Hostess ads in comics were all over the place back in the day. This one bothered my sense of logic, even as a child:
Ready? And.... go!: (1) How did Clark manage to put in a secret closet at the Daily Planet unless there had been a space specifically designed for same when the building was originally constructed? (2) Why would this be necessary, as Clark always wears his Superman costume underneath his clothing? (3) Clark's costumes were indestructible, so why would he ever need a spare to begin with? (4) Issues 1-3 aside, why didn't the reporter seize the costumes as evidence and then let everyone know where he found them? (5) How does the consumption of pastries with an unnaturally long shelf life resolve the issue, when the fact remains that there is still a witness walking around saying he found Superman's (albeit unnecessary) spare costumes in a closet under the dominion and control of Clark Kent? and finally (6) Why does everyone assume that they get a pie, when this is clearly Clark's private reserve? I presume many a lunch was stolen from the refrigerator in the break room at the Daily Planet.
Whew! It felt good to get that off my chest. Superman stories cultivate undue strains on my willing suspension of disbelief.
That poor woman looks like she needs more than a high school diploma, starting with a judiciously administered prescription for antidepressants and, based on her children's perceived opinion of her, a rigorous battery of family counseling.
This was when I first learned that a supply of published material could be finite:
My very young brain could not absorb this situation. I was certain that if I sent them the dollar, they would somehow be obliged to scrounge up another copy for me. This is not typical of me, because I learned very early on that the world is a very unfair place, but this was the first time the comics industry let me down.
I'd like to believe you, Bruce.... but your treasury was sold out before I could get my mom to write you a check for a dollar.
See you tomorrow!