furious rage but blue. Red was what you saw before you went so deep into anger that you began to block the blood vessels supplying your eyelids. Blue was what you saw after. Right before cell death occurred.
He was screaming unrepeatable sentences under his breath. Some fool had let the news of the release of 'Longing for Lana' slip out to the popular press and that little teenage twit, Lois Lane, had twigged what he was doing. She, in her weekly column in the Daily Planet on teen issues ranging from music to murder rates, had written such a brilliant parody of the average modern love ballad, entitling it 'Lois's Longings', that it had made the superhuman farm boy's single release impossible. It would have been laughed out of the charts.
Cursing all reporters everywhere, and nosy teenage ones the most, he bit through his cigar and stomped through the studio. When he found the person responsible for the wreck of his best publicity campaign in years, he would have them envying homeless toilet bowl scrubbers.
Clark settled back happily into his chair. He now loved Lois Lane. He'd read her article so many times that he'd had to buy a second copy of her paper because he'd worn the first through. Actually, he'd bought one for everyone he knew, only he didn't have the guts to explain why he was giving it to them so they were sitting in a pile in his Fortress of Solitude. His singing job was a mystery to everyone including his parents, and he liked it that way.
Then he set about composing his own ode to the muse of parody, knowing if he used that phrase Lex would look disapproving, and grinned at the thought of Mark's reaction. He was about to end his own singing career before it began.
Feeling lighter than he had in days, he didn't even notice he was no longer in but above the chair.
I disclaim. Mark's mine but no-one else.
Segment 6
Mark the Mad, against the opinion of every purple prose novelist since the invention of publishing, was not seeing red in his furious rage but blue. Red was what you saw before you went so deep into anger that you began to block the blood vessels supplying your eyelids. Blue was what you saw after. Right before cell death occurred.
He was screaming unrepeatable sentences under his breath. Some fool had let the news of the release of 'Longing for Lana' slip out to the popular press and that little teenage twit, Lois Lane, had twigged what he was doing. She, in her weekly column in the Daily Planet on teen issues ranging from music to murder rates, had written such a brilliant parody of the average modern love ballad, entitling it 'Lois's Longings', that it had made the superhuman farm boy's single release impossible. It would have been laughed out of the charts.
Cursing all reporters everywhere, and nosy teenage ones the most, he bit through his cigar and stomped through the studio. When he found the person responsible for the wreck of his best publicity campaign in years, he would have them envying homeless toilet bowl scrubbers.
Clark settled back happily into his chair. He now loved Lois Lane. He'd read her article so many times that he'd had to buy a second copy of her paper because he'd worn the first through. Actually, he'd bought one for everyone he knew, only he didn't have the guts to explain why he was giving it to them so they were sitting in a pile in his Fortress of Solitude. His singing job was a mystery to everyone including his parents, and he liked it that way.
Then he set about composing his own ode to the muse of parody, knowing if he used that phrase Lex would look disapproving, and grinned at the thought of Mark's reaction. He was about to end his own singing career before it began.
Feeling lighter than he had in days, he didn't even notice he was no longer in but above the chair.