Once upon a time, there was a frog. He was a very small frog1, and he lived in a small pond2. He spent most of his time contemplating the meaning of being a frog and catching flies. Occasionally he would consider a different diet, but that was only after a passing petroleum film had invaded his haven and wobbled reality. Not being a fish, he had no delusions of grandeur.
On the day our story begins, he had arisen from his damp puddle to enjoy a passing spray of leaves from the big fish that shared the pond with him3, and to consider his predatory movements for the rest of the day.
Arresting his contemplations with a facial tic that had been passed down for generations, he noticed a very large fly buzzing by on its legs of gargantuan size4. Pondering a foray into the world of major predation, but giving it up as a bad job, he instead leaves our tale forever as we callously move on to watch the very large fly waddle over to an empty tin once housing some delicious tomato soup.
The fly was merely looking for a place to sleep, having been out to a rave party the night before. He had not managed to enchant any of the ladies present at the rave, and was thinking about the nature of being a fly and whether recreational drugs would enhance his prowess in scoring a mate. Petroleum films were not that hard to come by, although the best ones were guarded by Christmas beetles5. Sadly most of his friends had paired off early, leaving him alone in the chill out zone6 for nigh on seven hours.
He put his beady six gazillion eyes into the cool dark of the empty soup tin, only to discover it had been claimed by a very large cockroach7. Pondering in his tiredness whether to doss down anyway, or to find more suitable digs, his peripheral attention8 was claimed by a huge shoe descending towards his back legs at a great rate of knots. Leaping with an impressive twitch, off he flew.
The fresh air was invigorating, and in his delight as he broke the air speed record9, he almost failed to notice oncoming traffic of large hominids. Swerving wildly and thus unable to hold his speed for the required time10, he flew into the ice cream cone of a small toddler who was throwing a disproportionately large tantrum11.
Such was our hero’s speed that the ice cream plopped to the ground, burying a bizarre-looking cricket with dilated pupils in a smoodge of vanilla gelatinised dairy product. At this, the toddler redoubled her efforts to shatter nearby eardrums, and our real hero12, Jimbo the Average, furniture salesman13, winced as he passed by. He was on his way to a meeting with fate14.
Next week: Can “The Cafeteria of the Mind” possibly encompass any more ridiculous shenanigans? Or is it just an excuse to be silly? Do smaller marsupial tree frogs really exist?15 Are menus dead? Are the DFTCC still alive? We promise to answer none of these questions in the next thrilling instalment!
1Of the smaller marsupial tree frog variety.
2More than a spit but less than a squirt from a non-pump water pistol.
3Without much room in the pond, a spray of leaves was the best the fish could manage, rather than an intricate rippling water effect.
4At least from our hero’s viewpoint.
5The drug lords of the insect world.
6An empty peanut shell.
7Urk.
8That part of his attention not occupied with the urk-iness of cockroaches.
9Fifteen feet per second, previously set by an unladen housefly with freakishly large wings.
10In order to make the record books, forty-two seconds of unbroken flight must be maintained, as decided by the Great Arthropod Convention of 1678.
11Given that she had a chocolate frog in her other hand.
12One more and we’ll have an epic.
13Flourish of trumpets please.
14Otherwise known as a job interview.
15Yes.
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