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OK, I know it's not TOONs, but.... a few early episodes from a possibly LONG sequence.....
THE CHRONICLES OF BOSH: A Fictitious History of the Occupancy of Prince George, Part the First.
Mister Bosh tries stand-up comedy
I laugh loudest because I get the biggest joke. And the joke is not on me, see, I am the joke. And the joke gets a laugh Every time. Lumps in my bed and lumps on my back, But who takes the lumps in the end? It's all funny because it is, to me.
You either laugh with me or at me And believe me, I'm watching. Laugh at my jokes or become The joke I laugh at.
Got brush to cut and lunch is waiting Like an armadillo in a hole waiting For my dog.
Armadillo. That's comedy. Laugh. Jesus would laugh. His daddy too.
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Missus Bosh is smoking on the veranda
Ah! The suicide staged to appear a murder Was a suicide after all. Finally tidy. Done! "And I was not completely surprised. Was not!"
She removes the bookmark and places the paperback On the stack of 'done.' A dog has pissed the carpet, Again. She lights a fresh cigarette and sighs :
"The 'alone' here is not lonely enough." Mother Bosh thrums like a generator in the house. She feels the vibrations in her feet. Lifts them . "Hmmm... tattered and tired! New slippers time. Cranberries! Where did I put that catalog?"
The familiar tinny tinkling of Brahms. Her cellphone. "Don't say anything that only I should hear, dear. There are surely more bugs than bugs And this place is infested. Daddy Bosh is not fond of surprises."
As if to illustrate, a huge fly was investigating The cooling cup of over-sweetened coffee: "I swear Mother Bosh insists on fixing the coffee Just so she can be sure to ruin it for me."
Titter. Revulsion. Missus Bosh shoos away the fly and sets the tainted cup out of sight.
"And I never said that Mother Bosh ever made coffee. Ever. The only thing that Mother Bosh ever made was a fuss. A damn fuss. And I never said that either."
Missus Bosh blows a blue plume of smoke at the circling fly. "There's sweeter shit to dip than this damn coffee. Now, buzz!."
Inside, Mother Bosh stomps and storms. Her sons all sorrows. Her dogs circle and shred their autobiographical pages. Her girlish men wish they could retreat to knitting But dress bravely and pose (with fish or fowl) instead.
"We'll talk when we're on the hills again, dear. Away from bugs and his mother. Another hour With another mystery and I'll smile Because I've guessed the ending."
The fly returns, unnoticed. The pills are upstairs. Safe, accessible. Just pick a slim 'cozy' from the 'To Do' stack.
"Another hour With another mystery and I'll be able to smile Because I'll believe I've guessed the ending."
The fly is drowning in the now out-of sight cup of the still too-sweet coffee, unnoticed.
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Mister Bosh sits down with a good book
Not reading but being read to– As was Mister Bosh's prerogative And preference. Goat, goat. Bad goat. Face like Osama's mama. Bad goat . Then, a whisper, (worst. news. ever.) Unanswered–
Ring around the rosie Pockets full of posies Ashes, floating, They're jumping, George!
But the skittish rabbit runs from harm's way, His leadership both sham and shame.
Soon, though, heroically photo-op'ed, He's rattling swords he can not lift, For reasons wrong and inarticulate.
Proud proprietor, dressed in loud, immaculate white, Supervising, at a distance, as his minions open New abattoirs of liberation. He remains, Bloodless and beaming–
His march of freedom is the path of The breaking of A cold, calculating smirk.
Mister Bosh dreams about Iraq
Missus Bosh, wake up! I'm been dreaming about Iraq.
Daisies and gum drops, Missus Bosh! Even the armless have armloads And they dance a cakewalk To a Scott Joplin tune With white gloves and tap shoes. The smiles are paint, Missus Bosh But so pretty you believe them.
The children who held broken dolls Are so much shattered meat now.
Hard work keeping you safe, Missus Bosh.
You're good with children, Read them something comforting And bring something to cleanse their blood From my pajamas, from my pillow.
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