Superman just landed on my lush veranda. He smiled, kissed
me passionately, and undressed. What's a boy to do? I called
911, but they don't do superheroes, so I started conniving,
you know, thinking up a plan. While he was in the shower, I
quickly threw all my furniture over the ledge, and lay
spread eagle on the rug. Needless to say, Mr. Superman was
impressed. He went to fix us both a drink, and meanwhile I
ran to the shower and stole his clothes.

That was last week. This week I'm hiding in telephone booths
and freaking people out. I found my old couch in a pawnshop,
but the sign on the door said: "No Superpersons Allowed". I
could tell them my story, but... OK, OK. The truth is: 911
does handle superheroes. But mine is still waiting on the
veranda.