These may not have been written by Abby, but they have been twisted, darkened, and goth-ed the hell out by her. Enjoy!

Once upon a time there was a magnificent golden castle on a silver cloud, high in the sky. Which, has nothing to do with anything because out story is about an old wood-chopper who lived in a shack, but that?s no way to start a fairy tale. The old mad was very happy, but he had a daughter who was very?well?.plain. She was unhappy and, well, let?s be honest. She had a face like five miles of hard road, and an arse the size of a Lincoln Continental.

Anyway, it was time for her to marry, but because she was so fat and ugly, none of the young men of the kingdom ever came to ask for her hand. Or, any other part of her body, for that matter. Then, one day, the old man decided to cheer her up.

?Child, it is your birthday and I have brought you something to keep you from being so lonely.?

?A man?? She asked, giggling madly, buck teeth bared to the world.

?No.? Her father replied. ?A mule.?

He pointed to a brown, furry, four-legged grunting beast. Well, a mule wasn?t exactly the kind of companion she had in mind, but at least it was someone to talk to.

?Hi there, silly beast,? said the girl to the mule. ?I wonder if you were once a handsome prince changed into a mule by a wicked witch. If so, I could break the spell with a kiss.? She laid one on the mule, right on it?s lips, but to no avail. It was a mule, and had always been a mule.

The next day the old man instructed his daughter to take a bundle of sticks to the village.

?A bundle of sticks?!? she asked him, ?What for??

?How should I know,? said the old man. ?But someone is always carrying a bundle of sticks in fairy tales. You know that.?

So, the young girl took the bundle of sticks and decided to ride her trusty mule into the village. Just then, something strange happened. Unbeknownst to her, the moment she climbed on the mule?s back?.?POOF!??she turned into a vision of beauty. You know the type, blond hair, blue eyes, arse you could bounce a quarter off of.

"I get it now," she said out loud to no one in particular, as people in fairy tales sometimes do. "This is a magic mule. As long as I sit on the beast, I'm a beauty!"

The girl climbed back on the mule and..."POOF!" beautiful again. And the beauty and the beast dashed to find the prince. When he saw her coming, he rode up to her on his gallant steed.

"Ah, lovely beauty," he said, "I have found you again. Please say you will be mine so that we can be married."

"Yes, but on one condition," she said,"That I may remain on my mule at all times."

Of course, this was an odd request, but, thinking with one particular head instead of the other, he agreen readily to it.

"So be it, my love," he said. "And so that we may start off on the right foot-er..right hoof- I shall stay on my horse as long as you stay on your mule."

And thus they were married by a priest, who delivered the sermon on a donkey. As the years went by, the young girl was very happy, although the mule had one hell of a backache. True to his word, the prince also stayed on his horse. And as any good husband would, he took her dancing every Saturday night, where they were the most striking couple on the dance floor. Well, quadruple, on the dance floor.

One day, as the girl rode in the garden, whoosh her bonnet blew off in the wind. Not stopping to think, she hopped off her mule to get the hat and "POOF!"...she turned into an ugly old hag. Realizing her mistake, she scrambled to get back in the saddle again. But, it was too late, for just then the prince rode up.

"Pardon me, old hag. Have you seen my wife? Wait a minute, isn't that her mule?"

"Yes," blushed the old hag, "and I am your wife."

She sadly began to confess the whole story to her husband, but instead of being angry, he did an amazing thing. He clapped his hands and laughed for joy.

"I don't get it," said the girl, " Are you happy to find out that I am really ugly?"

"NO!" said the prince. "I am happy to know that I can finally get off this damned horse, for I am only a hansome prince when I stay on him."

And with that, the prince hopped off and..."POOF!"...he changed into one of the ugliest men ever to walk the Earth. He was fat and short and bald and full of warts, and his face looked like ten miles of hard road.

"Ugh! You're uglier than me!" shouted the girl with glee.

"We were meant for each other!" said the man, as they embraced.

And so, the ugly man and the ugly girl lived happily ever after.

Original Fairy Tale written by A. J. Jacobs, Beauty and the Beast

The Elves and the Shoemaker

(I apologize in advance to any of you who read this terrible story and become nauseated. My bad. I also apologize in advance for any offense any of my elven friends take to this story.)

Once upon a time, there was a painter. He was a good painter, and he made a modest living for his wife and himself. All was well, except for one thing: the painter didn?t want to be a painter. He wanted to be a shoemaker.

?I?m drudging my way through life!? he whined to his wife one morning. ?Every day, from nine to five, it?s canvas and landscapes and easels and, oh, it?s so dull. I want to do something creative!?

?But I always thought painting was creative,? said his wife. ?You deal with light and shade and perspective and such.?

?You call that creative?? the painter shook his head sadly. ?I?ll tell you creative. Making shoes, that?s creative. Something for the feet. Something for the feet. Something that lives. Something to last through eternity. Shoes that sing!?

But just then, the clock struck nine. Time for work. The painter shuffled off to the nearest still life, and with a sigh, began dabbling and swirling the canvas. ?I wish I were a shoemaker. I wish I were a shoemaker.?

POOF! The third time he said the magic phrase, an elf appeared. The patron elf of shoemakers.

?So you want to be like Herman Cappachino??

?Who are you and who is Herman Cappachino??

?No need to explain who I am,? said the elf, pointing out that he was already explained in a previous paragraph. ?But Herman Cappachino, he was just the greatest little shoemaker ever to live. When Napoleon tromped through Russia, whose shoes was he wearing? When Hannibal crossed the Alps? When Dorothy, that girl from Iowa or something, clicked her heels? Whose shoes did they have on? Herman Cappachino, that?s who.?

?Oooh,? said the painter. ?How can I be a famous shoemaker like Herman Cappachino??

?It ain?t easy,? replied the elf. ?You gotta suffer. You gotta spend time on the Left Bank of Paris. You gotta study. You gotta wear berets and develop poor hygiene habits.?

That night, the painter told his wife of his plans. She shook her head.

?Great shoemakers are not made,? she said. ?They are born. Why don?t you forget it and go back to something sensible, like your painting??

?NO!? shouted the painter, stamping his feet, and clenching his fists. ?Anyone can paint. I want to sit in cafes, discuss shoelace exhibitions, and make loafers in a garret. And above all, suffer!?

So, that night, the painter left for Paris. He entered the famous shoe school, Beau Chaussure, and under the tutelage of the famous, if unwashed, professor, Jean-Claude Louis-Mark-Paul, he learned all there was to know about shoemaking. He tool ?The History of the Heel in Eighteenth Century Brazil.? He read all the books on tongue theory and the practice. He wrote and essay called ?What Those Plastic Thingies on the End of Shoelaces Are Really Called.? But, alas, he never learned how to make a shoe that sang.

?If only I could make a shoe that sings of spring, of love. How can I make a shoe with a soul as well as a sole??

Just then, as he stood on Paris? main boulevard, pulling the rest of his hair out, he heard the most beautiful music. He followed the lovely sound. And there, on the feet of a goatee-wearing man, was a singing shoe. The shoe sang it?s song, then said, ?Thank you, thank you very much. You?ve been a great audience. And it?s for you, the audience, that I sing. Your appreciation is what??

?Now that is truly a shoe with a soul!? interrupted the painter. ?I must have that shoe!? He reached down and started pulling it off.

?What are you doing?? the man demanded.

?I just wanted to know where you bought your shoes.?

?I got them in Elvesville.?

Elvesville! Why, that was the painter?s home town! He had been suffering around Europe, when he could be home, making shoes that sing. So the painter returned to Elvesville and found that everyone in town was wearing the same exquisite singing shoes.

?Where did you get those exquisite shoes?? he asked a passerby.

?Twenty-three eleven South Budlong. You turn left, go about three??

?You don?t have to tell me! That?s my house!? the painter exclaimed.

And sure enough, when the painter got home, he found the walls of his cottage lined with exquisite shoes, all of them singing merrily away. And who did he find sitting behind the cobbler?s bench, but his wife!

?Why didn?t you tell me you made exquisite singing shoes?!? he asked.

?You never asked me.?

And so from that day on, the painter went back to the easel every day from nine to five. Eventually, his paintings started selling like hotcakes and he became a very famous painter indeed. His paintings hung in all the famous museums in Europe, but he never did become a shoemaker and had to be content with just being a wealthy man.

Which goes to prove, not everybody can be Herman Cappachino. Whatever that means.


Original written by A.J. Jacobs