Mr. Pickles

A strategically placed Sanrio sucked us into its mercantile black hole yesterday. Hallie browsed stoically but I suspect she's getting too old for the store's wares. Claire, on the other hand, wasted little time returning with a handful of these, all differently flavored. At first I denied all requests; the girls have so much crap at home, Wifezilla literally has to fill garbage bags of toys and stuffed animals for donation. On a yearly basis. But for some reason, something about the frog made me chuckle, that permanently etched smile on its face perhaps. How very optimistic of it.

When we returned to the hotel with the bagged bundle of joy, Hallie examined him more closely, noting that he wore a name tag. "Hey, he's got a name! Mr. Pickles."

I instantly broke out laughing. Mr. Pickles has to either be the greatest stuffed animal name ever or the best cover name for a recidivist pedophile. I grabbed the frog to verify the tag myself. Hallie had read it wrong. It didn't say "Mr. Pickles," but "Pickles the Frog." A small error but a vast difference.

I note the correction to the entire room. Hallie and Claire both revert to the frog's intended name, but immediately I regret my interference. Mr. Pickles rolls off the tongue and turns an innocent frog into a rogue amphibian. I imagine the difference to be akin to that between Mr. Rogers and Chris Farley. I attempt to turn back time by constantly referring to him as Mr. Pickles. The girls resist, sometimes shouting Pickles the Frog back at me. Wifezilla rolls her eyes. But I press on, inserting Mr. Pickles into the conversation whenever the plush toy is mentioned.

Someone has to fight the good fight.