The counselor was visibly nervous.
She rustled her papers and chewed the paint off her pencil. “Can I be brutally honest?” she asked.
“I’d prefer you sugar-coat it,” Glenda said.
“Alrighty then,” the counselor said, “Your career prospects are limited. You lack the looks for a fair maiden. You haven’t the smarts for wizardry and given that you flunked phy-ed, forget about a career in agriculture.”
“Do I have any options?” Glenda asked.
The counselor picked a chip of pencil off her teeth, “I can think of only one,” she said.
So Glenda changed her major to witchcraft but she was no better at it than she was at anything else.
She couldn’t handle a broom. She forgot her spells. She lacked the heart to scare children and the courage to scare their parents. The only thing she could master was turning things into amphibians – yet she scraped by.
A month prior to graduation, the counselor called her back in.
She was even more nervous.
“You aren’t much of a witch,” she said, chewing her nails, “besides the enlightenment has disrupted our business model and frankly, there is not much I can do for you.”
“How am I going to repay my loans?” cried Glenda.
“About that,” the counselor said, “I might have one opportunity but it isn’t much. There is a kingdom in the far, far north that been without a witch for decades. You will just have to make due.”
So Glenda journeyed to the far, far north to revive an abandoned practice.
What she found was worse than anything she imagined. The local population was so poor, so sickly and so devoid of hope that they lacked even the luxury of superstition.
Her office was a mere hovel in the woods – barely worthy of the name. The roof had fallen in, the wicker walls were no more than mouse nests and the hearth, a pile of rubble.
Undeterred Glenda set about cleaning it up – which all had to be done manually because she never mastered the broom. As she worked, the young prince of a nearby castle rode into her yard.
She was not impressed.
He was short, squat and had hair like a dirty mop. He couldn’t even sit on a horse properly. He was no prince charming and wasn’t all that bright either.
Nor was he impressed with her.
But call it what you will, perhaps the magnetism at the bottom of the barrel but both fell instantly and hopelessly in love.
Soon they were married and would have lived happily ever after – but for complications.
Within a year, the couple was blessed with a handsome and brilliant baby boy and with each passing year, the child became even more handsome and even more brilliant until it reached the point where neither parent could stand him.
“I am sick of being asked if he is really mine,” wailed the prince, who was now a king.
“And I am sick of the little snot correcting me every time I open my mouth,” griped the witch, who was now the queen.
“At least you can understand him,” complained the king, “half the time, I don’t know what language he is speaking.”
“He’s so vain,” sniped the queen, “when his little nose isn’t in a mirror, it’s in a copy of Maxim or GQ magazine.”
They both agreed the boy needed a lesson in humility.
“So what are you going to do?” the king asked.
“Me? You are the king,” exclaimed the queen, stating the obvious.
“Yeah but you’re a witch,” said the king.
Glenda didn’t have to think long about it because as a witch she only knew how to do one thing.
Many years later, a beautiful princess bounced a golden globe off the head of a frog who was lurking in a nearby pond.
“Shizzle!” cried the frog.