The Very Antithesis to the Valiant Protectors of Society

Over the course of recent events, put into motion by my father’s research, I have found myself in a predicament, being referred to by many as a “hero”. And yet what does it mean to be called a hero? Does it require valor? Is an acute sense of justice needed? Or can one get by simply with excessively tight undergarments with a fancy monogram stitched into them? It is true that I possess all these, and so much more.

Does that make me a hero?

The short answer would be that it most assuredly provides me with some resemblance of hero status, and while I am indeed flying close to the sun, my wax wings have not yet melted. This could be due to the fact that I long ago had my metaphorical flight-producing appendages of wax upgraded to titanium. This provides for the most efficient means of figurative flight, and, like with wax, while flying non-figuratively, I need not fear unwanted attention from the Transportation Security Administration for having set off their metal detecting devices. However, it may be noteworthy to mention that simply being “muslimy” warrants such attention, and one could argue that a perk such as passing through metal detection becomes irrelevant in light of a body cavity search. But I assure you, you won’t find my metaphorical wings in there either.

So, like any hero would, I too possess a power. It may not be the power of actual flight, such as my recently assassinated friend. I possess a far greater power, one of perpetual exposition. It is perhaps the most needed power in this modern era. For without me, where would our so-called heroes be? Who would tell their tales? Who would explain to them the dangers they will be facing, the unusual occurrences they are sure to encounter? Who would shoot the rogue paper salesmen of this cruel and heartless world?

And yet despite my continued persistence, my constant barrage of inquiries, the Justice League refuses to accept my admission into their institution. Even my successful infiltration of their group photo did not convince them of my worthiness.

And yet I continue to seek inclusion in the very group which, through its indifference, has caused me personal anguish beyond description. Is it in our destiny to aspire to greatness, no matter the obstacles? Do we strive to be the drop of milk which manages to splash outside of the cereal bowl, landing dangerously on the tabletop in a vain effort to explore a world outside of a paper carton, only to be destroyed by a quilted, quicker picker-upper? And what, then, becomes of the failed hero, the dried and discarded lactose droplet? Do they retreat peacefully into an inner solace, or does their seclusion merely brood feelings of despair? Is it destiny that pushes the dejected toward a sinister path? Or are we, as a society, responsible for those we turn away, those we force into a life contrary to their original purpose?

Perhaps we are all no more than juicy Italian grapes, awaiting our destiny. While some are sold fresh at market, others undergo traumatic squishing at the hands of a human foot, only to be thrown into darkness and left for years as the once sweet nectar turns into an intoxicating brew of mental poison. It is no wonder that after such treatment, this former fruit sets out on a path of vengeance, causing chaos, havoc and sexual fraternization with excessively obese women.