Column: Saturday Morning Cartoons

by Francis Parrilli

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Sunday always comes too late.
It was a moment, as eyes first consider opening while the still of sleepy suburbs creep like a second blanket barricading cold toes from a stone floor’s ache. It was just a moment, like later when her lips anticipate the stick and gloss though they had not yet been tolerant of the touch. How fickle run our moods: a weekly block of love for all others to be compared. From time-to-time I’ll turn-on, trying to find you as our fluid epochs tied into multiples like packaged deals of programmed courting. Despite the changing bedfellows, despite the brutalities of cancelations without warning, I enjoyed every minute of it. So you can keep Friday, it was always Saturday that I was in love.

—
8:00 a.m. Kissyfur, “The Birds and the Bears.” Exploration. —

She liked to watch from the couch, from torn up cushions and grandmother knits while cheap crayons and elbow macaroni on the electric heater slowly melted. With a name like that; all cuddles and exploring. And it was still dark in the house with our knees jutting out in native crossovers, full of nervous anticipation and half-awake attention. Pets and porridge. It’s where we started, maybe too young at the time, absorbing all that we could before father FCC came lurking around the corner. We had a two-year run before she left with a paddleboat captain named Gus.

—
8:30 a.m. The Wuzzles, “Klutz on the Clutch.” Disorientation. —

She was a puzzle, or as I stirred with awakening, she was many pieces put together without yet the grace to fully navigate the development’s timeslot. What are all these parts sticking together? She watched from the carpeted den floor somewhere below me. One half of one, one half of another and that was exactly how it felt—our questioning, our quest for a whole as hybrids no longer in hiding. Didn’t we both smile at this clumsy race to a finish we didn’t quite understand? After 13 weeks she found the producer Parafox and disappeared into the dream of stardom.

—
9:00 a.m. Goldie Gold and Action Jack, “Night of the Crystal Skull.” Cabalistic.
—

She’s mysterious and older without allowing the rest of us to know. I did things to impress her that looking back, I can’t believe. “You’re a rich girl, and you’ve gone too far,” and she watched from the breakfast table, eating old meatloaf draped in sunnyside-up. She oozed gilt. We were into something new for the time, things like danger-play and safe-words. I’d hold her head with adrenaline palms like a jewel “cause you know it don’t matter anyway.” It was short-lived and the Man Beast carried her off with his big wallet. She’d end up in adult videos and she glowed.

—
9:30 a.m. Captain N: The Game Master, “Wishful Thinking.” Deception. —

She was a princess, sure, and her mother was overbearing, yeah, but the kingdom was ripe and flourishing. I fully understood “out of your league,” but you drink the wine as long as they are pouring. She let others come over, right when the morning was heating up—the type of guys she was used to, big letters on the jacket front, prep-stock, jock- rep. They would watch from the sofa by the bay window, one eye on the outside in case a match broke out. All of those lustful hopes and teasing. We fooled around for three years before an archstress named Zelda caught my eye.

—10:00 a.m. Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, “Pajama Party.” Revelation. —

They were a strange group privileged with reckless play. An intermission where all taboos where allowed. We chanted, “let the fun begin, it’s time to let down your hair!” I was making out with Little Debbie, Cowboy Curtis got cozy with Chairry, Genie lipsticked Captain Carl, and so on. Chaos. We watched in semi-circles, in lingerie, in unfinished basements out of earshot, listening to the importance of gayety. The secret word of the day tattooed to our inner lips. We had a very public break-up but all has been forgiven and I hear the fearless leader has returned.

—
10:30 a.m. Thundarr, “Raider of the Abyss.” Infidelity. —

She’s big and throaty, spaced-out sorcerer type with a cutting fetish. She was a knockout in knee-highs, and really knew how to move her body. I was entranced, as the days got longer, and let the scar of swords brand me deep into the shadow of a shattered moon. But a brute spoke for her and we snuck around the sharp edges of adulterous risk. She watched standing up behind me, her breath heavy across my neck, always rushed in case the barbarian caught wind of our shameless jaunts.

Twenty-one rendezvous until the guilt filled her gut and took a gash a tad too deep.

— 11:00 a.m. Foofur, “Hot Over the Collar.” Whimsical. —

She had too many roommates, a dirty crew that didn’t accept outsiders. A heavy lifting of their legs at me: her exhibitionism angered me just as much as it turned me on. Illegal in most states. She watched from a small bed in the corner, unenthused but restless, eager only for a lunch fix. Devourer with puppy eyes, it took all I could not to give into every demand, a servant while she chased balls and begged strangers for things she didn’t need. Didn’t you know our time was limited? She was eventually caught in the nets and made an example of by society’s proper women.

— 11:30 a.m. Plastic Man & Baby Plas, “Wham-Bam, Beware the Clam.” Conciliatory.
—

And this is where I ended up, after the ups and downs of arduous journeys and ancillary juvenileness; now more flexible, more eager to please with patience, aged by experience and aware of the relevance of waning moments. She watched from my lap, her legs jackknifing around Rickety Rocket, her hooks in me, wooed into submission. Penny laid. We’d have many spin-offs but I know she regretted never making it with the stuff of Marvel. Despite Fangpuss she was soon with child and I was out time, left only with “go out and play,” that is, at least until next week.

Image via Jonni Valentayn

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