James, that was brilliant!!!
The farmhouse was practically vibrating with Hocus Pocus by Focus when I returned a short while later. I've never liked that song, even though Mom certainly does. It wasn't the guitar that I didn't like, it was the yodeling—particularly since it's always reminded me of dolphins when the lead singer squealed like that. Maybe the song would make more sense if I spoke Dutch, but that was one of the few ports that I never called home. I've always suspected, however, that it would only make sense if I smoked dope before I listened to it.
The singer squeals like a dolphin!
![[Linked Image]](http://s3.amazonaws.com/picable/2007/11/21/81468_Whalphin-and-Dolphin--_620.jpg)
And Dutch is one of the few languages known to man that Clark doesn't speak! I'm going to assume that means he speaks Swedish!
And the song only makes sense if you have smoked some dope before you listen!!! Well, I was such a square girl that I certainly never smoked anything whatsoever!
She turned toward her sewing nook as the song changed. "Oh, Good Foot has the perfect beat to sew to. I'm working on my old machine. The heaviness of the metal is so much more stable than the newer plastic ones that I can really pick up some speed."
And how outrageously funny is that???? Heavy metal is the perfect 'sewing music' for Martha because of the heaviness of the metal of her sewing machine !!!
"Did you guys really listen to all of this stuff?" I asked, unable to keep the bellyaching out of my tone.
"Martha did," he answered around a bite of ham. "I was more of a Lion Sleeps Tonight/Popcorn/Mr. Bojangles kind of a guy. I liked Donny Osmond, Sonny and Cher, and the Carpenters. Grandpa and I listened to some Marty Robins and John Denver, too. She's always been more of a free spirit than I am."
I'll bet!!!! And I just love how you make Jonathan somehow sound like a long-suffering father listening to the wild music that his teenage daughter plays!!!
“Most parents give their children wings when they're much younger than you are.” She chuckled lightly. “You never needed that from us though. But now I'm able to give you a much greater gift--freedom. I'm hoping that you'll finally have the freedom to live up to your full potential.”
So beautiful.
And then Clark is trying on suits to songs where the lyrics go like this:
“When you're hot, you're hot,” the stereo declared. “When you're not, you're not.”
I knew immediately that a bomb was far beyond my level of expertise. Certainly it wouldn't cause me any harm, but I had no idea which wire to pull to ensure that nobody else would be harmed either.
Acting on instinct, I pulled the bomb into my hands. Immediately, I knew that I had already made a rooky mistake. What if the thing had exploded as soon as it moved? Didn't professional bomb guys put motion detectors and stuff like that inside? So far I had lucked out, but I just knew that my luck wouldn't hold. I had to get rid of the bomb before I made another mistake. I didn't want to be responsible for blowing up the Space Program, not to mention my beautiful co-worker.
On the other hand, I didn't want to fly out of the shuttle holding a bomb. I could just see the news reports stating that the alien invasion had begun with a single attacker who had bombed civilian space travelers. It didn't make for good press.
I love how Clark understands how much could go wrong when he is trying to get rid of that bomb.
I just opened my mouth as wide as I could and crammed the entire explosive device inside. The metallic taste was enough to turn my stomach, but I didn't dare gag it back out again. I clamped my teeth shut instead and swallowed as hard as I could. I braced for impact, but it wasn't enough. As the bomb exploded it released enough gases that I couldn't keep my mouth shut any longer. My stomach rumbled angrily as I let loose a belch that could make a drunker sailor green with envy.
What a description of the finer anatomical points of eating a bomb!!!
“What does the "S' stand for?” she asked, indicating the symbol at my chest.
...
I squelched the first word that came to mind. "Smallville' wasn't what I was looking for. I opened my mental thesaurus and started perusing the adjectives: saccharine, sappy, sensational, serendipitous, shallow, silly, sophisticated, splendid, stupendous, supreme, surly, sweet, suave... None of them were right. I could just imagine going through life as a Suaveman. It wasn't pretty. I would probably be asked to do commercials for shaving cream and beauty products with cheap, artificial ingredients.
![[Linked Image]](http://www.npourmoi.com/images/Male%20Shaving%20Cream%20001002003001011023.jpg)
Just add dark hair, brown eyes and a super suit with an 'S', and you have... Shaving Cream Man!!!!
“It doesn't translate well,” I told Lois, with newly found confidence. “Up there,” I pointed toward the heavens mysteriously, “it stands for...”, and I let loose with a long string of yodels, yelps, chirrups, and tweets, ending on a prominent hiccup.
And who's to say it didn't sound that way in Kryptonian?
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe you could just call me Stan.”
Stan the Alien Man! The S-Man!
This was just wonderful, James! And I think it's fantastic that you have managed to write a fic - and such a great fic to boot - when you have had so much physical trouble and been in such pain.
Ann
