Call me Clark Kent

Or at least find me a phone booth.
If you remember, I once saved the world, and went on to save a friend, from burning flames that unmanageable drafts and absent-mindedness (it was a friend, I can't really call that brain-deadedness, can I...) would have rendered totally uncontrollable were it not for my presence of mind and spirit of self-sacrifice.
Yeah, so maybe I'm waxing a tiny bit lyrical about my heroic prowess, but it does seem like I really was on to something when I said I was worried about my friend being in England without me to watch his butt now.
(Um. That butt-watching thing was a figure of speech, I'd never do that to a friend. Or maybe I would, but are we here to judge? I thought not. Plus he flaunts it anyway, so it's not like... OK, enough already! You're pushing me to say things that... You lying ol' dirty birdies... Hmmm.)
Hmmm.
You see, he recently had a little accident with boiling water, and burnt his face. Now, they're not serious burns and shouldn't leave scars, but still. Final Destination had it right: when something wants you, it gets you in the end. I guess it's lucky it was his face and not his butt water and not a gas explosion, at least he still has his eyebrows. I'm now left to wonder if he'll ever learn.

In the meantime (you know, before he does learn), anyone with sewing skills can send me designs for my future supercostume - make sure it has wings or fins or something equally handy, I might have to do a lot of to-ing and fro-ing between Great-Britain and France. Or Canada.