Once upon a time, there lived a family of glunkschmuzzits [GLUNK-shmuh-zits] .
Meanwhile, a mother fribdishlima decided she could not possibly care for a baby fribdishlima [frib-DISH-lih-muh], so she set about to find a home for the as yet unhatched egg. She pushed and pulled and dragged it for miles.
(For, unlike skuzlouskian eggs, which are round like oranges, a fribdishlima egg is round like the moon and sun: That is, flat as a pancake).
As fate would have it, the mother fribdishlima conveniently fell upon the nest of the family of glunkschmuzzits right before she left the story.
The next morning, Mother Glunkschmuzzit woke up and espied the egg in the nest.
“Goodness”, she exclaimed, “an egg.”
“An egg.” replied Father Glunkschmuzzit.
“Yes.” she said.
“I had no idea you were in the family way.” said sly old Grandmother Glunkschmuzzit.
“Nor had I. I will name it Mr. Jones.”
When the egg hatched, the Glunkschmuzzits were overjoyed.
“It’s a boy!” shouted happy Father Glunkschmuzzit, handing out out snaffles.
The Glunkschmuzzits raised the little fribdishlima as their very own, happily unaware of its origin. Mother Glunkschmuzzit prized Mr. Jones. He was by far the most helpful and considerate of all of her nipsnigs. The older he grew, the more she loved his every habit.
Then, one day, he disappeared.
The Glunkschmuzzit family was frantic with worry—especially Mother Glunkschmuzzit. Her poor little son, all on his own in the world. They searched everywhere.
“He’s lost,” said Mother Glunkschmuzzit, crying loudly.
“He’s run away,” said Father Glunkschmuzzit, despairingly.
“Soapsuds,” said sly old Grandmother Glunkschmuzzit.
Finally, Mr. Jones was found, sleeping peacefully under his bed. But, during the search, Father Glunkschmuzzit had fallen upon the note left on his son’s eggshell, and noticed the signature for the first time.
“Mrs. Fribdishlima!” he cried. “Mr. Jones isn’t a glunkschmuzzit at all, he’s a fribdishlima!”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Mother Glunkschmuzzit. “He’s not The Same. He’s Different. I have a decrumpit fribdishlima for a son!”
“Son!” said Father Glunkschmuzzit. “He’s not your son, he’s a fribdishlima, and we must get rid of him at once!”
“But we’ve loved him like a son for years! His being a fribdishlima never mattered when we didn’t know what he was!” said Mother Glunkschmuzzit.
“Some of my best friends are fribdishlimas,” said sly old Grandmother Glunkschmuzzit.
“Nonsense. His being a fribdishlima obviously makes him inferior. We must disown him immediately,” said Father Glunkschmuzzit.
“Of course, you’re right,” said Mother Glunkschmuzzit.
And she kicked Mr. Jones out the door.
It is certainly disheartening to learn of Professor Fotheringale’s latest discoveries regarding the broader distribution of the so-called “Star-Bellied Sneetch” gene than was heretofore suspected.
(Note his juvenile and yet entirely unsurprising christening of the cluster of DNA that endows multiple species with an unsupported sense of superiority).
Given old Fothie’s penchant for juvenile humor, the fact that he chose to reveal his latest discovery in the form of a childish tale is also no surprise, if still disappointing.
The first post based on a cache of old papers I’ve been scanning before discarding. This one is a story I wrote in 8th grade, unedited. (Professor Fotheringale was added later.) My nest-mate sister laughed and said “I’m not surprised at all that you would write a story like that, coming from our family. And it predicts nicely your Dinner For Seven.”