Ryan White & Associates

There was/is a Spider-Woman. I guess she grew up on some rural property where fields of uranium glimmered in the sun. Her dad was a scientist partnered with a guy who would become High Evolutionary, which is maybe a Scientology thing? I missed the comic book gene. But I figured there had to be a Spider-Woman and so I Googled and indeed there was/is. She was created by Marvel for the most altruistic of reasons: They worried about someone else stealing the idea and they wanted to nail down the copyright.

Still, she seems kick ass and I like kick ass, especially as the father of a daughter I’d like to kick ass in whatever it is she chooses to go after in this world. I should find her a Spider-Woman comic, because all she knows is Spider-Man. You don’t need an interest in comics to know Spider-Man.

Every six to eight months there’s a new Spider-Man movie that isn’t substantially different from the last Spider-Man movie but for a slightly better waxed leading man. The script? The script:

Peter Parker, radioactive spider, Uncle Ben nooooooooooo, a love interest, super villain, big fight, good guys win, merchandise for everyone!

Which brings us to McDonald’s. Or me to McDonald’s because without a doubt you’re a better parent than me in at least this one regard.

“Is that Happy Meal for a boy or a girl?”

I hate that question. I’m not alone. This is a Slate piece by someone who hated that question and decided to do something about it, someone better than me.

I hate that question but want to get home. I also realize the person asking that question is wearing a headset and is in the middle of a long day of dealing with people like me. He or she doesn’t deserve and isn’t paid nearly enough to deal with Dad being aggrieved on behalf of his four-year-old who doesn’t care.

“A girl,” I say, swallowing the guilt which, admittedly, tastes better than the food. The acid reflux resulting from each is roughly the same.

We get home, and she opens her box and finds …

It’s a compact. There’s a mirror on the back. If you slide Spider-Man’s face, a comb swings out.

I hate it. I don’t hate it because it’s purple and pink. I hate it because it’s pointless.

Spider-Woman wouldn’t need a comb and she wouldn’t need a mirror. She’s crime fighter not a Kardashian. Hell, early Spider-Woman wore the full Spidey hood. In her life as Jessica Drew, sure, she’s got a comb, and probably even a brush. Shampoo and conditioner and no, sorry, she can’t go out with you tonight because she’s got to wash her hair.

But she’s not home washing her hair. She’s out busting heads, and even if she’s just hitting the town with friends, she’s not using a branded product because someone would be like “Oh my god, you’re Spider-Woman aren’t you?!” And then they’d shoot her dead and that’s not now how the movie ends. If the hero dies you can’t squeeze out a sequel before the reboot.

Oh, but it’s a Spider-Man compact, right? Same logic applies. Bruce Wayne doesn’t keep his pants up with Batman’s utility belt and Toby Maguire doesn’t pretty up with that thing. 

(I know Toby Maguire isn’t the new Spider-Man, but I have no idea who the new one is. I’m coming to grips with the fact that Toby Maguire is probably the last Spider-Man I’ll ever be able to name.)

There is no reason for the pink and purple Spider-Man compact to exist. It’s a shitty toy* and if the boy’s toy was a web shooter I’m going to be doubly pissed, because I’d like a web shooter. 

This is my pissed and possibly doubly pissed face.

*Ok. They’re all shitty toys. But this one’s shittier than most.