The Bullfrog and the Heron (aka Fuckface & Meangirl)

Once upon a time there was a pond owned by The Company, and every year or so, duck families would save up for a whole year to spend one weekend paddling around on it. They’d pay extra for a plastic egg with the pond’s name on it, go home broke and kind of mad about the whole thing, and then the next summer there they were again.

In terms of getting a job at The Company, they didn’t care what you did all day as long as the money kept coming in. And never, ever, under any circumstances, were you to rock the boat. Original ideas? Verboten, and could get you thrown out. Moments of inspiration? How dare you! No, mediocrity was the order of the day, and it didn’t take most folks very long to understand that.

The boss was a bullfrog everybody called Fuckface. His mother named him something else, but he had earned the nickname. He could do the job, more or less, like a thousand other frogs in town could, and he got paid a fortune for it. He  had a nasty habit of belittling everyone around him, which did not endear him to others. They all called Fuckface spineless, and he would never admit to liking anything until somebody cooler said they liked it. Fuckface owned a whole row of shiny lily pads that cost more than some animals made in a year, and he waxed them constantly.

Then there were the Monday meetings. You had to stand up when Fuckface  came in. Some joked that all he needed to add for a kingly entrance was a scepter. Nobody was allowed to talk in the meetings except his Favorites, and if you were anointed and made it to this coveted position, your sole job as a Favorite was to stay there. Fuckface had a stable of Favorites, called The Golden Children. They numbered only a few, but they were untouchable. They could come in drunk. They could watch videos under a log for years, which some did. Once you had sucked up enough to become a Favorite, you’d get the promotion and the bonus and the invite to the party, no matter your work habits. “I have the best team in town,” Fuckface would say to a room full of animals who knew better.

Fuckface’s main lieutenant and number one was a heron called Meangirl, and that was the nice name. Others called her +$@**&%.

Meangirl was aptly named, as akin to naming a spotted dog Spot. Strangers and co-workers alike would back away from her in public, or pretend to get a phone call to avoid stepping onto an elevator with her, she with her constant scowl so intense it could scare a guard dog.

Whereas Fuckface became expert at passive-aggressive insults, things that couldn’t be proven in court, Meangirl never bothered. She would ask some poor kid newt for something so vague that nobody could’ve figured it out, then the little newt would skip lunch all week and stay late trying to fulfill her unfillable task, and when he brought it to Meangirl, she would inevitably say, “That’s it? I’m really disappointed in you.”  

It was, for any newt underling, a lose-lose scenario, as was working for Fuckface.  

There was a muskrat who did twice the work he was hired for, and everybody liked him. He finally got up the nerve to ask Fuckface if he had any future there.

“You’ve only been here three years,” Fuckface said.

“Actually, I’ve been here for six,” said the muskrat. And when the muskrat tried to bring up what he’d actually done, all the money he had earned the company, Fuckface cut him off and explained gratitude to him for half an hour, bla bla bla, you should be glad to be here, etc. The muskrat left feeling very confused, but no worry – Fuckface would soon fire him. On the way out, the muskrat ate one of Fuckfaces favorite plants just for fun.

“He’s going to die alone and hated,” said a vole who’d gotten the same speech. Ah, corporations.

Both Fuckface and Meangirl kept getting promoted, naturally. Somebody left the book The Emperor’s New Clothes on Fuckface’s desk once as a hint, but he never read it, though he told everyone it was great after he heard that a cooler frog had liked it.

And all that time, sometimes at meetings, Fuckface would point at somebody with disdain, and Meangirl would eat them. Slurp them right down in her pointy beak. The beaver went, then the vole, then pretty much anybody who was any good, until the pond got so quiet that Fuckface mistakenly thought things were running perfectly smoothly.

So, one Monday, Fuckface hopped into his regular meeting, and nobody stood up. But no one stood up because no one was left. Meangirl had eaten them all, each and every one. Fuckface gave his meeting speech anyway, though halfway through he hesitated and noticed that Meangirl looked distracted and wasn’t concentrating on his every move the way she usually did. In all his years at The Company, he had never seen such a sight.

Soon, the Officials called to notify Fuckface – they were much too cowardly to do it face to face - that his services were no longer needed and that he had to clear out of his precious lilypad that day. Fuckface thought he would die of humiliation, while others in the pond just smiled and high-fived each other. As he hopped out for the last time, Fuckface saw Meangirl moving into his corner lilypad.

The muskrat ended up across the road at a smaller, muddier pond where animals actually said thank you. He was happy there. A bit later, Fuckface came over looking for work, waxed lily pad under his arm, and the muskrat interviewed him. “You’ve only been here three minutes,” the muskrat said. Fuckface missed the reference. The muskrat didn’t hire him, but he kept Fuckface waiting a whole week before he told him, and that was enough.

Moral: Be nice to muskrats. They have long memories and, eventually, hiring authority.