A few years ago, I don’t remember who, posed the question of the continuity of the species to Topolinia and Duckburg. Nothing returned to that world: Mickey Mouse was engaged to Minnie and Donald Duck to Daisy, but there was no trace of progress, neither married nor multiplied, and lived on second degree parental relationships, all a thing of uncles, nephews and cousins. Nobody started a family, there were no fathers and mothers and even less children, and the most consolidated couple was that of Gambadilegno and Clarabella, he a cat or perhaps a bear, she a cow: if there had been something between the two, it was beyond the borders of depravity. And yet we as children did not pose the problem. Who made love with whom, and who was generated by whom, did not seem to us the heart of the matter: the heart was whether Scrooge could get a penny more than Rockerduck.
In accordance with contemporary needs, however, the son of Superman, endowed with as many superpowers, discovers he is bisexual and kisses a friend. Which is fine, it just seems a little off topic to me: Superman saves the world by destroying a meteorite with a punch, we are not exactly in the context of the faithful re-proposition of everyday dynamics. Comics are unlikely in themselves, the beauty is their illogicality, Zagor should be ninety by now, Tex Willer paralyzed by arthrosis, but who cares, comics are the place of pure fantasy, where all the messes are expelled in the morning: putting in our curiosities for erotic tastes and practices is a bit retrograde, and also a bit of sexual monomaniacs.