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I Spy, Almost

I wanted to write spy novels. Yes. I mean it. Cloak and dagger, assignations in misty alleys, the whole bit.

One day I tried my hand at it, and this is what I produced:

A frog who was a successful espionage agent decided one day while sitting on his chilly pad that it was time for this spy to come in from the cold.

"Wart'll I do?" moaned his Chief in dismay. "Without you, we'll be toadally at the mercy of The Enemy."

"Send me a youngster," proposed the frog, "and I'll train her in the art of espionage."

So the Chief assigned a young polliwog apprentice. Months of training followed, but the polliwog was such a slowpoke that the frog despaired of ever making her into a good spy.

Then, tactics of The Enemy made a mission necessary. "Speed is of the essence!" cried the Chief as the three of them rushed toward their checkpoint.

"Alas!" wailed the frog. "All is lost! This polliwog'll dawdle all day!"

The Enemy was hard on their heels, the frog dragging the slow polliwog every step of the way.

"Quick!" panted the Chief. "Holler something to distract them!"

At that the frog stopped abruptly, dropped the polliwog, and resigned himself to being captured. "This is the end. I can do no more," he proclaimed bitterly. "I can't possibly croak and drag 'er, too."

That's the end of my story, and it was the end of my career as a writer of espionage novels. Robert Ludlum, you have nothing to worry about. Happy New Year, everyone.

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