Dear radioactive spider,
I’m already twenty-seven years old, and I still don’t have the abilities of a spider. I know you’re out there, and, for whatever reason, you’ve decided that biting a (relatively) young, socially awkward boy isn’t one of your priorities.
You should totally bite me. I could fight supervillains! I know, there haven’t been very many supervillains in this part of the country. The pickings here are slim, since most Pittsburghers are blue-collar yinzers too tired after work to cause trouble, or rugrat Pitt students just looking to get cheap beer and free sex, which I admit aren’t standard supervillain goals.
But think of all the things I could do with the powers of a spider! I could be swinging between buildings on long, ropy strands of webbing! I could be climbing up sheer walls! I could be punching bank robbers and rapists! I could have pectoral muscles! But no, I have to walk to where I want to go, and the only thing I can shoot out of my wrists is blood, and that’s not possible without probably dying afterward.
Why me, you ask? Well, I’ve got the best superhero secret identity in the world: I’m a claims adjuster for a giant insurance company! How much more mild-mannered can you get? Seriously, it’s like I’m just begging to become a superhero, which I guess I sort of am.
If begging isn’t going to work, how about a trade? You bite me first and then I bite you? Think of the powers you’ll get! You’ll be able to type over ninety words a minute! You’ll gain the ability to pretend to be working when your boss or a snitchy coworker walks by! You’ll be able to change a flat tire, or at least hold the umbrella above your girlfriend’s head while she does it better than you probably could have yourself.
I’m waiting, radioactive spider. You might have cancer or something, because of the radioactiveness, so you should probably hop to.