“What’s that?” Superwoman said.
“What, this? My costume? Obviously I’m a clown,” Superman said.
“I love you, baby. This is the romance of my life, but I hate clowns and you know it.”
“You’ve got a mild clown phobia, Sweetheart, but surely my little red bulb nose and frizzy fright wig and big floppy shoes aren’t going to be a problem for yon, are they? My nose matches my cape. We’re going to a party, not, ahem, heading into the boudoir.”
“Baby, you and me, together forever, but you’re creeping me out just saying that. Get that super mind out of the gutter.”
“Sorry. Let’s remember to deal with your intimacy issues at our next counseling session. Alter your Superwoman costume like I suggested. Try a Wonder bra. Lose the red wedgies. And I’m not opposed to vanilla relations per se, but it wouldn’t kill you to dress up as Cat Woman once in a while. And speaking of that, what are you supposed to be now?”
“I’m a piece of cheese. I want you to go as a mouse. I see that you weren’t listening with that super hearing of yours.”
“Super, super, super. How come you never mention super when we’re, you know… I’m sorry, but I am not going as a mouse. I am going as a clown. I’ve always wanted to be a clown. I clown around with our friends.”
“They don’t understand that you’re clowning around. They think that’s the Kryptonite martinis talking.”
“Now look. Check this out.”
“OMG. Did you just super-squirt me with a fake daisy?”
“You’re going to put somebody’s eye out. You’ve got the brain of a man with super special needs. This is your last chance. Are you a clown or a mouse?”
“I’ll compromise, my love. I’ll go as Mighty Mouse in a clown costume.”