Before you lower the considerably low opinion you already have of me for using profanity, please allow me to explain. Ladies, you all know what I’m talking about. The superhero. Superdickman. You might not know who he is but I’m about to tell you and once I have told you, you will recognise him.

The other day, okay, it was a couple of years ago, but still it counts as the other day because it was a day even though it was night. Anyhow I was chatting to a very smart female friend of mine, she started telling me and my other friend who shall remain Spike, what kind of man she wanted in her life. The man she described was a being of mythological proportions. He certainly was not a man. He was a being from another planet.

Even Mills and Boon couldn’t possibly come up with the kind of man she wanted. Initially I thought she was joking but then I realised she was being very serious. I think I may have noticed a vain pop out of her forehead as she described him. With each description, I felt emasculated. If we had that conversation today I’d be worried the IAAF might initiate a probe to find out whether I really am a man because I just couldn’t fit on her list. In fact I didn’t know one dude who could be what she wanted. Even Obama wouldn’t fit the bill.

She started off by saying that she wanted him to be smart. Fair enough, smart is good. Then she wanted him to be good looking. I thought okay, that’s possible because I’m both those things, at least that’s what I tell myself in front of my mirror every morning: “Khaya, you are a very good-looking man and a very smart one at that. And chicks dig you.” She did not stop there. She went on. He must be rolling in money, he must have a great body, he must have a great sense of humour, he must be nice but with that slight, never apparent bad-boy quality, he must not cheat, he must love kids, be great in bed. Make her (excuse my Xhosa) come every single time. Put her first. Cook for her. Have a big schlong. And he must not just have a six-pack, but an eight-pack. And oh, the list is a lot longer.

There was silence after she rattled off this long list. So I said, out of the blue. “So what you’re telling us really is that you are looking for Superdickman.” I am not one to throw profanities around, even when angry or excited for that matter. Truth is I couldn’t think of any better way to describe what she was looking for. She was asking for the impossible man — Superdickman — without a cape and costume I would guess. I remember when I was kid I’d read superhero comic books, Superman, Spiderman, Flash, you name it, I read it. I wanted to be Superman but I knew it was impossible. Heck, I wanted to be Superdickman but it was too tall an order.

Superdickman doesn’t exist. He is so impossible to even fathom that no Greek mythological stories have even been written about him. I wouldn’t mind being him though. I’d even get my own cape and logo in the Superman diamond shape. I just need to decide what would be inside the diamond shape though? Mhhh …


Khaya Dlanga

Khaya Dlanga

Khaya Dlanga* By day he perpetuates the evils of capitalism by making consumers feel insecure (he makes ads). For this he has been rewarded with numerous Loerie awards, Cannes Gold, several Eagle awards...

14 replies on “Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No! It’s Superdickman!”