Your head’s adorned with gay little wings. Shush.
This is exactly how I behave whenever I appropriate a kazoo.
Enjoy this frosted treat before the police arrive, you ugly fuck.
Evidently, this kid isn’t a fan of Clark’s coverage. At least his secret’s still safe.
Oh, you poor wretch: you’re a desirously handsome devil who leads one of the planet’s premiere corps of superheroes, you’ve the power to decapitate a malefactor or topple a house at a glance, your brother stands in your shadow, allies and nemeses alike esteem you, and your ginger girlfriend is a sweaty fox whose postmortem successor is her equally fetching duplicate. Stop fretting, Scott; you read like a carping ingrate. Also, take off your god damned costume when you’re indoors. You look goofy roaming the mansion’s halls in spandex while shouting a declamatory soliloquy, you big queen.
That depends: how often will O’Neil, et al. substitute cheap shocks for plot to sell issues?
If this were a gibbeted J. Todd, coeval readers’ unanimous response would likely be, “Who gives a screaming shit?”
You tell him, Keenan Wynn! Get the fuck off his lawn, you masked twit.
“I guess your cape entirely shrouded my peripheral sight! What?”
The Wonder is that this Woman can be bothered to oppose crime anytime she could titivate herself.
This is the most realistic of all these excerpts.