The Fix William C. Blome Actually, my own view is that frogs can speak for themselves, and I don’t merely mean that guttural nonsense—that essentially male boasting—that we hear around lily pads and birdbaths on full moon nights in summer. No, you have to get past the stereotypical croaking, but I swear if you’re learned and patient, you can bear witness to academic frog discourse, knowledgeable medleys about shit as varied as thermodynamics and archery. Now and again, I’ve even piped in on biographical and confessional material, in modest good taste for the most part and of high enough universal value to be way above the drivel found inside our neighbors’ private diaries. But as I say, my ears have been cocked now on many a midsummer night, and I can confirm that one subject forever absent in frog recitals is you—you, you obvious and brazen cheater. But the green folk know all about your comin’ and goin’, even if they’re totally preserving your confidence, and I totally doubt that’s accidental, ’cause your filthy escapades are gossip elsewhere in our realm, and that makes ’em famous and historic enough to naturally draw scholarly attention. But my guess is that somehow, you’ve gotten through to the amphibians, you’ve matched green dollars against their wet, green skin and purchased total silence. O the fix is in throughout my world!