Superhero

Brad. I'm often amazed at how much food I can pack away during a day. My stomach is constantly begging for more and even the most mundane physical activity seems to spur the need for another meal. Obviously it takes a lot of fuel to motor around my giant, athletic body but every day I'm consuming 5,000 to 6,000 calories. Divide that number by 2200 and you've got the average amount of times I crap every day. I am a hulking machine.

In fact, the more I consider it the more obvious it becomes to me that my body is one of immense physiological prowess. I grow hair, nails and muscle quickly and strongly. My memory is sharp on details and my torso can take quite a beating. I have an exceptional tolerance to pain (for reference see 'Breaking my leg then watching TV for 3 hours' or 'Rupturing a spinal disc and then doing 40 more minutes of weight-lifting).

My giant feet keep me balanced, my giant nose smells out the first hint of trouble... I speedily urinate with alarming pressure and there are, of course, my gun teeth. The more I think about it the more it becomes clear that I am some sort of super-human hero sent to the Earth with some purpose I'm yet to stumble upon.

Now I know what you're thinking. "But Brad, what about your degenerated lumbar spinal discs, tight hamstrings, stunted multifidus, interlocking sacrum and stiff vertebrae? How can you be a super hero when you have to lie down for an hour after walking down a hill and then picking up a sock?"

You see, back in the 1980's my father was employed at IBM, a large North American IT company who in 1983 had a contract with the United States Defence Organisation. He was a lowly ranked technician on a project, probably, where the CIA was trying to breed a new strain of super-humans who could use their superior strength, quick wit, modesty and ability to use tired jokes to overcome the threat of Communism/Aliens/Whathaveyou. Unfortunately the project was compromised and it had to be abandoned, but that was not before a rouge scientist stealthily implanted my Dad with a batch of ultra-sperm and sent him home to my Mum with two tickets to a John Farnham concert and a bottle of Passion Pop. Nine and a half months later - a procrastinator since birth - I was born and immediately starting breast feeding (This is the first part of the story that has any backing - my Mum confirms that I was definitely milking her for between 5,000 and 6,000 calories a day).

But this was still the early 80's and the Cold War was in full swing. Soviet Operatives learned of my location and, under the guise of a Peter Combe concert I was implanted with a tiny time bomb like a talking teddy bear having its battery replaced. This bomb was set to detonate in 2006 - assumedly co-ordinated with the fall of Washington.

The end of Communism came instead, Russia became the capital of riding spinners and the attempted assasination of me and whichever other super babies were born were archived and forgotten about.

Then there was that fateful day in 2006. But the communist scientists had miscalculated and instead of destroying me the tiny bomb was not strong enough to rip through my sinewy tissue and No Fear t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Instead it just imploded part of my spine coincidently at the same time as I was putting down a pair of dumbbells without using my knees.

Now that I have discovered this secret about me I realise I have to find the others. I know they're out there, I can feel them now. Probably. I just have to learn how to activate my full potential. There is obviously some quest of self fulfilment I have to accomplish to reach enlightenment. Like the Matrix I think. I have to realise these boundaries don't really exist. How much of this do I think is real? Do you think that's bullshit you're reading now?