A fable
The Princess of Snails in the garden behind the house numbered 273 on the avenue named Atlas declared that she required a Consort for the good of the species and its propagation thereof. A proclamation was read to all the eligible bachelor snails that a great contest would be held to determine who was most worthy of the Princess’s affections.
As the Princess was a most delightful concoction of all that makes female snails wonderful, there was not one single male snail that did not wish to compete for her antenna. Not to mention the wealth and belongings that accompanied her: the verdant leaf palace, the dew fountain, the tender grass beds for lounging and nourishment.
The day of the contest all the male snails appeared wearing special outfits as befit  the occasion, tall fancy hats made of flower petals were popular, while others had chevrons attached to their eye stalks.
Meanwhile Salivatin’ Sid Snail, who had no costume, nor fancy hat, nor chevron was telling no one but himself, “I was going to pick up a costume but I had to work up a head of steam to get to the shop and I just didn’t get there in time.”
The first test was a race to see who could go the furthest in an hour. Many female snail hearts fluttered to see the finest specimens of snail manhood fight against all the constraints nature set in their way in order to be the fastest snail of the day. In fact, both the first and second place winners expired on the spot, their tiny tender hearts bursting as a result of their extravagant strenuous efforts.
Meanwhile Salivatin’ Sid Snail who had yet to pass the starting line was telling no one but himself, “I would have raced but I need to work up a head of steam to get going and there just isn’t enough time in an hour.”
The next test was a contest of strength. Snail contestants were matched one against another in a tug of war. Only the winners advanced. Again, many female snails couldn’t help but admire the raw strength being displayed by the lusty combatants. Again, casualties, fatalities occurred. These mishaps didn’t deter the rest of the contestants. No, indeed, they seemed to inspire the remaining snails to greater feats of strength and effort, regardless of the cost to their frail selves.
Meanwhile Salivatin’ Sid Snail was the snail to beat in tug of war. No one could move him. Unaware he was winning, Salvatin Sid said to no one in particular, “It’s not my fault I’m not pulling; I need to work up a head of steam is all.” Despite his protestations, Sid was named the winner of the strength contest, because no one could make him budge.
Next came The Sandbox of Death challenge. The first snail to crawl across a piece of sandpaper that had fallen out of the garden shed in the backyard would win the contest. Eager snails pushed and shoved each other out of the way as they charged across the sandpaper. Sorrowfully, very few managed to make it across. Gallant, desiccated, snails lay where they fell, sucked from their shells by the aridity of the sandpaper. The valiants that littered the playing field, all the female snails agreed, were signs of the seriousness of the contest, the worth of the prize that waited at the end: the Princess!
Meanwhile Salivatin’ Sid Snail took one look at what was going on and said, “This is best of four right? I’m up one. I’m taking a pass on this. Save my steam for the last test.” Sid didn’t budge. No one tried to make him. Snails are smart that way; they don’t mess with winners.
The final test was simple: crawl across a straight razor to the Princess who awaited her champion, lightly hidden from sight behind a lace like leaf that revealed just enough to drive any male snail mad with desire. By now, very few male snails were left, but those who were jostled for the chance to be first to crawl to the Princess.
Meanwhile Salivatin’ Sid Snail said to no one in particular, though by now some snails were listening, “Stand back, I’m going to build up a head of steam.”
Salivatin’ Sid watched snail after snail go ahead of him. Badly dehydrated after competing in The Sandbox of Death, none succeeded. Their slime ran out halfway across the razor and every one of them found themselves cut in two, snippity-slice. When all was said and done, the snails that went first turned into food for birds and bugs.
Meanwhile Salivatin’ Sid Snail continued to build up a head of steam. The sun crossed the sky, followed by the summer moon. The summer moon rose and fell. “All right already, get movin’ why dontcha,” shouted one loud wisenheimer. Then, just as the first colours of dawn returned to the world, Salivatin’ Sid Snail shouted “Give me room!” and began to slide across the razor.
To say he slid would fail to describe the grace of his glide, the mighty massive manliness of his great foot, the charm he oozed, the confidence he smeared over the razor in great glistening gobs as he seemed to drift his way to the Princess. Crossing the deadly razor, he slithered to the leaf curtain, tore it aside and tangled the Princess in his eye and olfactory stalks, and launched his love dart at her, just to let her know he was a serious male snail bent on romance.
“Oh, what a man!” said the Princess. “Please be gentle.”
“Don’t worry,” said Salivatin’ Sid, “I like to take my time.”
The moral is: he who is slowest wins in a contest of snails.