I recently told this story to a friend and I think it's blog-worthy.
My kiss is lethal.
But let me start from the beginning. In elementary school, my friend Caitlin and I were superior frog catchers (in addition to being professional tree-climbers, bee hunters, film makers, and fort builders). We caught everything from big bull frogs to little toads. Once, we caught almost 100 tiny little frogs that we found in my backyard - no joke. Another time we "saved" tadpoles from the pond in my backyard (a perfectly fine habitat, in retrospect) by moving them to a nearby stream (which led into said pond).
One time, I caught a frog and played with it for a while. We grew to be friends. I named him Kermit (creative, no?) and we had the best time. I made him dance, I poked his eyes, I made him hop around...he had a blast. After our antics I decided that he should go back to his family, so I walked him to the pond. (Now, I can't quite remember if Caitlin was with me that day, but if she was I have a sneaking suspicion that she dared me to do this.) When it was time to say farewell, I decided to double check that Kermit wasn't a prince. (After all, we had had such a nice time together and wouldn't it be nice to have such a fun-loving guy in my life?) So I kissed him. Nothing major, just a small peck. Sadly, he remained a frog. With a sigh I said "goodbye Kermit!" and tossed him ceremoniously into the water.
I expected to see my little buddy swim away, but instead I saw him float slowly to the top of the water. "Kermit?" He flipped belly up. "Kermit!" What had I done? My kiss was the kiss of death! What had once been a chipper little frog was now the victim on my venomous lips.
I ran as far as I could from the scene of the crime. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, trying to scrub away my sin. Later that night, as I laid in bed, I could hear the familiar sound of bull frogs croaking. I could have sworn they were chirping "MURDERER!"