Few people know I am related to Superman. Not Clark Kent, but another one whose name I will not divulge in the interest of Facebook or Joe Biden or whoever is spying on us knowing as little as possible about me and mine. Suffice it to say that this particular Superman has been posing as a normal -- well, hardly normal -- person who until now has held a regular job -- actually several jobs, some irregular -- in the world of advertising. But driven to doing more than sell toilet paper, or whatever he's been selling lately, he has, at four months shy of turning 69, opted to quit being a Mad Man and become a police officer in a fairly dangerous American city that starts with a B and ends with ore.
As for Superman's age, quite honestly he has the body of a 30-year-old and thus aced all the physical tests the department threw at him. He's also quite brilliant and so they were eager to sign him before he came to his senses and changed his mind.
Since I love this person, naturally I am concerned since these days being a cop is akin to having leprosy. Granted, you're a leper with a gun, but still, not everyone's favorite party guest. But as Cousin Superman said when I admitted my fear that he could be killed on the job, "Hey, I could be killed doing nothing at all."
So the bottom line is I am incredibly proud of him, being a white man (thus a racist scumbag) willing to set aside his birthright of white privilege and patrol the streets of a crime-ridden city filled with black gangs, hoping to make it a little safer for all its residents. I say "Bravo!" and "Godspeed."
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