I’m Jiminy Cricket—certified, bonafide, and downright petrified conscience-for-hire. Yep, I was the bug who got roped into being a life coach for a wooden puppet. Sounds noble, right? Trust me, it wasn’t. It was one of the most exhausting gigs I ever had. You’ve heard the sanitized version: a puppet, a fairy, and a little cricket gently guiding him on his moral journey with wisdom and integrity. Cute. But let me tell you, that’s just the fairy-tale, Disneyf-ied version. The real story? It’s about survival, manipulation, and the thankless task of babysitting a walking tree stump with delusions of grandeur.

The Recruitment

I didn’t start out hoping to become the conscience for some wooden kid who thought fire was a toy. No, I was… well, let’s just say I hadn’t volunteered for this. One moment, I was enjoying a perfectly quiet existence, and the next, a Blue Fairy dropped out of the sky like she was working the night shift at a glitter factory. I got recruited by a Blue Fairy who had this twitch is her eye like she was about one bad day away from turning people into frogs. She looked at me and said, “Hey, you, wanna help a puppet out? Make sure he’s good, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

I was tasked with “guiding” Pinocchio. By “tasked,” I mean she wasn’t really giving me a choice. It wasn’t really a question. More like a cosmic threat wrapped in sparkles. It was either that or, I don’t know, get zapped into oblivion by a very persistent Blue Fairy. Now, I may have been small, but I was no fool. A job’s a job, right? Besides, how hard could it be to babysit a hunk of wood?

The Fire Incident

It turned out, it was incredibly hard. The first time I met Pinocchio, he had been alive for about five minutes, and he was already causing chaos. So what did he do? He stuck his hand in a fire. A fire. And not even in a curious, “What is this?” kind of way. No, this kid looked at a flame and thought, “Let’s see what happens if I just... stick my wooden hand in it.” That was my introduction to the job.

That should’ve been my first warning sign, but no, I stayed optimistic. “This is just a warm-up,” I told myself. I’m Jiminy Cricket, certified life coach. “You’ve got this,” I thought. No, it only got worse from there. Pinocchio didn’t listen to a word I said. In fact, I’m pretty sure he thought I was some kind of optional accessory, not the voice of reason.

Pinocchio had the attention span of a gnat. No sooner had I warned him about staying on the straight and narrow than he was running after a pair of crooks—a fox and a cat who could’ve been the poster children for bad decisions. I tried to intervene, really, I did. But let’s face it: I’m an insect, and he’s a walking pile of bad decisions with no survival instincts. It was like trying to teach a log how to swim.

The kid ran off the first chance he got. Just up and bolted out the door like a squirrel on caffeine. And who did he run into? A fox and a cat. And not the friendly kind, either. These two looked like they’d been rolling in garbage for fun. Pinocchio, of course, didn’t ask me for advice. He was too busy chasing the next shiny thing. The moment he got distracted, I tried to shout, “Hey, don’t follow them!” But did he listen? Of course not. I was yelling into the wind at this point.

The Nose

Let’s talk about the nose. You’ve seen the whole “nose grows when he lies” bit, right? You think that’s funny? Try standing next to him. Every lie was a near-death experience. One little white lie, and suddenly there was a wooden spear shooting out of his face. It wasn’t charming, it was hazardous. It was like dodging spears. I’ve lost count of how many times I had to duck or take cover because Pinocchio couldn’t tell a simple truth. My life turned into an obstacle course, thanks to this walking lie detector.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Exaggeration? Sure. But when your job involved dodging javelins made of wood every time your charge got a bit creative with the truth, you started wondering if this was really worth it. I swear, I developed PTSD—Puppet-Trouble Stress Disorder.

Pleasure Island

And then, of course, came Pleasure Island. The name is misleading. It was less “pleasure” and more “let’s see how many ways we can turn children into jackasses.” And I mean that literally. It’s like someone said, “What if we made a theme park that combined bad decisions and criminal negligence?” Naturally, Pinocchio thought it was heaven on Earth. I warned Pinocchio about that place. I said, “Listen, buddy, this isn’t the kind of place where you just play a few games and go home with a goldfish in a plastic bag.” Did he listen? Of course not. The next thing I knew, he was puffing cigars and smashing things, having the time of his life. A puppet smoking cigars. The irony was lost on him.

Half the time, I was just yelling into the wind while Pinocchio did the exact opposite of what I said. I told him, “Stay away from the carnival, it’s full of crooks,” and what did he do? He joined a puppet show! I told him, “Don’t follow that fox and cat, they’re up to no good,” and the next thing I knew, he had sold himself for a pocketful of fake gold. It’s like talking to a piece of wood… Oh, wait.

And that’s when it happened. The donkey ears. The tail. The braying. I was sitting there, watching him turn into a donkey, and all I could think was, “This kid just turned into livestock, and somehow it’s still my problem.” I tried to tell him that bad choices have consequences, but did he listen? No. Did I know how to reverse spontaneous donkey transformations? Also no. But I kept going, because at that point, I was invested—against my better judgment.

Ever tried giving life advice to someone sprouting donkey parts? Yeah, it’s not easy. There he was, part-boy, part-donkey, looking at me like I had all the answers. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to figure out how we got from “Don’t lie” to “Welcome to the donkey life.” But sure, somehow it’s still my problem to fix.

The Whale Incident

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, we ended up in the belly of a whale. Yes, a whale. At this point, I wasn’t even surprised. I mean, why not? A puppet, a cricket, and an old man got swallowed by a whale—sounds like the setup to a bad joke, right? Well, it wasn’t. It was dark, it was smelly, and I was knee-deep in whale guts trying to figure out how I’d gone from offering sage advice to nearly drowning in a whale’s stomach.

Pinocchio, in his infinite wisdom, decided the best way to escape was to start a fire inside the whale. Because apparently, nothing says “smart idea” like barbecuing your way out of a living creature. I may not be a marine biologist, but even I know lighting a fire in a whale’s belly isn’t exactly ideal. Real responsible behavior there, Pinocchio. I mean, I thought I was supposed to be the conscience, but at that point, I was just trying to figure out how to write my will.

Yet, somehow, by sheer dumb luck, it worked. The whale sneezed us out, and we were free—soaked, traumatized, and smelling like seafood, but free.

The (Questionable) Happy Ending

And after all of that—the lying, the running off, the donkey transformation, the whale fiasco—what did Pinocchio get? He got turned into a real boy. Yep, the Blue Fairy showed up, waved her magic wand, and suddenly Pinocchio was a walking, talking human. Me? I got a pat on the back, a song no one remembers, and zero retirement plan.

If you’re wondering if I got any special reward for keeping a reckless wooden puppet alive, the answer is no. I didn’t even get a new umbrella out of the deal.

And let’s talk about the Blue Fairy, shall we? She could’ve saved us so much trouble by just handling things from the start. But no, she waited until the end, swooped in with her magic, and fixed everything after I’d already been put through a series of disasters that no bug should ever have to endure. Real helpful. Thanks for that.

Final Word of Advice

So, yeah, that’s the real story. I’m Jiminy Cricket—overworked, underappreciated, and probably just a couple of bad decisions away from early retirement. If a fairy ever offers you a job as someone’s conscience, do yourself a favor: hop the other way.

The end.