This whole idea is of frogs. And I mean the whole of it. Everything in the idea is related to the little bulbous eyes, the froggy, muscly legs. I can’t escape that the core of the idea — the heart of the thing — is that heart of a frog, the kind that goes “Cruk” and smushes up against wall-corners when you get to close.
It’s the whole thing. Including the chubbiness of it. It’s a chubby idea. Just like the frog is chubby. The Frog, I should say. You ever seen a skinny one? You ever seen a frog so slim you think it’s a twig? Ever seen a twig so thicc you think it’s a frog? I can’t say I have either, which is why I’m getting so disappointed with the knowledge that the idea is, in its entirety, an idea of frogs.
I’m more disturbed than anything. You know how they’ve got this big mouths that go all the way across the head? How am I supposed to compete with that? They’re positively pelicanal — them big gullets like bubbling buckets underchin.
I wouldn’t dare to say that the human mouth, with all its intricacy, is even one seventy-fourth of what the mouth of a frog is. The mouth of a frog, if we’re gonna include the bubble, is one of natures most mysterious and erotic eating-machines.
Look how it inflates. Look how it deflates. Look how it does both one right after the other in no particular order (they are complementary, after all, or should I say naturally occurring reactions to the other).
But what really gets me going — the thing that most is making me want to do a balcony hop into splatsphault ville, is that the frog knows that he is an idea. He’s happy by it. And he sits on his porch playing his banjo and suckin’ on his wheat-stem and singing a song to me about good ole country-livin’ in the pig slop haven that he’s built for himself.