It’s not a pyramid scheme I tell you!

There once was a girl named “Fugarella” who lived alone in a cave on the wrong side of the village, next to the garbage dump, and the other social reprobates like reality show “actors,” lawyers and politicians.  It was not always this way — she had been born in a beautiful middle class home surrounded by everything a girl could want, loving parents and sisters, and a free line of credit.  Her parents were bakers and the house always smelled like bread.  But this idyllic scene did not last.  Her mother ran off with the gingerbread man after he won the lottery (after-all, what woman can resist a brown sugar daddy) and her Dad victim to his own Einstein-like inventiveness, and fell into a doughnut black hole.  Even her sisters (Kortney and Khloe) abandoned her, preferring to do shocking things like getting married and being altruistic.  Oh the horror!

What terrible lot Fug had to deal with!  Of course, it didn’t help that Fug was also beauty challenged.  Greenish orange hair, red eyes and purple skin left her with an empty dance card, and cave full of broken mirrors.  She sought to become beautiful, reading reams of magazines, from Oprah to Car and Driver, and trying everything from Oil of Olay to WD40, and mud wraps to mud flaps.  Flinging away the last of her dignity, she searched the Internet for an answer.  Word came to her in a series of poorly written spam emails of a wishing well in the swamplands of Arizona, which grants the wishes of all those who throw a cat into it.  She scratched her hoary head, and reread the email.  Oops, that was coin, not cat.  Thank goodness.  Cat tossing can be painful.   Anyway, the email went on to say that the well was guarded by a horrible beast, which, best she could tell was either a fierce dragon or a bunch of Amway sales people.  Regardless, the guardian ate anyone who came near.  Sure hope it isn’t those Amway people, she thought.  Undaunted, she devised a plan to get close enough to throw a coin in it, by donning a specially designed  costume.  Here’s what it looked like (see figure on the left, or for Republicans, your other right):

Chuck Norris just before he devoured Mike Huckabee.

The Chuck Norris costume came in handy in her journey to the well, when a troupe of wayward Democrats appeared, and ran screaming like schoolgirls into the woods, where they were shot, field dressed and eaten by Dick Cheney and members of the NRA.

So she reached the GSA sanctioned swamplands, though it was suspiciously free of water, and full of cactus, skeletons of Ron Paul supporters, and re-elect John McCain posters.  Nevertheless, she found the well, and sure enough in a sweater vest a dragon  appeared (and thankfully not the Amway sales people), roaring and gnashing its large teeth.  She quickly donned her costume.

The dragon scratched his head thoughtfully, “Well, this appears to be a Republican, but I don’t see any lobotomy scars, so it can’t be a conservative Republican.” Then he stuck out his long forked tongue and wrapped it  around her leg, “How odd, I don’t detect the overwhelming taste of bologna and mayonnaise, so  this doesn’t taste anything like a Republican.”  He sniffed, “I’m thinking this must be one of those hippy, liberal Republicans, which are soft and squishy and filled with heretical ideas; perhaps I should just give this one a good chew to see if that is the case.”  He opened his gaping maw and Fug shrieked. Throwing off the costume she looked him square in the eye and screamed, “PLEASE DON’T EAT ME!”

The dragon looked at her hideous appearance and shivered, “Great googly moogly!  I’ll bet you don’t even have a valid birth certificate!” With that he shivered, slithered and stomped away as quickly as he could.

Fug stood for a moment surprised by the reaction, then raced over to the well and made her wish, tossing in the coin. “Make me beautiful!” She tingled all over and opened her eyes. But to her horror realized her hands and body were now covered by scales and wings poked out of her back. “This isn’t the change I wanted,” she screamed with indignity.

While considering whether ObamaCare would cover this as a pre-existing condition, she heard a warm voice say, “Well, hello there.” To her horror, she looked up to see the dragon had come back with wide eyes and his tongue hanging out. “How about a kiss sweetheart?”

Fug shrieked and flew into the sunset pursued by her reptilian beau.  They spent the rest of their days trying to find places that recognized dragon marriage, and thus ended up in Vermont, civil-unioned ever after.  And so ends the tale of Fugarella, where we learn that you had better be happy with yourself, or you may end up loving a lizard.