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Two final articles of evidence: one involving Lana; the other, Lois.
If -- after all of this -- I still haven't convinced you, one and all, that the Silver Age Superman was to earth women what Richard Speck was to Chicago nurses... then: I surrender. I've done all one toy can do.

I'm only plush, after all.

In the infamous "Lana Lang's Superboy Identity Detection Kit," our whey-faced little miss is a-crouch over her writing desk, busily scribbling away longhand at some secret project. Her father -- "Professor Lang" -- enters her room, and asks her what could possibly be so absorbing as all of that, anyway. (Nosey old goat.)

Upon her guilelessly informing her honored sire that she is, in fact. attempting to unravel the secret of Superboy's identity -- a merry little guessing game, I'd like to point out, which has (doubtless) occupied and entertained pretty nearly every resident of Smallville, at one time or another; it's scarcely as if she's the only one -- the professor blows his academic top. "You idiot!" he thunders at the cowering teen. "If Clark really is Superboy, and your article accidentally fell into the wrong hands, not only would it damage his career... but it would expose his parents to danger! The underworld might try to kill them!"
As if whipping such a colossal guilt trip onto her head (and referring to her as an "idiot"; scratch that "Father of the Year" Award, bunky) wasn't enough, Kinko the Professor lays his nubile, teenaged daughter across his liver-spotted knees and sets about to giving her A Right Proper Butt-Whuppin', and no mistake. (Professor Lang, apparently, is a tenured faculty member over at the nearby Kraft-Ebbing Institute of Higher Learning and Fetishism.) [See panel reproductions, below]

In that fateful half-second between (comparative) sanity and becoming the subject of a particularly, ummmm, intense letter to The Penthouse Forum, the Professor opts, instead, for a kinder, gentler means of punishment for his daughter's transgressions: no dates; record albums; reading material; or even basic food staples beyond bread and water for a solid month.

Sitting out a portion of her durance vile in her bedchambers, the mistreated miss arrives at three separate and distinct resolves:

1.) Those weekends and summers her father's been spending with the Iraqi National Guard have been -- in retrospect -- A Not-So-Good Idea;

2.) "... shave my head completely bald, and re-dedicate my existence to a life of criminal rapine and terror...? Mmmmmmmaybe..."; and --

3.) "From now on, I've got only one mission in life! To get even with Superboy, by proving -- at least, to my own satisfaction -- that Clark Kent is Superboy!""

Slipping past the armed sentries which (one can only assume) patrol the Fortress Lang at synchronous, split-second intervals, Lana is -- just scant days later -- on the prowl, and loaded for red-and-blue bear. She manages to surreptitiously stalk "Clark Kent" all the way to a hidden cavern laboratory, just outside the Smallville city limits; bursts in moments later, in order to (at long last) confront her paranoid- schizophrenic prey... and is flabbergasted, in short order, to discover both Clark Kent AND Superboy, working on some sort of high-tech experiment together -- !!

To her everlasting credit, the rattled redhead quickly regains her wits and subjects both "Clark" and "Superboy" to every trick in the book, and then some: attempting to snip off a lock of "Clark Kent's" hair (no hey problema); checking to see if "Clark's" ubiquitous glasses actually have prescription lenses in 'em, since the real Superboy wouldn't need 'em (check); submitting the both of the smirking young men to fluoroscopic examinations ("Clark" has a readily discernible skeletal structure; "Superboy" is immune to the rays).

About the only stunt she doesn't attempt, in fact, is shouting out "FREE BEER -- !" in Kryptonian, and checking to see which one whirls about, excitedly exclaiming: "Where? Where -- ?!?"

After a dejected (and thoroughly humiliated) Lana slumps her way from the cavern, "Clark" and "Superboy" share a private howl or three over the situation.

"Ha ha ha!" Superboy chortles. "Poor girl! I almost feel sorry for her!"

"Ha ha!" Clark agrees. I fooled her -- but she had it coming for being so curious!"

No, no: the Teen Tormenter isn't being visited by a young, caddish Bruce Wayne. The role of "Clark," this time out, is being essayed by none other than fellow alien (and member-in-good-standing of the He-Man's Woman-Hater's Club) Chameleon Boy, of the 30th Century Legion of Super-Heroes, who -- apparently -- has nothing whatsoever better to do than help his 20th Century Chum put the mental and emotional screws to some perfectly ordinary teenage girl one mo' time. Just for kicks.

The inherent swinishness and cruelty of your standard alien life form is displayed to even more telling effect, however, in "The Tragic Fate of the Superman Sweethearts." [See cover reproduction, below]

It is a tale so unutterably unspeakable in conceptualization -- so irredeemably vile and loathsome in its execution -- that I guarantee you this: it will never, ever, no NEVER be reprinted. In any format. On any planet in this solar system.

Ohhhhh... do sit down, for heaven's sakes! You'll simply die if you don't sneak a peek at this one! )
It starts out ugly, and merrily toboggans its breakneck way down towards Hell from there. Lois Lane heads out to investigate a radio report of "a mysterious UFO, seen landing in Metropolis Park."

Once there, the investigative ingenue decides to make a real above-

the-fold Page One scoop-ola out of the event, by blithely traipsing her way up the conveniently extended gangplank; through the conveniently wide-open hatchway; and straightaways into the whirrring, klikking bowels of the mysterious mechanical beastie. Inside, she finds an even more conveniently placed monitor display, with the readily decipherable words "WARNING: Do Not Tamper With Temporal Coordinates When Time Probe Is On Automatic Control" blinking on and off in a warm, friendly fashion.

I. Am. Not. Making. This. Up. Dammit.

Lois promptly plops her shapely derriere into the pilot's seat, and -- faster than you can say "Asinine Plot Contrivance" -- the time-jaunting craft zip-bangs outta there quicker'n a sex-crazed ocelot. She ends up in the year 4068 A.D. (where, incidentally, TITANIC is still playing in first-run movie theaters), in a city -- or nation; it's never really made particularly clear, either way -- by the name of "Katraz." (Gesundheit.)

While carelessly sight-seeing her pretty little head off, Lois is shown a museum exhibit clearly detailing the event of her marriage to Superman (in 1968, mind, now)... and the fact that both she and The Big Blue are (pre-)destined to perish, jointly, during their honeymoon!

Cue Dramatic Organ Music.

Well: a tear-stricken Lois -- desperate to keep such a horrible fate from befalling her big, burly beloved -- scoots herself back to "the present" (read: 1-9-6-8), muy pronto...

... and is rewarded with this, by way of loving super-response, from Her One and Only.

"A time-journey... without telling me?" The Man of Steel incredulously exclaims. (Five bucks says he's never said that to The Flash, by golly!) "You're more trouble than Pandora! It's a miracle you got out of that missile range with your 36-24-36 intact!" (Yeah ... and ten bucks that he's never said anything like that to The Batman, neither -- !! I'm just sayin', here, is all.)

On the off-chance (no matter how infinitesimal) that the reader doesn't already want to slap the smug, self-congratulatory little smirk right off of this costumed chowderhead, the (uncredited) author adds this instantly imperishable line of dialogue: "I can see that you're a wild filly who can't be broken to harness till [sic] I get you to the bridal path!" Which is immediately followed, in turn, by: "Marry me, sweetheart! Come and live in my fortress, where I can keep you out of mischief!"

Lois, naturally, melts like a SnoCone in Saudi Arabia in the face of such artfully pitched woo (... well, good golly: wouldn't you...?), and consents to make it legal with Mr. Christ Complex, here. She does not, however, bother to inform the only individual within a five-mile radius with super-powers about that wee, teensy li'l fly in the temporal ointment she knows about, because... well... because...

... oh, hell. If the writer couldn't be bothered to cobble up a reasonably lucid (never mind plausible) explanation, in all of this non-stop excitement... I don't see why I should have to, either.

While piloting a private jet to their super-duper-secret honeymoon hideaway, Superman and Lois run afoul of an airborne Gold Kryptonite ambush, courtesy of a peculiarly lackluster criminal syndicate working under the collective nom du guerre of "The Executioners." The jet conks out in mid-whooosh; the powerless Superman is unable to fly either Lois or himself to safety; and all three -- jet; bride; and goombah -- pancake all over the landscape at Mach Whatever.

... or do they? It seems that Superman -- days earlier -- overheard said syndicate's diabolical plans to rid the world of both The Alien and The Bride of the Alien, and had planned ahead for just such an eventuality, accordingly. (Lois isn't the only one in this massively dysfunctional relationship who doesn't much mind "keeping secrets," apparently.)

In other words: the Torquemada of Tomorrow simply made the decision -- unilaterally; with jack-all in the way of input from Lois, mind (you remember her, don't you? Ol' "Love, Honor and Cherish"...?) -- that Lois Lane wouldn't mind at all if he simply used her dearest, most heartfelt desire (to say nothing of her pretty pink hide) as nothing more meaningful than bait for a nondescript, garden-variety cabal of costumed stumblebums, the likes of whom he (doubtless) could have captured simply by following them to their "secret headquarters" and giving them all Really Mean Looks.

She's a "sport" that way, don'cha know.

The ugly little storytelling coup de grace, however, comes to us -- signed; sealed; delivered -- on the penultimate page, with the following exchange between He and She :

LOIS: "Superman, you know our marriage is a fraud! You proposed only because you were brainwashed by the Executioners!"

SUPERMAN: "I wasn't brainwashed when I said 'I Do!'"

LOIS: "I'd always remember that you didn't ask me of your own free will! What kind of life would it be?"

SUPERMAN: "Okay, honey... we'll call it off, if that's what you want!"

Oooooookay... let's "review," here:

a.) It doesn't matter that Lois already knows Superman loves her (this whole regrettable and inane "bait" business aside); nor does it matter that (as even the big alien fink concedes) he wasn't "brainwashed" at the moment it truly mattered, one way or the other. Lois, you see, is a woman; and wimmens (it says here) Need Everything Done Just So. The silly little romantic dears.

b.) Superman, in turn, already knows that he worships the ground upon which this woman skips-to-my-lou (albeit in a really creepy kinda way); he knows that she's in total, wracking anguish over having come thisdamnedclose to the big, brass matrimonial "ring" she's been prancing and praying after since the days when fossil fuels roamed the earth on their hind legs...

... and instead of taking this woman into his arms; gazing at her in total adoration; and telling her, with every last dram of conviction he can muster: "It doesn't matter, dammit! This was something we both know should have happened years ago! You're my reason for living; as corny and as crazy as that may sound! Just give me this one chance to make things right between us, darling; now, and forever!"...

... he looks her square in the eye, and says (in effect): "You're darned tootin', babe! We do things on the ol' super-schedule, 'round these here parts! Better luck next time, toots; see you in Reno"...?!?

Dial "1-800-I-DON'T-THINK-SO."

Forget Lex Luthor; Darkseid; Doomsday; and/or the Joker. This guy is the real monster, for chrissakes -- !!

I'd call in the heroes and heroines of the Justice League, on this one... only I'm afraid that the Batman might answer the phone.

He'd probably suggest something involving one or the both of them wearing a rubber mask. And then standing behind an x-ray machine, or something.

I'm just sayin', here. That's all.

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