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.

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Toon River Returns

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It's been a while, but the epitaphs keep on coming:

RICHARD $ RICH, JR.

I had wealthy friends, but I preferred the poor kids—

Bedraggled ragamuffins with bad hair and no fashion sense. 

How they gaped at my opulence! How they thanked me

For any little crumb of generosity that trickled down.

“Kissing up,” some called it. I learned the term

From our second Cadbury, on his way out: Bitter!

They could have had an easy life if they’d kept to it,

But when their voices changed, so did their tune.

They still thanked me, but there was some edge to it

That I couldn’t abide. They thought they were entitled!

It wasn’t enough that I let them ride my golden wagon

Down a hill of gold coins and jewels any more. No,

They betrayed my trust. Small gems “accidentally” stuck 

In a shoe or a ragged pants cuff. Dishonest!

I might have even let that go unpunished, if it hadn’t been

For their miserable attitudes. Oh, we’re so poor. We’re so cold.

Our mom is so sick. Our dad got laid off at your plant.

Can’t you do something? You were our friend!

What do you mean “were,” you ingrates?

I sent them away. No sense of respect. Sad!

Who needs them? I have this huge mausoleum now:

A solid gold statue of myself by the best artist,

And my personal police force to keep out the riff-raff.

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Oi! Post number 100. Some people get to 100 in a month. It took me about nine years. We'll see how long it takes to get to 100 comments—presently at 59, and half those are me answering back.
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