froggy tale

Long ago it was that the frog that was once a prince sat forlornly on his lilypad in his quiet bog. He spent countless nights doing nothing but staring wistfully at the plain castle sitting across the lake, and the little light that shone from one of the old castle's tower windows. In that window, resting atop a weathered and ivied trellis, sagging and slumped from the heroic efforts of many an adventurous suitor, the frog watched the lady of the realm, the lord's only daughter, and glimpsed her silhouette dashing past the window's opening every night. He had watched her prepare nightly for her most, assumedly, angelic slumber, and he imagined contrivances by which he would some day join her in that room in the tower in the castle across the lake. The frog knew of his curse, and he desired more than anything to be set free of his amphibian container. In the beauty eschewing from that narrow window, so difficult to properly espy, the frog saw a potential salvation from his bedevilment, and every night, his eyes strained and his aspirations grew, for as he told himself, "I have not always been a frog, nor will I always remain as such."
So, anyway, I think the story goes something like, he rescued her golden ball from a well in exchange for a night in the castle. This excuse will work just fine for our purposes, so long as it gets the frog in the castle for our next scene to take place. I haven't read the actual story in a long time; I'm just going on a fragmentary recollection of it. The important thing, however, is that the frog is now in the bedchamber of the princess type, and we resume:
He sat most gratefully on one of her satin pillows and stifled croaks of joy, lest he perturb her uncharacteristic hospitality. He told her, with quavering voice, and wide, oddly-pupiled, froggy eyes of his distinguishing fate--so different from that fate belonging to other frogs--and how, as he remembers it, he was transformed from a handsome and able prince into the wretch that she saw before her. He then lifted a web'ed paw and pointed to the window--itself barely an arm's length, and less than a foot wide--and told her, "I have watched you pass in front of your chamber's window for many seasons now, and in doing so I came to love the, er, lovely maiden that I watched pass by it. Ribbit. I am most certain that you are the one that can end this weary curse I suffer, and you, too, will come to love the prince that I am beneath this disdainful, mucous-seething, membranous facade in which I am most unfairly imprisoned. . .ribbit."
"Okay," began she, "for starters: Eww! Secondly. . . that window?" pointing, "That's the window that you've been watching me from? That tiny, little window; the one I couldn't even fit through, is the one on which you've based your entire assessment of my role in this? This is how you've come to the conclusion that I am to play a magical part in the reversal of some voodoo BS?"
"Well, er. . .ribbit."
"Look, frog. It's a question of simple geometry. What you can see of my life through that little, insignificant window--maybe, what, two square feet in all--doesn't begin to justify such unwarranted spouting off about curses, destinies, true loves, or anything in between. The gall, to think that you have any idea who I am, or what my life is like simply by spying on me, so lecherously, for such a long time, and then to presume that I'm going to just kiss you and make all your silly, little, froggy dreams come true?"
"But. . .ribbit. . .I . ."
"Honestly! You'd have done better to anonymously send me some amateurish poem instead of showing up here yourself. Did you even try to find out where I am when I'm not in front of that window? I have a life outside this tower, after all. Didn't it occur to you to maybe even try to get to know me a little before starting in on your self-important tirade about some stupid, tragic curse. Like I haven't heard that one before. I swear, you frogs are all the same. Too bad you didn't drive by me one day in a Mack truck and blow the horn. I really go weak in the knees for that one."
"Milady, I. ."
"Don't even. You've worn out your welcome, frog."
With that she picked him up and threw the frog as far as she could, straight out the window, and into the lake below. Missing the point of the princess' sound reasoning, the frog, having spent many, many years in the humorless bog, was unaccustomed to sarcasm, and, during his swim back to his lilypad, he thought of inquiring at the DMV in the coming weeks about getting a class C driver's license.

comedy finds my mailbox

"I am excited to invite you to attend the New Orleans Stake Missionary Preparation Course. . . enroll in this Missionary Preparation Course for Church Educational System (CES) credit, or you may attend this class just for fun.
Now, why attend? The prospect of serving a mission can be immensely exciting yet intimidating at times. Perhaps you feel a bit apprehensive. Perhaps you have questions like, 'What is it like being a full time missionary?' 'Where will I go?' 'What spiritual qualities and skills will benefit me?' 'How can I prepare?' Or, perhaps the decision to serve a full time mission for the Lord is still not certain in your mind (or perhaps it is not even on your radar screen!). You may wonder, 'How can I know for myself if serving a mission is what I should do?'"

"is there any questions?"

ignore the whirring of the digital projector. ignore the titles of the power point presentation. ignore the sad slant of the plastic ficus tree. ignore the lecturn sitting off in the corner. ignore the pain of your finger. ignore the stretching of your ligaments and let it snap. ignore the electrical outlets lining the walls aligned lengthwise for ergonomic satisfaction. ignore the dry sprinklers extending from the ceiling. ignore the helpful woman at your side who whispers,"everthing she' saying is on page three." ignore the paintings on the walls depicting non-existent american countrysides. ignore the clip art. ignore the flourescent lights and the false luminescence they emit. ignore the appeals for sitting unslouched. ignore the white socks on the educational model. ignore the flat voice coming intermittently through the intercom. ignore the time of day. ignore the artificial sweetener. ignore the color biege. ignore the red fire alarms on the walls. this may save your life. ignore all acronyms. ignore imperatives. ignore the blinking red lights. ignore the bomb. ignore the threat of the bomb. ignore the masonic, g-imprinted belt buckle on the man that prefers the word "pacific" in what is clearly "specific"'s stead. ignore redundancy. ignore your comfort. ignore the immediacy of the klaxon. ignore the polite applause. ignore the slogans and rabble-rousing. ignore the delightful way that this man says, "suicidal." ignore these ways that you survive the orientation seminars.