So let's say you're Superman, and as Clark Kent you were present in a situation that rendered Clark Kent useless to you as a cover identity to allow you to move unhindered amongst us mortals. Sounds like an exciting story, right? And let's say this all takes place in the mid '60s when America was currently dealing with a British Invasion of mop-topped rock acts, mod fashions, and legions of American teens trying and failing to drop English slang into their speech patterns. Let's just say all this is going on. Why? No particular reason.

Fooled you, we DO have a reason, it's because of this story where Clark Kent becomes a top British disk jockey! Thrill to the adventure of mid-market radio programming, gape in confusion as Superman watches Superman stand on a wall and shriek inane gibberish, be astonished as DC's editorial staff burns through every possible indicator of Britishness they can possibly cram into a seven page story, cheerio pip pip, cor blimey. Gear.

For reasons explained earlier in the story that we will not bore you with, "Clark Kent" has been mothballed. So it's off to the UK for Superman, where obviously the best headquarters location for a crime-fighting, world-saving super hero is a small town radio station. So he can, uh, get first crack at those Dave Clark Five promo singles, I guess.

Mr. Lloyd-Lloyd knows he can only reach his teenage audience by hiring the baldest, plaid-est, oldest DJs he can find. Can "Clark King" beat the competition?

Sure, he's ruining "Down Your Way" or "Housewives' Choice" for thousands of Britons whose signal is being drowned out by Clark's radio interference, but it's vitally important Superman start laying down what future generations will describe as "phat" or perhaps "sick" "beats."

Remember when we thought Clark Kent's glasses weren't much of a disguise? Now he's down to just a monocle, in the hopes that the average Englishman's vision is on par with the average Englishman's dentistry.

Crikey, that Clark The "K" bloke has bloomin' well knackered the oppo and is now the ace radio boffin of all Wapshire! Now to save the royal yacht from smashing into the (writer checks notes for a UK landmark) White Cliffs Of Dover, which today are... brown.

As much as I'd like the phrase "until those guinea pigs regain their sight" to be a common euphemism meaning "quite a while," the sad fact is that this is why Superman had to abandon the Daily Planet. He was in a room where a blinding weapon was being tested and his goggles slipped, and until the guinea pigs that were subjected to the same test get their vision back, Clark Kent will have to pretend to be blind too, and the writers felt it was easier to make Superman a British DJ than it is to depict the day to day lives of the disabled. Way to keep it real there guys.

Beg pardon, guv'nor, but it's a parade of goofy novelty acts as Clark dives deep into the UK music scene that will one day give us the serious, innovative musical genius of, say, The Wombles, the cat from "Red Dwarf", and Mr. Blobby. I 'opes y'don't think oi'm cheeky!

I know we're supposed to write funny things about these comics, but this right here, this is a man in a Superman suit and a cat tail, standing sideways on a tree, singing about poop. It's perfect. No notes, as they say.

Okay, so I'll buy that Limehouse Lew is so corrupt that he'll use drugs to incapacitate any rival acts. And I'll accept that an audience of thousands will not only gather in some small English town to see a completely unknown performer, but that they'll wait for this unknown act indefinitely. What's the deal breaker for me? Naps. 60s musical performers don't take naps. They take methamphetamines.

Superman! Able to bend steel with his bare hands, change the course of mighty rivers, and yowl about being a triple scooper poopy dooper!

It's weird how when they were writing the intro to the Superman TV series they forgot to mention his amazing power to suck garbage from a junkyard.

Sure, threaten Superman. It's not like this situation is so ill-advised that Jim Croce got a top ten hit out of it!

And from this day forward, the music industry never cheated an artist ever again and they all lived happily ever after. The end.

IT'S SOUVENIRS WE WANTS they screech, as years of sexual repression surge to the surface, their clawlike hands ripping into what would be the flesh of an ordinary man. Thank heaven for Earth's yellow sun and the invulnerability it gives Kryptonians!

That's right Superman, you're a sex god! Now go find some more girls to non-consensually kiss. They love it!

Turns out the super blindness weapon wasn't so super after all. Now Clark's free to resume his regular American life of wearing glasses with two lenses, only kissing one or two girls, and never ever singing about triple scooper poopy doopers again.

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