CSotD: Keeping your secret identity safe
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Today's Rhymes With Orange is sort of a bathetic response to yesterday's diatribe on the importance of alone-time. (I thought I was making up that word, but I looked it up and it actually exists. Well, good. It ought to.)
Hilary Price celebrates the eccentricities of the inner life better than anybody in the business, and a large part of that is the single-panel format of RWO. The other master of this type of humor is Keith Knight, but he needs a topic you can riff on for nine panels or so, or that can be compressed into One of Life's Little Victories.
And Keef would concede the lucky nature of the save, with only a "Yes!" of self-congratulations. Hilary (seemingly) blows off the luck element entirely, then drags the self-congratulations out, pummelling it into an entire gag based mostly on how embarrassed we should be to even know what she's talking about.
And we all have these flourishes that we think are incredibly cool, in the privacy of our inner selves.
In fact, one of the great benefits of living alone is that you can have super powers all day long, because there's nobody there to say, "Nice catch" with an implication of "Lucky, considering you almost had broken glass and jam all over the kitchen floor and probably on your pants cuffs, too."
Which is to say that Superman probably wouldn't get so much credit for saving Lois Lane from certain death if he'd been the klutz who accidentally knocked her off the top of the skyscraper in the first place.
Note, too, that, when there is no superhero recovery, those of us who live alone simply don't score the event. So catching your toe on something and stumbling across the room only to save yourself from crashing into something expensive and breakable at the last moment does not exhibit super powers and therefore didn't happen.
It is allowed to simply disappear from the record because, unlike human roommates, dogs do not guffaw.
Which, in turn, is why they are allowed to sleep on the couch. A dog on the floor might have lept up and scampered out of the way, and dogs are capable of giving you a look that clearly says "What the hell was THAT about?"
From the couch, the worst they give you is the canine equivalent of Peter Marshall saying, "I might have gone to Charlie Weaver to block," which was his gentlemanly way of calling a contestant an idiot.
But dogs never say "Nice play, Shakespeare."
Which is why some of us prefer them to cats.
Even an annoyed dog thinks more of you than the most contented cat would.
Or maybe that's just something I tell myself when the dog and I are alone.
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