TMI

My Very First Bad Choice

     When I was young, perhaps five years old, my friend Timmy and I used to play superhero.  We would tie a towel around our necks like a cape and jump around pretending to fly, like I’m sure most kids did.  Timmy was always Superman, which I have to say right now is pretty lame.  Superman was too invincible, too perfect, too clean cut.  Timmy was also a Yankees fan, which in my mind makes perfect sense.  Superman, like the Yankees, had everything stacked in his favor. He was supposed to win.  Not like Batman, who inhabited a dark world where he was mortal and got hurt when he was punched.  Not like Spiderman, who also had to navigate a morally ambiguous world and deal with teenage angst on top of it.

     Superman.  Wow, what a lame and unimaginative kid Timmy was. 

      So, what dark, intriguing, fringe of society ultra-cool superhero was I? Obviously, I loved Underdog. 

     I mean loved him.  I was an Underdog nut.  For Halloween my mother made me an Underdog costume.  I’m not sure if it was because the simple plastic mask, store bought version wasn’t realistic enough, or perhaps we were too poor to buy one of those rich kid, two dollar costumes.  More likely was that there were no Underdog costumes sold in stores because what kind of a loser kid wanted to be Underdog?  My mother’s home made costume consisted of ear muffs with felt dog ears, a blackened nose, red pajamas and an old bath towel for a cape. I was in heaven!  I felt like an unstoppable, crime fighting, all powerful … cartoon dog.  A cartoon dog voiced by some nebbish comedian named Wally Cox because apparently Woody Allen would have sounded too masculine. 

     I loved him so much that to this day my family will occasionally buy me an Underdog shirt or DVD, or some other Underdog memorabilia to remind me of my childhood obsession.  I would like to take this opportunity right now to tell my family: please stop buying me this crap! I am over the whole Underdog thing, for at least the last 40 years now.

     Honestly, what could I have been thinking?  I might as well have worshipped Bullwinkle as my childhood superhero!  It was a cheaply made show that kind of failed on all levels.  It was not exciting.  It was not clever or funny.  It did not accurately represent life in a teeming, animal populated metropolitan area.  Batman was Bruce Wayne in real life, a dashing millionaire playboy.  Underdog was a “humble and loveable” shoeshine boy.  He didn’t even have a name.  They just called him “shoeshine boy”, and at the risk of sounding racist, you would assume he was black.  Alas, there did not seem to be any minority animals in whatever city Underdog lived in, which made it like most cities on television in the sixties. 

     Underdogs only concern seemed to be to rescue Sweet Polly Purebred, a dog reporter that was obviously a one-percenter, and way out of Shoeshine Boys league.  Superman’s alter ego was Clark Kent, who seemed to be spending much of his time rescuing Lois Lane, but at least he was a reporter along side her, so it made sense that he was always around to help when she got into trouble. Lesson for all you young girls out there: You can aspire to be a gutsy newshound going after the big story, but you had better have a big strong guy waiting to save you when you inevitably get in over your head. You’re welcome!

     Why lowly “Step And Fetch It” Shoeshine Boy happened to be linked to a big time female TV news reporter is beyond me.  Of course, like Lois Lane with Superman, Polly Purebred (really, as a dog could you have a more haughty, snobbish “fuck you I’m rich” name?) seemed to get all weak in the knees for Underdog while treating Shoeshine Boy with disinterest.  Lesson for all you guys out there: Women only like you if you’re a winner, if you aren’t a superhero don’t even try.  In fact, you in turn should ignore all other boring women and only fixate on one unobtainable one!  You’re welcome!

     Worst yet, every story ended with Underdog flying along spouting his motto “not bird nor plane nor even frog, it’s just little old me …” at which point he would crash into a building or a billboard.  Then disheveled and looking foolish he would lamely finish “Underdog.”  Even as Underdog he was as weak and pathetic as he was when he was Shoeshine Boy. 

     The point of the whole history lesson about Underdog (of which I totally remembered and didn’t look up on Wikipedia) is that I couldn’t have picked a worse dog-based cartoon character as my hero.  My proof?  Timmy, the lame, one-dimensional Superman lover would bully and beat me up on a daily basis.  How did I deal with this?  Like my feeble hero, by letting him do it.  There was no real difference between Shoeshine Boy and Underdog, other than the flying and super strength which he gained by taking an “underdog super energy pill”  Lesson for all the kids out there:  Need to be better? Problems in your life? Take drugs!  You’re welcome! 

     Seeing as I had no drugs to make things better, my own personal Simon Bar Sinister (if you don’t know who that is, look it up. I’m tired of doing your homework for you!) would continue to torment me day after day.  I simply did as my hero would do and remained humble and loveable. 

     This bullying went on for a couple of years, but there was one glorious day when I acted like a superhero in my own right.  After complaining to my mother again and again that Timmy had hit me she finally told me to handle it myself and hit him back.  So I marched back outside and handled the situation the way any noble and proud superhero would have.  I came back in the house and informed my mother that I had hit Timmy back and there would be no more problem.  The look of pride in her eyes told me that I had equaled, perhaps even surpassed Underdog in bravery and bested my tormentor with honor on the field of battle.

     At least until Timmy’s mother called to complain that I had beaten him with a Wiffle Ball bat.

© David Ferraris 2012