WHAT'S DUNG IS DUNG

As the portal opens, a figure takes a tentative step inside. He looks around, eyes enlarged and exclamation points popping around his large pink head. 

On a desktop sits Tinkerbell, glowing, the receptionist, so identified by the name plate she sits upon, cross-legged, filing her fairy nails.

He spies Tinkerbell and quickly puts to the task of checking in. Once that’s accomplished, he looks for a vacant seat.

“Mi-mi-mind if I sit here?”

“Help yourself.”

“Have you be-be-been wa-wa-waiting long?”

“Equivalent of half an episode, I’d think. The usual. This place is always jammed. Haven’t seen you before – here, that is.”

“N-n-nope. It's mm-mm-my first t-t-ime.”

“It’s well worth the wait.”

“So, you’ve be-be-been here be-be-before?”

“More than once.”

“Wait a mi-mi-minute, is that El-mm-mm-?”

“Fudd? Sure. He’s here a lot.”

“Why is he he-he-here?”

“Let’s see. Hmm, a prowfessed hunter consistenwy outsmawted by a wascally wabbit and then, adding insult to injury, to have a speech impediment to such a ridicuwous degwee?”

“I s-s-see.”

“And see over there? Thumper.”

"Th-th-that's Da-da-daffy Du-du-duck.

“Wile E. Coyote right there.”

“B-b-boo B-b-boo Bear!”

“Pikachu.”

“W-w-w-wow! Is th-th-that the South Park Pr-pr-prince and Pr-pr-princess of Ca-ca-canada?”

“Surprised?”

“N-n-nuh uh.”

“Each with a common affliction, known as sidekick status, a second, a straight-man, a – sigh – spare.”

“Bi-bi-bit players.”

“Second banana.”

“Wo-wo-would you mind if I ask you a qu-qu-question?”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You just can’t seem to place me, can you?”

“N-n-no, I ca-ca-can’t. Do you know who I am?”

“No, Mr. Pig, I’ve never seen you before.” 

“Very fun-nn-nn -- humorous.”

Marge Simpson’s voice came over the loud speaker:

“Dung Boy. Paging Dung Boy. The Council will see you now.”

Porky stifled a sputtering spatter of piggy precociousness, that for which he is famous. This only made Dung Boy grouse all the more.

“They’re calling me. Good luck, Porky.”

“You, too, Du-du-du-dung Boy,” and that’s all Porky Pig could manage, short of dissolving into a hearty laughing fit, Folks!

* * *

Three council characters sat in comfy lounge chairs with fluffy pillows, the coffee table before them littered with notepads, tissue boxes and coffee cups of different colored inks.

The Comic's Commiseration Council consisted of three characters renowned for their wisdom, sound judgment, and unique perspectives, especially given their surroundings.

First, there was Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist, divorced father of 23 year-old Ben who still lives at home. 

Dr. Katz, unfortunately, had been created with a new technology at the time called Squigglevison, and so appeared to be constantly moving or squiggling. This would sometimes create an uncomfortable distraction for some and, in extreme cases, such as with Tigger, trigger a mild epileptic episode. This prompted the posting of a medical warning alert that hangs outside the council’s meeting room. 

Next, there was Lucy Van Pelt, the one Peanuts character who had a job administering advice to those with five cents to spare. Lucy, never one to soft-pedal her thoughts and opinions, possessed the stern attitude and authoritative delivery to set anyone seeking counsel on the right path, no questions asked.  

Lastly, there was the old-timer, Jiminy Cricket, a revered creature of conscience, ready and able to, whilst lifting his top hat with one gloved hand and scratching his head, come up with the perfect words to fit the occasion and, more often than not, would prove to be the last word.  

Tinkerbell, leaving a dazzling trail of fairy dust behind, flitted before the three and announced the next patron by way of sparkly skywriting.

D-U-N-G  B-O-Y

Lucy scoffed, “Dung Boy? Who’s Dung Boy?”

Dr. Katz spoke calmly, “Oh, he’s been here before, prior to you joining the council.”

Lucy covered a wide grin with her hand, “Where’d he get the name?”

Jiminy spoke. “Heh heh, oh, well, he’ll be more than happy – well, not exactly happy, but he’ll tell you all about it. Show him in, Tink.”

Tinkerbell zipped away, leaving behind a stream of glitter and stars.

Lucy turned to Jiminy.

“Do you want to at least brief me?”

Jiminy shook his head and chuckled.

“Believe me, you won’t need it.”

Dr. Katz turned to their guest. “Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

Dung Boy closed the door behind him. He was wearing what he always wore, a set of reddish-brown armor plates with matching headdress adorned with dark insect eyes on each side and a set of short knobby antennae. A tinted shield obscured his features down to the bottom of his chin where it came to a point. His chest plate boasted a bright red “D” emblazoned upon a yellow star. His boots were bright red with yellow laces.

He went to sit on the couch facing the three but, instead, continued moving and began pacing.

Dr. Katz leaned over to whisper to Lucy. “He’s winding up.”

“Where do I start?  How do I begin?  Just when I think I have my world figured out and I at least believe that I have come to terms with the knowledge that I will be forever associated with excreta, soil, scat, guano, however you choose to refer to it, the rug gets pulled out from under me - every time!  

I am constantly reminded that I’m not famous or, when they actually know who I am, it’s all mockery and smirks! I just had Porky Pig in stitches, and he didn’t know who I was either!

Have you, any one of you, the slightest idea what it is to not only be a second-hand hero subsumed within a larger figure who always gets the glory, but to be forever dubbed Dung Boy? 

I honestly can’t say what’s worse, zero respect within the comic community or, when I am recognized, being the butt of everyone’s jokes!” 

Lucy released an involuntary snort.

“Well then, allow me to formally introduce myself, in case you are not familiar, and why should you be . . .”

This was accompanied by a sharp look at Lucy. 

“In the beginning, I was so proud. I was created to fight for natural habitat, conservation and preservation, a loyal defender of the natural world!   

Almost immediately, it became clear the real hero was to be Fire Ant and his super powers and I would play second fiddle. Beware Fire Ant’s sting if you dare cut down that tree! Look how adept he is at reducing soil compaction. Stand back, Civilians, as I aerate this dirt! 

I don’t want to sound bitter but, seriously, how would you feel if you were named after a beetle whose main claim to fame is dealing in doo-doo? Honestly. When I heard I was going to be a roller? I thought they meant like a rock n roller, maybe a heavy roller at the casino. But, noooo, I roll shit into a ball and move it around. 

Granted, I was created in the sixties. Granted, there was a lot of free-thinking in those days. Granted, I had a few moments of fame in publications like Mad Magazine and National Lampoon, that episode of Monty Python – my crowning achievement -- and I have a small cult following, a few books floating around. I do have that.

When you come down to it, I’m just based on a sanitation worker. I don’t even fight hand to hand! My foes are the ones I keep from breeding. Die, parasitic fly! Do not land here, not on my watch! Let me roll that scat away!  It stinks!”  

Dr. Katz finally cut in.

“Of course, it stinks, Dung. But I think you’re losing sight of the big picture.”

“No, you’re wrong there, Doc. I am well aware I am, quote, Champion of the Environment because I help cycle nutrients and prevent flies from breeding in the stagnant waste of mammals. That’s the textbook version. I’m not suggesting it’s not admirable. It’s above and beyond most ordinary acts of heroism. But I have to tell you, it’s disgusting, it’s an utterly ghastly existence to spend your life waiting for poop to fall so you can show your value to society and the world as a whole.”

Jiminy asked a question.

“Well, now, I think you might be forgetting your actual stage persona here. There are known facts about the worthy little dung beetle that makes it, and you, stand out from other creatures, such as strength per size ratio? You and the carpenter ant share the distinction of being the strongest little critters on earth, along with the rhino beetle, I believe.”

“Thanks for that, Jiminy. Yeah, I know, but we’re still dealing in ca-ca. There’s my association, in a nutshell.  It’s humiliating and sometimes I need to rant or I feel like I’m gonna lose it.”

Lucy had been uncharacteristically quiet during this exchange. The closest she’d ever come to dealing with any sort of filth was Pig Pen and he never complained about anything. She was much more concerned with Snoopy’s breath and dog germs. Now, she had a question.

“So, what was your platform when you were in those sixties magazines? How were you presented to the masses?”

Dung Boy stood tall, fists on hips, hairy black legs spread, chin held high. He lowered his voice an octave and bellowed.

“Behold, the unsung hero of the environment! Beware, parasitic gadabouts, where Dung Boy rolls, no pest follows! What is the opposite of multiply? Cross my path and be prepared to find out!”

Lucy frowned. “I thought you said you don’t do hand to hand.”

“Look, I didn’t write this stuff. I’m just drawn to do it. And I’m doing the best I can!”

“Let’s simmer down, Dungie. We are friends here. No one of us is perfectly pleased with our lot. We’re all doing the best we can. My adult son Ben lives with me, eats me out of house and home and everything he does is drawn to make my life harder than it needs to be.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I’m surrounded by numbskulls and Schroeder doesn’t know I’m alive and my brother’s been around for, like eighty years and still sucks his thumb. They try to pass him off as six but come on.”

Jiminy tilted his top hat back and scratched his head.

“You know, Dung, none of us ever had a say in how we were created. We’re just tools of another’s trade. That’s just the way it is. You’re really no worse off than any one of us. In fact, you may be better off, not being so widely known. All it takes is to please one child, right?”

* * *

Meanwhile, in a small home studio on the outskirts of Los Angeles, two illustrators are working late.

"Hey, Don, you have any more Number 5 Umber? I’m out and I won’t be able to finish this without it.”

“Why don’t we take a break and finish this tomorrow. We got the extension so there’s some breathing space."

“My eyes are killing me.”

“You don’t take enough breaks. You can’t sit all day, Pamela. It’s not healthy.”

“It’s how I create, Don. I can’t leave something when I’m in the zone. Besides, I make up for it when I’m on vacation.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of those. I don’t have them often enough to remember what they’re like though. Maybe we should consider computer animation. Bet it would free up a lot more spare time than we get now.”

“You’re not considering the learning curve, the equipment investment. We’d end up working for someone else and then goodbye, creative control. Ours is a dying art and I don’t intend to let it go without a little kicking and screaming.”

“It’s just nobody uses ink anymore. Makes me feel old.”

“Well, we got commissioned for this project, didn’t we?  An homage to cartoon characters that maybe didn’t get the recognition they deserved and, look, the vast majority were done with storyboards, ink and paint.”

“You won’t be able to say that for much longer.”

“Maybe not, but I intend to for as long as I can. I know what this medium means to me and if it makes one kid smile? That’s enough.”

* * *

Meanwhile, in a darkened corporate office late at night, two men sit in a private office, a bottle of bourbon between them. Their jackets off, ties loosened, they both chuckle.

“I sense this one’s going to be a big moneymaker in our very near future.”

“Underappreciated cartoon characters from past up to the present. It’s a gem of an idea.”

“Well, that’s the third and hopefully last deadline these animators will ask for.”

“Are we still on track?”

“It’ll be close.”

“Think we should have gone with computer?”

“I think probably next time we should. It might be time to join the twenty-first century. All this new technology’s getting tons of press.”

“I know. Personally, I’m perfectly happy to work behind the scenes. I’m satisfied with doing a decent job and the paycheck that goes with it.”

“Well, and don’t forget all the little kids we entertain.”

“Personally, my wife enjoys the mortgage being paid.”

“Not a bad combination.”

* * *

Meanwhile, in a child’s bedroom, a six-year-old boy watches television in his room. His night table is littered with balled-up tissues, cough drops and an empty ginger ale can.

“Hey, Spencer, feeling any better?”

“Hi, Dad, a little.”

“Do you still have a fever?”

“It’s just a cold, Dad.”

“Well, let me feel your forehead anyway. What are you watching?”

“National Geographic.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about beetles and the strongest animals. Did you know that the dung beetle is the strongest thing on earth? For its size, I mean. A beetle! Is that the coolest thing you ever heard?”

“That’s pretty incredible when you think about it.”

“Yeah, I’ll say. Hey, Dad? What’s dung?”

* * *

Back at the Comic's Commiseration Council, the meeting room door remained closed as waiting characters began to consult their clocks and watches. Tinkerbell continued filing, case reports as well as her nails. 

Dung Boy sat across from the Council, head down. 

“It’s just not easy being second tier to a main event and never really knowing if you made an impact, something positive. I could probably tolerate the humiliation if I knew I still made kids happy.”

Jiminy grinned.

“Your good deeds speak for themselves, you know. Just because you don’t see the positive in front of your face doesn’t mean it’s not out there. Have a little faith and let your conscience be your guide. You’ve already done all you can do, wouldn’t you say?”

“By someone else’s hand, yeah, but I think I see what you’re getting at.”

* * *

Meanwhile, a day later, a father checks in on his son.

“How are you feeling, Spence? Any improvement?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, I have something that may cheer you up.”

Spencer’s father hands him an old comic book wrapped in plastic.

“There was a flea market I passed and look what I found. Thought you might like it.”

Spencer’s eyes were glued to the cover of a comic book entitled “Fire Ant and Dung Boy Battle Mutant Parasites to Save Planet Earth.”

“This is so cool! Thanks, Dad!”

* * *

Jiminy continued. 

“We all want the same thing, Dung. Everyone wants to have purpose. Well, except maybe sloths - and koalas don’t really do much, and opossums are very lazy . . . well, anyway, most of us want to make a difference.”

“Well, then I guess even poop wants to be appreciated, if not adored.”

“And, for all we know, it is. All it takes is a kid.”

* * *

The father checks on his son to find him asleep, a comic book in his arms. The father gently pries the book out of his son’s grasp and places it amongst the debris on the nightstand.

After he tucks the child in and turns off the table lamp, light from the hallway spotlights a triumphant Dung Boy, fists on hips, prepared to take on the world.