Tarzan is Elsa’s Little Brother and Now All of My Tarzan/Elsa Erotic Fanfic is Totally Ruined

The director of the smash Disney animated hits “Frozen” and “Tarzan” just revealed that he likes to imagine that Tarzan is Anna and Elsa’s little brother, which for all intents and purposes flushes all of my Tarzan/Elsa erotic fanfic right down the goddamn toilet. I know it might be fun to think that Anna and Elsa’s parents, the King and Queen of Arendelle, don’t die when their ship wrecks and wash up on a jungle island and give birth to a baby boy who ends up being raised by gorillas, but now I look like some kind of incest-loving freak when I’m just a guy that likes to fantasize about the erotic encounters of characters from the Disney animation universe who are NOT biologically related.

I’m not trying to get down on anyone’s kinks, mind you. The Disney animation erotic fanfic community is a “big tent.” A little piece about Lumiere jagging one out to Sultan while he sleeps? Be my guest, buddy. A three-parter where Mufasa appears in the night sky to impart fatherly wisdom to Simba and then give his salad a hard toss? Hakuna matata, friendo. My own personal tastes tend to lean a little more “vanilla” is all. Just give me a couple of characters from a children’s animated musical meeting, seducing, and plowing the hell out of one another and I’m a happy man.

My take on Elsa and Tarzan is a classic tale of opposites attract featuring some of my nieces and nephews favorite fictional heroes. You got Tarzan, the ape-man, from a steamy jungle island. He’s hot, hot, hot! You got Elsa, The Snow Queen, from northern land of Arendelle. She’s cold, cold, cold! Hot! Cold! Hot! Cold! And when fire meets ice, someone’s bound to get wet. (“When fire meets ice, someone’s bound to get wet” is literally the tag line I used on my /fanfic subreddit post and it has since received over 110 upvotes.) I wasn’t trying to do any twisted brother/sister shit. I just wanted to share what I imagined it would be like if two cartoons started going all out buck on one another.

Not that it even matters anymore, but here’s how I had it all going down: Desperate to learn more about her parents’ fate (Emotion helps build the sexy!), Elsa sets sail for the southern seas. (Adventure also helps build the sexy!) After weeks of travel across open waters supplies begin to run low (Danger is another thing that builds the sexy!), the crew starts begging Elsa to turn back, but she refuses. (Conviction big time builds the sexy!) Finally, Olaf the snowman spots a lush, green island where the only sign of human life is an abandoned ship on the beach. Despite the possible danger (More danger! More sexy!) Elsa decides to stop anyway to search for traces of her parents. (Conviction! Sexy, remember?!) Once ashore, Elsa discovers Tarzan, who is still mourning the loss of his wife, Jane, (Emotion! Still sexy!) who died from a nasty parasitic infection that she contracted while boning Tarzan in a shallow pool of jungle water. (Past danger! Past sexy!) Elsa delights and cheers the simple apeman with her ice magic (Magic is no brainer sexy!) and the two soon begin porking in many different ways in many different places on the island in front of many different types of animals. (Variety. Is. The. Spice. Of. Sexy!) But like I said before, it’s not like the circumstances I came up with to make two moving drawings do it even matter anymore, now that those moving drawings might be brother and sister. Gross.

Maybe the part where Sven the reindeer fucks the leopardess that ate Tarzan’s parents is still salvageable, but I honestly don’t know if I could parse it out from the rest of the story at this point. Thanks to “Frozen” and “Tarzan” director Chris Buck’s big mouth, even a simple description of a pretend, anthropomorphic reindeer having its way with a pretend, anthropomorphic leopardess somehow feels perverse and tainted.

Frankly, I’m disappointed in Chris Buck. As an artist, he should know that once he releases a piece of work into the world, he can’t keep tinkering with it. It doesn’t belong to him anymore. It belongs to his audience. It belongs to every little boy that can’t stop giggling at Olaf’s silly antics. It belongs to every little girl who sings along to “Let it Go” at the top of her lungs. And it belongs to every grown adult who wants to dream up ways for the people in the kid’s movies to screw the living daylights out one another without the fear of looking like some kind of deviant.

For shame, sir. For shame.