Had a long day at work, so all you're getting tonight is a short story about frogs.
Growing up near the woods and several sewer drains meant that frogs were a big part of the summers of my youth. My friends and I were blessed, as the ecological balance in our neighborhood seemed to forge only the stupidest of frogs, which were incredibly easy to catch no matter how ridiculous our attempts may have been. (I do recall at least one instance of trying to scoop frogs out of a pond with a Mets baseball cap. That was the only time we didn't go home with frogs.)
I'm sure boredom and a general love of frogs had something to do with our obsession, but beyond that, these frogs always seemed to be taunting us. There was a sewer drain right across the street from my house, and whenever my friends and I were outside doing whatever it was we did, these spiteful frogs would hang out and make noises right on the grate, seeming to dare us to try to catch them.
We could never resist. Oh, the frustrated screams we'd bellow whenever we were this close to snagging one with our bare hands, only to watch the frog effortlessly dart into the dark muck. Recalling those awful feelings, I now know how people must feel when I play against them in Brawl as Pikachu.
Still, if we really wanted a frog, it wasn't hard to get one. They were everywhere. Before the city I live in became overstuffed with housing developments, forestal areas were pretty much at every turn. And they were filled with frogs.
That brings me to the point of this small, frog-centric entry. Whenever we caught a frog, we were happy, but we weren't exactly sure what we were supposed to do with it. It wasn't as if any of us had the foresight to pre-construct a special frog tank for such an occasion, so we'd usually puppet them like action figures for a minute or two before setting 'em free. I may be blocking out one or two memories of unjust harm done to frogs over the course of our many adventures, but I hope we played on the straight and narrow.
I know I did. Except for that one time.
See, I had gotten this hermit crab at the Jersey shore one summer. You usually don't buy hermit crabs at the Jersey shore without buying some kind of cage to go with it, and mine was this coffee can-sized meshy thing with a pop-off plastic top. After the hermit crab died and I settled its estate, it occurred to me that its former abode would've made for an absolutely perfect Frog Containment Unit.
On my next frog capture, I gleefully returned home, frog in palm, and introduced my earthy friend to his happy little hermit crab cage. He looked so awesome in there. Seemingly cognizant to the fact that he couldn't escape, the frog just sat right in the middle of the cage, puffing out its throat and being obscenely cute. I placed the cage on a little nightstand by my bed and drifted off into a slumber filled with froggy dreams and toad thoughts.
When I woke up, the frog was as dead as a doornail and dried to a crisp.
The moral of this blog entry is...frogs need water. 
Posted by Matt on 07/07/2008. E-mail me!
Chestnuts roasted by 
, and I love that this is an animal/childhood story, ’cause I can weigh in (though mine is more sinister):
Hey Nork! How it be?