...and TY 2, Pat Tillman, TY for 3X poppy increase in Afghanistan, TY for freedom, TYVM

Superman came home early. Lois wasn't due for another hour, hour and a half, depending on how long she "chose" to fiddle with traffic. His was a standing offer: she could either 1) ride on his back, her hair whipping in the wind, soar to their ice cave, arrive with a flourish and plenty of tics left to watch Maury, Oprah, Chance the Gardener, whoever was off the hook... or 2) sit in traffic.

And this day she once again chose to "clear her head," as she called it, in the plod. Plodding stop and go, her clutch wincing.

"Be that as it may," Superman said to no one in particular, topping off his snifter. In a flash he found himself clothed in nothing but his Daisy Dukes...

... and sprawled in front of their big screen. Which he stared at, though it wasn't turned on. He took another slurp, checked his cell for messages, then got out his pipe. Hit it. "This Afghani's getting better and better," he mused, exhaling: "thank you, President Bush."

Just then the red phone rang. Superman looked at it and shook his head. Thought about transferring the call to Batman or the illustrious Green Phlegm--anybody! "People! I circled my La Z Boy the requisite eight times and now, much like a worn-out puppydog, I'm wagging my tail and settling in for the evening."

Alas, after three more demanding rings, Superman frowned and picked up.

And it's... Duane!

"What the--?"

"Hey, Herbie. How's it hangin'?"

"It's..." Cold. Unemotional. "It's hanging."

"Yeah, I tried calling Skeeter. You know where he is?"

"Nope." Three second pause. "Been kinda busy."

"God, I hate to ask, Herb, but I need a favor."

"How's, um... How's Tasha doing?"

"You mean my ex?"

"Yeah. Can't she help ya?"

"It's Tanja. Her name's Tanja. And we ain't doin' too good. Look: can I get--"

"Doing well enough to work on her rig, aren't you?"

"Her moped?"

"Yeah, that's what you said last week. You were working on her Honda, and that's how grease ended up on my door handle."

Duane's turn to pause. "It won't take long, Herb."

"Dude, what am I: a superhero? And I've been smoking crack? Find somebody else to rescue you." Superman (ok, the herb) thought about saying this. Almost said it. But didn't.

If anybody needed to be slapped with a fish, it was Duane. Duane's that peculiar sort of acquaintance who'll probably never matriculate to full-fledged friendship status. Not that I'm special or anything, but there's a reason why it's prudent to keep the Duanes of this world at arm's length. How he ever found a woman to marry him is... well, it's beyond me.

There's simply no accounting for taste.

In short, Duane's a decent person and all, and he and the Skeet have been buds for a few years; but if I woulda been, say, watching the game with Skeet and Duane the first coupla times Lois (erm, Dawn) and I met, I'm not so sure we'd be together now.

And not that Dawn's a snob: she's not. And not that I myself haven't been around the block a time or two: I have. It's just that during Duane's five or ten times around the block, he's been dragged, hanging off the tailgate, two or three of those times. And you can see it in his face.

Or, like today, hear it in his voice.

"I dunno, Duane. It's a--" And then I hear clicks.

"Hold on a sec, Herb. Got another call."

I swig my snifter. Down to the dregs. Can't leave the ice cave now: tipsy.

A minute later. "Hey, we got it."

"What? The Skeet?"

"Yeah. He's coming over. We'll catch ya later, Herbie."

"What's the favor? What... What're you guys gonna do?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Nevermind."

"Well, if you guys need me, call back. I suppose I could sober up. If it's important enough."

"OK. Either way. Skeet and me, we got 'er covered."

"He's gonna help?"