A Bedtime Story for Weary Princesses and Confused Frogs

Once upon a time there was a little frog swimming. This princess came up and kissed him. Got right down in the mud and fucked up her dress to kiss the handsome little frog. He was a charming frog. She kissed him right on the head. He was like, “Wrong species, lady, men are in aisle six.” She was offended. “Ungrateful…” she muttered as she walked off.

The frog didn’t change. He stayed the same. That’s redundant, but so was the frog, for he had a twin. But the twin was not a frog. He was a man. I don’t remember what their mom and dad were. Probably a devil’s food cake and a red velvet cake, I don’t know, it’s fucked up.

The princess walked over to aisle six, for in those days nature was organized into neat rows. Sure enough, aisle six was lousy with men. Men all sitting on shelves, playing cards and cursing and doing whatever it is men do when they’re stacked six high on both sides. Just passing the time, waiting for a princess. The princess walked down the aisle, thinking, “What a stupid story, Christ I hate my job,” referring to her occupation as a character in a story, when she stumbled upon a man who was not sitting on a shelf like he was supposed to. The man was actually standing there in the middle of the aisle, spouting shitty old pick-up lines.

“Nice shoes. Do you have a quarter? Did it hurt?” the man babbled, grabbing on his nuts.

That didn’t last. “Cleanup on aisle six,” shouted the clouds, and washed the man into the ocean. Oceans were in the back of the planet stuffed in cardboard boxes labeled “Vast,” “Treacherous,” “More like a lake,” et cetera.

The princess walked on. “So far, no plot,” she mused of this story, brushing the weeping willows out of her eyes. She had on some really nice makeup, so the author was pretty happy about that.

The frog, however – realizing he needed to make a second appearance at some point before the end of the decidedly avante-garde story – jumped off Mount Rushmore (aisle 3, “Mountains/Morning Dew/Laughter”) and said to the princess, “Princess. That goth look is beautiful. Really, I love it. But can’t you do something softer? Maybe go more brown tones? I’m not asking you to do it all at once, just tone it down.”

“But the author said…” the princess protested.

“Fuck him. You’re not some character in a story, you’re a human being. Just because some asshole thought you up, that don’t make you his.”

The princess, awed by this pseudointellectualism on the part of the frog, listened, for she had nothing better to do, for she was lost among the organized wilderness of trees and stars (aisle 14); passion, the Saguaro National Forest, and peanut butter M&Ms (aisle pi); and various teenaged stock boys.

“That’s all I got,” the author said.

“Pretty anti-climactic,” the princess said, a disappointed smirk on her face. Her eyes nonetheless shone like moons and warmed the frog to his edible frog legs.

“Pretty non-sensical,” the princess continued, merciless in her literary skills testing skills.

The frog wept, and wept. He hopped over a demigod and sat in the corner by the children. The children were all badly behaved and $11.99 a pair.

The end.

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