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In the lively city of New Orleans, where jazz floats through the streets and powdered sugar drifts through the air like tiny snowflakes, there lived a gorilla named Bubba.
Now, most gorillas are known for climbing trees or thumping their chests or eating bananas—but Bubba was famous for something much more unusual.
Bubba loved to blow bubbles.
Not just regular bubbles…
the biggest, brightest, most magical bubbles the city had ever seen.
Bubba lived near Audubon Park, in a cheerful little cottage decorated with Mardi Gras beads and palm fronds. Every morning he padded outside with his giant bucket of bubble solution, dipped his gigantic bubble wand (made from two broomsticks and a jump rope), and took a deep gorilla breath:
HOOOOO-WOOOOOOSH!
And out floated a bubble bigger than a parade float.
Sometimes the bubbles shimmered purple and green like Mardi Gras.
Sometimes they sparkled gold like the Superdome at sunset.
And once, Bubba blew a bubble shaped like a trumpet that actually played jazz as it floated away.
The whole neighborhood adored Bubba’s bubbles.
Kids chased them across the park, laughing as they popped with musical little pop-pop-pops.
Artists painted them.
Grandparents clapped from their porches.
Even the ducks quacked in approval.
But Bubba wasn’t always confident.
Some people said gorillas shouldn’t blow bubbles—that it was silly, or pointless, or too messy.
Every time someone said that, Bubba’s chest sank a little, and his bubbles came out small and droopy.
One Spring day, Bubba was invited to give a bubble show in front of the whole city. But just as he lifted his bubble wand, some teenagers snickered:
“Look at that! A bubble-blowing gorilla? That’s ridiculous!”
Bubba froze. His hands trembled. The big wand slipped and splashed soap everywhere. He felt his heart sink into his toes.
Just then, a tiny voice squeaked up from the front row.
“Don’t listen to them, Bubba!” said little Dewdrop the Duckling (yes, the Dewdrop who once found her courage). “You make people happy. That’s brave.”
The crowd murmured, then began to cheer—softly at first, then louder:
“Do it, Bubba! We believe in you!”
Bubba wiped his eyes, lifted his wand, and took a deep breath filled with jazz notes, powdered sugar air, and every ounce of courage he had.
HOOOOOO-WOOOOOOSH!
Out floated a bubble so huge it reflected the whole city inside it—Jackson Square, the riverboat steamboats, Café Du Monde, St. Charles streetcars, and every cheering face watching.
The band struck up a second-line rhythm. People danced behind the bubble, waving handkerchiefs. Children jumped so high they almost touched it. Even the teenagers stared in awe.
The bubble glided toward the river like a glowing hot-air balloon, then burst into a shower of sparkling confetti that rained gently onto the crowd.
Bubba bowed.
The city roared with applause.
And from that day forward, he never doubted himself again.
Every afternoon, you can still find him in Audubon Park, blowing bubbles that dance like jazz notes on the wind—reminding everyone that joy is powerful, creativity is magical, and the silliest things sometimes matter the most.
And if you listen closely, you might hear Bubba whisper to the breeze:
“Be bold. Be bright. Blow your bubbles.”
