He was not a frog but when he was born his parents called him Bobbo. From that point on, everyone laughed at him even when he was wiping his own ass. They laughed and laughed at him all the way from the hospital to the ice cream store to the house to the school. They laughed all through his early years as he walked and sucked and talked and picked his nose because he was, of course, a man, not a magical frog.

But at some point they stopped laughing because they realized that he was, in fact, the magical frog. By then, however, Bobbo had grown into a humorless, bore of man. He had three pencils in his pocket, he steamed ironed his shirt and his pants and his socks and his wiener, he combed his moustache with the comb from a doll combo pack, he learned how to dance mambo, and he had a nice office job where someone who did not work sucked off all of his surplus value. But everyone was fascinated by him because they knew, they all knew that he was magic frog.

Everyone wanted things from the magic frog, and Bobbo, the non-magic frog, would always tell them:

“Gentlemen, and ladies, I am not a frog and I have no magic in me.”

To prove his point, Bobbo would do all kinds of boring things. He would try to eat dry muffins, he would take out his pocket calculator and try to make it do square roots, he would try to eat a complete roll of toilet paper, but he failed, and had to speak to crowds with a roll stuck in between his teeth:

“You see, all of you, I am no frog. And I have no power to do anything. Thank you and good day.”

But people just marveled at his ability to do absolutely nothing of importance throughout his life. Bobbo could not find any happiness or joy in what they said about him because he still remembered all the times his family had laughed at him during his childhood because he was such a woozy goober. Just thinking about laughing would make him go ill with three diarrheas.

The entire population of the town followed Bobbo wherever he went.

If he went to the store to buy circumcisers, they would follow him to help him obtain the best price for his items.

If he went to a restaurant just to use the restroom, they would follow him to the stall and give him pointers.

If he locked himself in his house to have some nice clapping, they would follow him and clap with him.

“I am not a magic frog!” he would say over and over again always trying to put his pants back up, for he enjoyed being naked in his own house. But they all cheered every time he said that.

They were all so happy except for Bobbo. They followed him so much that they stampeded him to death one day in. Everyone cried. They cried and cried so much and so warmly that the tears of everyone who admired him streamed together and formed a little, beautiful heart in the tip of his penis, and then, to the surprise of everyone, his corpse turned into a blue frog and, with one big swoop, flew up, up into the sky.

After that, everyone felt very pleasantly surprised, the kind of surprise that makes one chuckle oddly when reminiscing, and for that, they all put a statue of Bobbo in the hospital where he was born.

I like to write for some reason so I’m doing it here. I’ll try write something every day, and hopefully, get better at it.