Mission: Improbable [content warning: sex, violence, bad puns]

(Opening music plays: Theme to "Peabody's Improbable History")

Peabody: Hello, everyone. Peabody here, and this is my boy, Sherman.

Sherman: What are we going to do today, Mr. Peabody?

P: Today, Sherman, we are going back to the Whitechapel district of London, in the year 1888, to pay a call upon that notorious cut-up, Jack the Ripper.

S: I'll set the WABAC machine!

[Business with WABAC]

P: And here we are. And there, unless I'm very much mistaken--which I never am--the gentleman with the high neckline and narrow lapels is Mr. Ripper himself.

(Jack is the typical upper-class English twit we've seen in other Jay Ward cartoons, vaguely reminiscent of young David Niven.)

S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody! He's just standing there! He's not ripping anybody!

P: Give him time, Sherman, give him time. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

(they wait)

P: That's enough time, Sherman. Let's go give history a helping hand, shall we?

S: Let's shall!

P: We can work on your English later.

S: What are you going to do, Mr. Peabody?

P: As history suggests, Jack was a misogynist with a maniacal hatred of women of the street. Therefore, we shall introduce him to such a woman and let nature take its awful course.

(A strumpet shows up, and Peabody instructs her.)

P: Here, madame, is a pretty penny for you, if you will go up to that gentleman and whisper filthy nothings in his ear.

Strumpet: Coo lumme, pet!

(She walks up to to him and whispers in his ear. Disappointingly, his reaction consists of manifesting a bunch of hearts and blushing slightly, then following her offstage.)

P: Alas, Sherman, our first gambit has failed.

S: What'll we do now, Mr. Peabody?

P: We wait, Sherman.

(Five minutes later, the twit returns from his assignation and stands on the corner again.)

P: And now, let's see if we can poison his mind against that lady of the evening. Oh, sir!

J: Oh, I say, what, wot?

P: Are you aware that the young woman you were dallying with just now is a harlot?

J: I beg your pardon?

P: A harlot. A naughty lady. A tuppence tart.

J: Oh, I say! I gave her thruppence! (goofy smile) But it was worth fuppence and a ha'penny! (more hearts emit)

P: Ah, but she doesn't care with whom she cohabits, and is even now sharing her possibly diseased charms with other gents.

J: Oh, well, jolly old fortunes of war, wot? Share the wealth, wot?

P: But aren't you just a bit irate, or murderously jealous?

J: I should say not! Easy come, easy go!
(He resumes standing aimlessly and Peabody returns to Sherman.)

S: What now, Mr. Peabody?

P: What indeed, Sherman! This is a poser. If Jack the Ripper fails to rip, history itself will be the poorer for it!

S: Gosh!

P: Gosh, indeed. Indeed, gosh! Let me think.

(Sherman assumes a posture of silent, alert readiness, as befits a well-trained boy.)

P: Sherman, I have it!

S: The plague?

P: No, an idea. According to the best historians--I include myself among their number--Jack the Ripper, in addition to his day job of ripping, was also a frustrated surgeon.

S: He was?

P: He positively was. And therefore, I shall appeal to his medical nature. (to Jack) Oh, sir!

J: You rang?

P: Are you aware that the saucy bit of crumpet with whom you have been cavorting is in urgent need of medical attention?

J: Good heavens!

P: And if you don't operate at once, her appendix and spleen may both burst forthwith?

J: I? Operate? But, my dear sir, I have no idea what to do!

P: Just follow my instructions, and all will be copacetic. Come along, there's no time to lose!

(They dash around the corner to where the Strumpet is back to soliciting.)

P: There she is. Quickly, hold this ether-soaked cotton in front of her nose for five seconds!

J: It smells fascinating. What a bouquet! (starts to sniff at it)

P: Stop! Do as I say, or I'll summon a bobby!

J: Oh, very well. (He knocks out the Strumpet.)

P: Now, gather her up, and follow me into this secluded alley. You will follow my directions to the letter!

J: Oh, quite. Pip pip.

P: (voice over) For the next thirty minutes, I directed that hapless drone in a series of the most horrific indignities a human being has ever perpetrated on another. At the end of the time, the hapless fille de joie was a lifeless, bloody husk, and Jack the Ripper was born!

J: Say, that was ripping fun! I think I'll do it again! And again!

P: Stout fellow. Think of it as cleaning the streets!

(Jack dashes off like a maniac, brandishing his blade.)

S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody, that was terrible!

P: Yes, Sherman, our job here is done. Back... to the WABAC machine, and home!

(back in Peabody's penthouse)

P: Well, Sherman, did you learn anything today?

S: History is gruesome?

P: Did you happen to notice anything about the procedure you witnessed?

S: History is stomach-turning?

P: Did you chance to observe the instrument being used?

S: He was an upper-class British twit, wasn't he?

P: I mean the instrument that he was using on the luckless trollop.

S: Gosh, no, Mr. Peabody! I just assumed he used a scalpel.

P: One might guess so, but the actual implement was more of a colloquial hand blade, popular in the 19th and early 20th century.

S: You're not going to say what I hope you're not going to say, are you, Mr. Peabody?

P: Why, Sherman, even one of your rudimentary perceptive abilities should have been able to discern the familiar form of a... Jack... knife!

S: Oh, Mr. Peabody!

(ba-whump)

(closing music)
.

Toon River Anthology, part 17

CASPER

You look like someone who could use a friend!

But never mind. If there’s one thing I’ve learned,

It’s not to go down that road. The only times

I thought it was going to work, I still got the shaft.

They went to Heaven. Yeah, Heaven! And I’m still here.

How long has it been? A century? A millennium?

So pardon me if I'm just a little bit down today.

It’ll pass. It always passes. I’ll be cheerful again. 

I’ll be a real Pollyanna, and I’ll have adventures.

As to that stone and what it implies, all I can say is:
I WISH!

HOT STUFF

Born a devil, lived a devil, died a devil.

No, not one of those tall devils, or the fat ones—

Just a little one. Cute, harmless. An imp, really.

Sometimes unexpectedly good, never evil.

Mild pranks, hijinks, tomfoolery, a hot foot or two.

I used to think I’d grow up and get big,

I’d be a regular Mephistopheles!
FEAR ME!

But no.
If anything, my belly got rounder,

And my head got cuter. Just don’t pat it, Bub,

You’ll burn your hand! (That’s devil humor.)

There was my life: It was OK. I hung with my friends,

Swiped an apple or two.
Not too good, not too bad:
Born To Raise Heck.

.

way down upon Toon River

Freckles Friendly

A lot of people, when they talk about their life,

Say, “Sure, I did what I did. I had no choice.”

I’m not judging them, but that describes me:

The poor friend of the richest kid on earth!

What else can you do when one family

Owns everything in the county, in the state,

And the pampered heir decides that he

Has to cultivate the poorest of the poor

To show that he has the common touch?

You going to put your foot down, show your pride

And listen to your kid brother cough all night

In the leaky room you share with your folks?

So you listen to his golly-gee platitudes

And you thank him for everything you get,

No matter how trivial or useless it is.

And try your damnedest to save a little,

Shopping at the company store: lotsa luck!

And one day, maybe, you survive it all

And you escape him and go to another state,

Start your own business, and tell folks

That your last name has always been Welloff.

.

Toon River Anthology Excavates Comic Books (continued)

DOROTHY “DOT” POLKA

Names are destiny. You have to choose carefully.

Dad and Mom loved to dance. They were the Polkas!

They thought I’d be a dancer too, but I wasn’t like them.

My aunts thought it would be cute to dress me in dots,

Like my name! I was surrounded by dots as a baby.

I couldn’t get over them. They became my life.

Dots here, Dots there. It drove Dad to distraction,

And Mom eventually left us, crying. She still loved us,

But she couldn't cope with it, and she fled the state.

I hardly noticed when she left. She wasn’t a dot!

Partnerless, Dad soldiered on. When I was fifteen, I had an accident,

Fell off my polka-dot bike, hit my head. I was okay. 

But when I realized that I could see spots, beautiful spots, 

Any time, anywhere, just by hitting myself on the head,
My doom was sealed.

.

toon river anthology strikes again

RIP HAYWIRE

Sweet Mother Macreedy! I hate to disappoint you,

But if you’re here for a tearful admission 

Of my gnawing fears and secret doubts, or

An ironically revealing origin story, or perhaps

The news that I was put here by the betrayal

Of a colleague or a loved one —

My dog, maybe — then you’re out of luck.

Dead? No way! I don’t know what this is about, but

It sure as hello kitty isn’t my grave or my stone.

Death is for saps and sidekicks. No sirree Bob,

I’m not under this dumb rock. I’m somewhere else,

Sticking my neck out, enjoying an honest rhubarb.

This? This is a dream, or some imaginary story,

Maybe even a sinister plot by my enemies

Meant to fool someone or other. Happens every day.

Heroes don’t die. Anyone with the common sense of a flapjack

Would know that. Scrambooch, buster,

And save your flowers for somebody who needs 'em.

still more toon river anthology

.
DAGWOOD BUMSTEAD

Dithers came at me with the ash tray. I ran, of course.
One minute, I was tossing paper airplanes with Crane in Payroll,
And the next, the boss was screaming about the Stevens account
(Which, for reasons beyond my understanding, flew remarkably well)
And the old man went completely ape. Well, I’d seen him like that,
So I ran for the elevator, which closed in my face as usual.
With practiced grace, I pirouetted past him toward the break room,
Trying to put the table between us, but he flung it aside and kept coming.
Long years of running had taught me to head for his office:
Sometimes Cora was there, and he always stopped when he saw her.
This time she wasn’t, so my only recourse was the window.
Hoping to get out on the ledge. The old boy hated heights,
So usually he’d just throw things at me and curse till he calmed down,
But before I could get my footing, he was striking at me,
Red-faced, panting and shaking. I slipped, whirled, and grabbed the sill.
In half a second, he was banging away at my fingers with the ash tray.
When he lost his hold on that, I thought we were done, but he resumed
With his putter. Up to now, there was nothing new about any of this,
But this time, he kept hitting. He screamed. I screamed. I was losing my hold
On the sill, and still he kept hitting. My fingers were bleeding
And my attempts to keep a purchase on the wood only resulted
In trying to cling to a surface slick with blood. That couldn’t last.
When I fell, I was dimly aware that my hands were hurting a bit less
And that Mr. Dithers was still yelling, brandishing the club like a Zulu,
His face getting smaller and smaller as the buildings seemed
To crowd together, as if to witness my descent.
The last thing I remember was my own feeling of surprise
About life, the boss, and the Stevens account. Well.
How was I to know the old man was really mad?
.

TOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY

part 7

MARK TRAIL

I was a confident, take-charge guy,

Savvy to the ways of nature, a two-fisted he-man,

And a family man with a loving wife and a spunky kid

Waiting for me at home after each adventure

With a stack of pancakes to make it all perfect.

Yet I threw myself into peril

Over and over, risking it all on each toss,

Miraculously carried through by brute strength

And my abiding hatred of facial hair.

It was all too easy. I couldn't lose.

I started taking more risks, and more.

I even let myself get shot in the head,

And escaped with nothing but an inch-long dab of medical tape.

It was then that I understood I wanted to die.

My life, I realized, was a sustained falsehood.

And nobody would end it for me. I was too strong.

Well, I finally stopped relying on proxies and did the deed myself,

With organic, sustainable hemp rope.

I left no note. What would I have said?

"I'm sorry, Cherry, but I have been living a lie.

The man you thought you knew was a fraud,

And you may as well know this:

I was only pretending to love pancakes."

.

Toon River Anthology
part 6

JULIUS DITHERS
Even though Cora was friends with Blondie,
She used to ask me why I didn't just fire him
And let him stay fired. He didn't get much done,
And he took long lunches and he goofed off
At his desk all day long. Oh, he was honest
But I couldn't trust him with any important work,
So I fobbed off the clients I didn't care about on him,
And let him reorganize the stock room from time to time.
Some of the board members mentioned him in meetings,
With pointed references to 'Dead Wood' and such,
And one even hinted that those little bits of hair that stuck out
Bore some kind of resemblance to my own. He didn't last.
A man can stand for just so much. No, he wasn't my son,
But I made a promise to J.B. when he disinherited the boy
That he'd always have a job at J.C. Dithers and Company
As long as he lived. I kept that promise, hard as it was.
But I never promised I wouldn't kill him, and one day I did.
.

Toon River Anthology
part 5

TRIXIE FLAGSTON
It was a static life. I went from bed to bath to floor
And was carried places, sometimes crawling,
Sitting and staring. I watched my family stay the same
For year after year, decade after decade
Stuck in infancy, unable to talk, or walk
My only friend was the dog, and after a while,
He found somewhere else to be.
Mom was the only one who ever changed. Once.
She went from staying home to showing homes,
And didn't even hire a sitter or get my siblings
To pay any attention to me. So I stewed
In my filthy diapers, which led to a rash, which led to infection
And that led to a welcome demise.
My stone is under some trees. I stare at other stones
And never see anybody, and they don't come to see me,
Not even the damn sunbeam!
.

Toon River Anthology
part 4

POPEYE THE SAILOR
I played me part, see?
I ate me spinach and saved me girl
And helped the kiddies and told 'em
To listen to their parents, and I fought
For me country when it needed me.
Bluto was me enemy and me pal,
And I loved him, and he loved me.
Now, I never laid a hand on him, except
To give him a paste on the jaw, but he knew
And I knew he knew, and that was enough.
But it was something you couldn't say in them days,
So I kept quiet and kept on paying calls to Olive's house
But I only felt alive when I was scrapping with Bluto.
I was what I was.


DOLLY KEANE
Would anyone have paid attention
If I'd said "encyclopedia" or "electricity"?
If I wasn't adorably wrong about something,
I was invisible, ignored, unnecessary,
A clown even when I wasn't being funny.
So I went along with it. What choice did I have?
Through seven decades, trapped in that house, in that world,
In that body, in that face. I did my best to radiate
Ignorant, unreasoning cheerfulness
My passing was a mistake, a bid for attention that went wrong.
You should have found me in that "frigidater."
Couldn't you follow the dotted line?


FRED BASSET
This is my grave.
(I am dead!)

.

Toon River Anthology
part 3

ANNIE WARBUCKS
"Daddy" made me feel loved and welcome.
He even got rid of that wife of his
Who acted like I was some sort of trophy;
A proof of her virtue. She was soon gone.
In her place, the lethal Asp and towering Punjab,
And Sandy. Always loyal, wonderful Sandy.
I would see "Daddy" mostly when he came in,
Guns blazing, fists flying, to save me
From the enemies of our country,
As well as from callous orphanages and cruel caretakers,
Just in time to sever them from success
And to protect this nation, and me, and Sandy,
And his own financial interests as well.
As days accreted into years, I wondered
Why my loving "Daddy" always ended up placing me
Back into those dark places where I had no protector
Save the good-hearted weak ones who folded like leaves
And sometimes a sympathetic gangster or mystic,
And I began to notice how my salvation and their demise
Solved at once some pressing business problem of "Daddy"'s
Until, at last, I resolved to contrive a test for him;
A setting of peril for me without any hope of profit for him.
And lo! here I am, beneath this stone forever
As Sandy, faithful Sandy, watches over me
Crying helplessly at the cold white eye of the moon.


.
(Note: I edited out Jamaal J. Jamaal's epitaph that was here, which hinged on a point that might just be too out of date, almost ten years after it was written. It hinged on the fact that characters in "Herb and Jamaal" would use six or more extra words to avoid specificity, e.g. "That popular rap artist," instead of just picking a name. I liked how I wrote it, but it seems a bit obscure to me in 2018.)
.

Toon River Anthology
part 2

PHILLIP WINSLOW
Dottie and I saw him in the window,
A small puppy, looking helplessly at us
Canting his head as if to hear something
We had just said. We brought him home
To the delight of the children. In my mind,
I had some reservations about his paws,
Which looked too large for such a small dog.
"He'll grow into them," Dottie said,
As if that was a good thing. And grow he did
Until he was bigger than any of us,
And willful, and selfish, and bone stupid,
Although he was clever at driving a car,
Making phone calls and operating a computer.
He was less like a dog than he was a demon,
Sucking the life out of our family,
My marriage, and our finances
Until the day I called him out to the car
And took him far away, into the mountains
And tried to lose him on a lonely road.
I got the beefsteak out of the trunk
And called to him to have a treat
But when I looked up, he was in front
And had undone the parking brake somehow
And he rolled right over me before he went
Clattering down the road, until the car stopped
Gently, the front bumper just touching a pine tree.
My last moments seemed to stretch out for me,
Seeing the quizzical expression again on that face,
With that long-ago puppy's face showing behind it
And I saw the irony as well, and had to admit
That in a way, it really was dog-gone funny.

ALAN THE ARTIST
Talent only takes you so far.
Praised in school, successful at first,
I saw my path to fame, to glory,
To all the good things in life.
But ideas were few, and I went
To the pool of creativity, which I found
In a glass pipe Jones gave me
Along with my first taste of the stuff
And I painted, painted, until I thirsted,
Went back to the pool, then painted some more.
But before long, the thirst was more important
And the next trip to the pool, and the next,
And my curtains grew tattered, and I began
To leave my shirt unbuttoned at the top,
And I even forgot to brush my teeth some times.
And then I sought out Ray, who was looking for me,
And things went bad from there, and I perished.
Students of art, always try to find yourselves
A cheaper form of creativity than mine,
And lay in abundant supplies
Before you prime your canvas.

[note: Alan was an ephemeral subplot in Apartment 3G.]
.

Toon River Anthology
part 1

(originally from The Comics Curmudgeon)

PRIVATE BEETLE BAILEY
I trembled between them. There was no escape.
Then I saw the recruiter's door. I stepped inside.
Things blurred for a while, and I came to myself
With my porkpie hat gone and an army cap in its place.
And I found that in giving up freedom and self,
I had gained blamelessness and slack,
And what was at first temporary became instead
The permanent surrender of choice in exchange
For the permanent evasion of responsibility.
And as I stayed at Camp Swampy, year after year,
I was astonished one day to realize with a start
That nothing ever changed there. Nobody left
And nobody new came in, and nothing happened
Until the day I realized I had been dead thirty years
And that all of us were already in our private hell.


PETER PARKER
I never asked to be bitten. I only wanted
To listen to a scholarly talk about science
But there it was, I had great power now
And learned quickly what that entailed.
A lesser soul, gaining what I'd gained
Might have succumbed to vanity or greed,
But I had the lesson of Uncle Ben before me
And set out to make the world a better place
Whether the world wanted it or not.
For my pains, I was scorned, excoriated,
Lied about in the paper, and had my image
Which I provided for a modest fee, paraded
Before the credulous public as a menace.
Is it any wonder that I finally surrendered,
Took the easy way out, married my girlfriend
And stayed at home most days, watching TV?


THE UNKNOWN PLUGGER
Here I lie, in a humble pine box
None of your fancy caskets for me
If I'd died a few years later, it might have been
A cardboard carton for my eternal rest.
I didn't ever ask for much from the world;
Just a small-screen TV and a padded chair
The one to sleep in, the other to sleep
In front of on the nights when I didn't have to go
And work the next day. I kept my personal data
On the icebox in the kitchen. My watch
Only told time, and didn't bother me with
Phone calls, headlines, music, or games.
When I was hungry, I ate a burger with fries,
Drank the cheapest coffee, married a big chicken,
And played board games with my bored kids.
Until the day I felt my heart burst in my chest
And couldn't puzzle out the medicine cap in time.
Now I nap under a piece of granite,
Carved with my parents' names, with a line
Left for my family to fill in with mine
When they can afford it.

edited to subtract the lemons [and again]
. 
.