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Mr. Boston reminds us we should never be too
hasty to judge a princess… The
Kissing of Frogs By
Bruce
Boston Rank
with the stench of pond water! Cold and slimy! Humpbacked and no-necked! The
thought of kissing a frog disgusted her. Yet a prince was a different matter
all together. Tall
and handsome. Square-jawed. Straight as a wall. His dark eyes laughing
seductively into hers. Her cheek pressed against his gold-braided tunic. His
royal purple cape enclosing her like a shelter as he held her safe within his
long strong arms. Oh how she yearned to kiss a prince! The
thought of kissing a frog disgusted her. Yet she knew she would never kiss a
prince unless she set about the kissing of frogs. So with sovereign ambition
she steeled herself to the daily horrors of amphibian osculation. She kissed
wood frogs and leopard frogs. Pickerels and tree toads and bull frogs. Ancient
croakers and adolescent squeakers that were nothing more than tadpoles at
heart. And
after a time she began to grow accustomed to the kissing of frogs. Their
wall-eyed, bug-eyed stare that seemed to both fix upon her and gaze around her.
How they at first squirmed within in her grasp until their small solidly
muscled bodies settled into the warmth of her palms. It
was not nearly so bad as she thought it might be and there was even much that
could be said for the kissing of frogs. The tender thump-ba-da thump-ba-da of
their tiny three-chambered hearts. The way their slender prehensile tongues
sometimes darted between her teeth and curled against the roof of her mouth to
tease that ticklish spot just above her incisors and send delightful shivers
winging down her spine. The taste of their cool skin like baby lettuce. Then
one day when she least expected it, when she had already abandoned all hope,
she felt thick lips pressing upon her lips and a thickening tongue against her
own. She started back and he stood before her. Tall and handsome (though
somewhat stooped and not as comely as she had once imagined). Square-jawed
(with a hint of four-o'clock shadow). His gold-braided tunic (only gold cloth
of course). His royal purple cape (a bit wrinkled it must be said). His dark
eyes leering at her as his head wobbled back and forth upon its stalk of a
neck. As
he reached to encircle her in the shelter of his long strong (though ungainly)
arms, she could spy the dots of stubble on his chin and feel his breath like a
furnace wind. She could see the long black hairs sprouting like the roots of
pond grass (or a nest of writhing disembodied spider legs) from his open
collar. She recalled the way his tongue, fat and fleshy and artless, had filled
her mouth and left no room to breathe. The thought of kissing him disgusted her
and she roughly pushed him away. She
knew at once that he was not for her. Even if he were a real prince (which she
doubted). Even if he agreed to keep his collar buttoned and that paddle of a
tongue to himself. Even if she could somehow learn to tolerate his outrageously
pale and hirsute flesh, she knew he could never be the one for her. And
after all, there was a great deal that could be said for the kissing of frogs!