You’ve heard of the goose that laid the golden eggs, but have you heard of the golden goose that laid eggs?
I’m not sure which is weirder: An inanimate object laying living, organic eggs or a living creature laying solid metal eggs.
I tried to explain this to the guy who owned the golden goose, but he just wanted to melt the goose down and sell the gold.
“Have you seen the price of gold?” he replied.
“This is a miracle goose!” I pleaded. “You can’t melt it down!”
He did anyway.
The goose turned out to be gold-plated lead.
The princess found herself a prince, but he’d been cursed into the shape of a frog.
He told her that the curse would be lifted if she were to kiss him.
“At least that tasted good,” the princess said to the still-cursed frog prince.
“Maybe you need to do something else?” said the frog.
Grinning, she lifted her dress and shoved the squirming frog between her legs.
The experience was magical in more ways than one.
Exhausted, she looked up at her prince.
“Marry me,” she said.
“Hell no,” said the prince. “You fucked a frog, you disgusting freaky bitch.”
Hansel and Gretel’s parents couldn’t afford to feed them, so they took the kids deep into the woods to abandon them.
However, the kids left a trail of breadcrumbs, and they followed it back to their home.
“Where did you get that bread?” shouted their parents. “We’re starving, and you waste bread like that?”
I stopped my mother and said “Don’t they use pebbles first? And shouldn’t the birds eat the breadcrumbs?”
My mother put the book down. “Fine, Little Mister Know-It-All. The birds ate the breadcrumbs. Then they caught and ate the birds. The end.”
My stomach rumbled painfully.
Old Man Winter complains a lot about the bitter cold and his joints hurting, but that’s nothing compared to having to look at Old Man Spring’s ghastly bleached-white hairy shins.
And once you stumble across Old Man Summer laying out at the beach, well, you’ll wish you’d been born blind.
Old Man Fall tends to just stay in his rocking chair on the patio, drinking cheap beer and watching the leaves turn.
He’d be the most agreeable of the bunch if he didn’t sit there with his rifle, threatening to shoot people if they don’t get off of his lawn.
Prometheus was always stealing things from the Gods to bring down to Man.
“What’s this?” asked Man, staring at a bowl full of strange glop.
“Pudding,” said Prometheus. “It’s delicious. You eat it with a spoon.”
“What’s a spoon?” asked Man.
Prometheus took a spoon out of his pocket.
“That doesn’t look too clean,” said Man.
So, Prometheus wiped it on his toga.
His sweaty, grimy toga.
“You’re kidding, right?” asked Man.
“Oh, just use your fingers,” said Prometheus.
Man did. “Ew. Butterscotch.”
Prometheus growled. “Wait here.”
And he ran up Olympus to get some fire to incinerate Man with.
I swore an oath to write a story every day until the day I die.
The Devil overheard me, and he offered me his hand.
And we shook on the deal.
I kept up my daily writing for a few years, but after a while I ran out of ideas.
“A deal’s a deal,” I said, and I went to sleep, not expecting to wake up.
“Don’t give up,” said The Devil. And he gave me a plane ticket to Paris. “Think you can write there?”
I nodded, and The Devil smiled.
“Good. It’s much nicer than Hell. Trust me.”
Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it as a gift to Man.
“If that’s a gift, why isn’t it wrapped?” asked Man
“It’s fire,” said Prometheus. “It burns wrapping paper and other things.”
“Will it burn me?” asked Man.
“Yes,” said Prometheus. “I suppose I should put it on a stick.”
Prometheus quickly fashioned a torch and gave it to Man.
“That’s neat,” said Man and he ran off to play with his new fire.
The fact that Prometheus had stolen fire made it impossible for man to take it back and exchange it for a fancy-knit sweater.