Most days, I see my son for a total of two hours, right before bedtime. That means he's usually cranky and in need of a bath. He's usually not too happy to see me because I'm the bad guy. I'm the one who drags him away from Minecraft or the iPad to scrape off the layer of sweat and dirt he's acquired over the past nine or ten hours. He doesn't like baths, and he's very good at verbalizing this dislike. And then, after I've tortured him in the bathtub for five or ten minutes, I drag him, kicking and biting and screaming, into his bedroom.
I much prefer giving him junk food in the morning and being a cool daddy who can tell him really good stories, like...
Once upon a time, and of all good times of the year, on Christmas Eve, a magician named Marlin was working late at the palace. Marlin always worked long hours. He left his cottage at four o'clock in the morning and didn't usually return until well after sunset. He rarely saw his children, and his bloodhound bit him every time he walked through the front door. The bloodhound was really stupid.
Marlin was a magician of the Third Order of Merlin. That means he wasn't considered a very important magician at the royal court. Usually, Marlin spent his days changing any boys who seemed interested in the king's daughters into frogs. The princesses were very beautiful, so the palace was plagued with amphibians who went around croaking, "Kiissss meee, kisssss meee." It wasn't exciting work, but it paid Marlin's mortgage.
This Christmas Eve, Marlin was wrapping up a few last-minute spells before heading home. He had a knight with a hangnail to cure and a possessed toilet to exorcise.
Marlin sighed. "I wish, just once," he thought, "I could have a really important spell to cast."
Just them, the king's adviser appeared. "The king orders you to cast the annual White Christmas spell."
"But," Marlin said, "that spell is usually done by Gary, the court magician. He's much better at it than I am."
"Gary called in sick," the king's adviser replied. "There no other magician on call. It's up to you to save Christmas."
"OK," Marlin said. "I'll do my best."
The adviser went away. Marlin took out his wand, thought for a moment, and then sang, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas." He waved his wand. "Just like the ones I used to know," he sang. He cast the spell.
That night, every young boy in the kingdom was transformed into a frog. On Christmas morning, the king summoned Marlin to the palace and ordered him to reverse his White Christmas spell.
"I don't know how," Marlin said. "I didn't get past eighth grade in wizarding school."
"What am I supposed to do with all these frogs?" the king demanded.
"I have an idea," Marlin said.
And that is how the tradition of the royal Christmas frog leg feast started.
Moral of the story: Frogs taste just like chicken.
And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.
|White or dark meat?|
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