What did you expect?

A disney creation where the piles of paper joined to form arms, legs, head, hands?

Nope. Paper is paper guys, and piles of paper are, well, piles of paper.

It doesn’t make them safe though, think paper cuts, think razor sharp edges slicing through skin and clothes. Think paper flying through the air like a mini tornado had hit it.

That’s what it was like, running through the catacombs of the IRS - (Yes, I know the IRS doesn’t have catacombs but it’s my dream okay. I have no control over reality.) -and there’s this pile of papers swirling around like no ones business chasing me through cobwebs and a few other unmentionables.

I’m still trying to figure out what a washing line of Cheerleader underwear was doing down there – maybe some kind of tax concession?

Anyway I’m being chased by this storm, and suddenly I come to a dead end. A dead end with a cubicle, a desk and a frog.

“Hi,” the frog said. “I am a frog.”