Max hasn't any superstrength anymore.

We went to the doctors - being, as we were, recently deceased. The doctor kindly explained that he had no understanding of necromancy, nor did he know how to stop the decay that had set in on our zombie corpses, but that Max had a high amount of steroids in his blood stream. Damn Satan, you wily trickster! Eliciting the number Max had used to summon the Devil himself, I placed a quick call.
 Out by the roadside, the Devil once again approached me. This time, he was dressed more casually, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He apologised - I'd caught him after work.
 "So," I asked, "You will give me anything - no questions asked - in return for my soul?"
 "Yea. Even these jeans!"
 "Ok then." I continued. "I Max and I to be brought fully back to life, none of this zombie crap. I also want our souls back, and a promise there'll be no ramifications from this."
 He threw a tantrum. A big one, for 2 hours. Then he met my demands. I don't imagine there'll be no comebacks from this, you can't expect to trick the devil and get away fine. But I've tangled with Gods and Demi-Gods, daemons and dragons, Godzilla and even those Apes from Planet of the Apes. I can deal with this.

Max and I have reached a crossroads...

Literally. We're standing at a point where two roads cross. Max, angered by his recent inability to defeat a starved, out-of-shape tramp, his pride damaged and his ear crudely sewn to his hair, wanted to get in shape. Of course, Max is rather lazy and easily distracted, making exercise a dangerous thing. So, never one to live life safely, he leaped to the extreme solution - trading his soul for the ripped physique of a some sort of well-physiqued person. Hence why we had travelled to meet him at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere.
 Satan, suited in the finest Parisian fashions (All of them), appeared on the hour. Stepping from the back of a yellow cab, he approached Max, ripped his shirt off, and painted fake abs onto his stomach. Standing back, he nodded as an artist appreciating his work, and turned to leave. Max, keen to try his new strength out, hopped a fence and punched a cow. The cow, mooing calmly, flew away into the distance. I however did not moo calmly. I was worried. Very worried.
 Flexing his muscles, Max hoisted me onto his back and set off at a run. Apparently, he had a list, and we were going to punch our way through it. I didn't like where this was going...

Men! I have done it!

Gentlemen, I have completed a fabled task! Long has it been the stock of comedians, sitcoms and drunken men who think they are comedians or in a sitcom, to comment on the ability - seemingly innate to women - to put a towel on one's head, twist it three times, and leave it there. The towel, to the woman, is a natural friend, staying there until the hair is dry and such things friends do. Long has it been said that men cannot achieve such a unity with the towel. Long has it been said that these magics are know only to women through ancient and often-renewed deals with Satan himself.
 Not so, friends! For I have placed a towel on my head and achieved such a goal!
It was shit. The whole thing was tight, it covered one of my eyes, and whenever I moved, it caused shooting pains across my whole head. I hereby move to make it illegal to own a towel, either for personal use, or to sell to damp people on the street. Think of the children! Oh, why won't anyone think of the children!