The Parable of the Time-Out Step

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, is the biggest lie at a White House press conference that anyone expects anyone to tell the truth?”

Josh spoke thus:

A child was sitting on the time-out step.

“I didn’t do anything,” the child protested.

“You were rude to our guest,” the child’s parent said.

“I said he was a liar,” the child said, “He lied.”

“He didn’t lie,” the child’s parent said, “He said the dinner I cooked was excellent.”

“It wasn’t excellent,” the child said, “It was just good.”

“Be careful what you say about that dinner,” the parent said, “You’re already on my bad side tonight.”

“Do you think it was excellent?” the child asked.

The parent thought for a moment.

“Move over,” the parent said to the child.  The child slid over, and the parent joined the child on the time-out step.

“Why are you sitting on the time-out step?” the child asked the parent.

“Because I lied,” the parent said, “I agreed the dinner was excellent.”

The child shifted uncomfortably.

“You don’t have to sit on the time-out step,” the child said, “You didn’t say it was excellent.  You didn’t lie.”

“It’s a kind of lie,” the parent said, “Allowing a lie to go unchallenged is a kind of lie.”

The child and the parent shared a moment of silence.

“I didn’t allow the lie to go unchallenged,” the child said.

“No, you didn’t lie,” the parent said.

“So why do I have to sit on the time-out step?” the child asked.

“I told you, because you were rude to my date,” the parent said.

“It wasn’t my date,” the child said, “And I didn’t lie.”

“Hey you two!” the parent’s date said, entering the hallway where the time-out step was, “What are you doing out here?”

“We’re on the time-out step,” the parent said.

“I’m here because I was rude,” the child said, “Not because I lied.”

“I’m here because I lied,” the parent said.

“You lied too,” the child told the parent’s date.

“I’m sorry I lied,” the parent’s date said, “When did I lie?”

“You lied when you said the dinner was excellent,” the parent said.

“I didn’t lie!” the parent’s date said, “The dinner was excellent!”

The child and the parent both looked at the parent’s date.

“Move over,” the parent’s date said.  The child and the parent shifted over and the parent’s date sat next to the parent.

The child, the parent and the parent’s date all sat in silence on the step.

“This is the best time-out ever,” the child said at last.

The parent said, “That’s no lie!”

The child asked, “If I didn’t lie, can I go?”

The parent replied, “I think it would be a good idea for you to go.”

The child left.  The parent turned to the parent’s date.

“Lie to me,” the parent said.

The Parable of the Rebel Messenger

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, when voices call us to action for the wrong reasons, when they call us for what might be good reasons, how should we act?”

Josh spoke thus:

A rebel messenger rushed into a room of fellow rebels, shouting, ”Government troops are coming!  Government troops are coming!”

The rebel messenger had expected everyone in the room to rush to arms.  Nobody in the room rushed to arms.

“To arms, brothers!  To arms!” the rebel messenger shouted, “Government troops are coming!”

A pair of rebels were playing chess in a corner of the room.  Neither chess player looked up from the board.  The rebel messenger approached them.

“Up, brothers, up!” the rebel messenger said to the chess players, “Government troops are coming!”

“Government troops, yeah,” one of the chess players said, not looking at the rebel messenger. 

“Are you going to move or not?” the other chess player asked the first chess player.

“Move!” the rebel messenger shouted, “Move!  Yes!  Everyone needs to move!  Government troops are coming!”

The first chess player grumbled and shifted a white bishop from one side of the board to the center.

“There,” the first chess player said, “I’ve moved.”

The rebel messenger spun away from the chess board and stepped up on a nearby table, knocking off plates and cups while doing so.  Those seated at the table protested.

“It’s time, brothers!” the rebel messenger cried, “Our moment has come!  Government troops are on the move!  They’ve taken the bait!”

“Like they took the bait last week?” one of the seated rebels asked.

“It was good bait,” the rebel messenger said, “Government troops should have come!”

“But they didn’t come, did they?” the second chess player asked, reaching to move a black knight out of danger from the white bishop in the middle of the board.

“And you knew they weren’t coming,” another of the seated rebels said, “But you came rushing in to tell us they were.”

“And we rushed to arms,” the first seated rebel said, “And no government troops came.”

“We needed to show strength,” the rebel messenger said.

“Just like we needed to show strength a month ago?” asked a rebel standing against a wall.

“And the month before that?” a rebel in the kitchen called out.

“We must always show strength!” the rebel messenger said, “So that when government troops come, we’ll be strong!”

“You lied to us,” a rebel said.

“I prepared you,” the rebel messenger said.

“You always lie to us,” the first chess player said.

“We need to be prepared!” the rebel messenger said.

“So are we being prepared now, or are government troops coming now?” the second chess player asked.

“We need to be prepared!” the rebel messenger said, “Government troops are coming!”

“Checkmate,” the first chess player said to the second chess player.

The Parable of the Two Martyrs

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, in a world of random mass killings, political grandstanding over gun possession, fiscal justifications as arguments for and against wars that kill tens of thousands and a population desensitized by constant media sensationalism, has terrorism been relegated to a form of publicity stunt?”

Josh spoke thus:

A martyr was going to be late.

“This happens every time,” the martyr said.

“Every time?” a fellow martyr asked the martyr, “How many times have you been martyred?”

“Well, not being martyred, obviously,” the martyr said, “I just mean whenever I have something important to do, there’s a delay.”

“I don’t see any problem with a delay,” the fellow martyr said.

“It’s not this delay I have a problem with in particular,” the martyr said, “It’s the fact that there is always a delay.”

“Like when, for instance?” the fellow martyr asked.

“For instance, like for my wedding,” the martyr said, “My grandparent was sick, died almost, so I had to delay my wedding.”

“Did your grandparent hate your future spouse so much your grandparent almost died?” the fellow martyr said.

“Don't be funny,” the martyr said, “There was a tremendous fuss.  The wedding was almost canceled.”

“So you’re married?” the fellow martyr asked, and you want to be a martyr?”

“I learned it from my spouse,” the martyr said.

“Now who’s being funny?” the fellow martyr asked.

“My spouse was martyred,” the martyr said, “In a government raid.  The government came in and slaughtered half the village.”

“Is that martyrdom or victimhood?” the fellow martyr asked.

“We are in a war,” the martyr said, “Anyone who dies is a martyr.”

“So are you looking to be a martyr or are you looking for revenge?” the fellow martyr asked.

“The two can be mutually exclusive but parallel,” the martyr said, “Why are you here?”

“I am here for the same purpose as you,” the fellow martyr said.

“I mean, why did you join the cause?” the martyr said, “What is your motivation?  Who died?”

“Nobody died,” the fellow martyr said, “I am a political refugee.”

“You mean you’re unemployed?” the martyr asked.

“I’m an alienated youth passed over by a society that values global profit over the needs of the people,” the fellow martyr said.

“Now who’s claiming victimhood?” the martyr asked.

“I just want to get on this flight,” the fellow martyr said.

“Maybe you should apply for a job as an air traffic controller,” the martyr said, “Then you would have a job, and I could be on time for a change.”

“It’s embarrassing being late for your own martyrdom,” the fellow martyr said.

The martyr replied, “Word that.”

The Parable of the Optimist and the Pessimist Observing Spring

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, why does a sunny spring day fill me with melancholy?”

Josh spoke thus:

A pessimist and an optimist were strolling down a street in early spring.  The sun was shining, the flowering bushes and trees were budding, and the non-flowering bushes and trees were full of bright-green miniature foliage.

“It’s all going to die,” the pessimist said.

“It’s nature,” the optimist said, “The cycle will bring rebirth next spring.”

“That’s a whole year away,” the pessimist said.

“In the meantime, you’ve got this year to enjoy,” the optimist said.

“Spring is so short,” the pessimist said.

“Summer is long,” the optimist said.

“Winter is longer,” the pessimist said.

“Spring, summer and autumn combined are longer than winter,” the optimist said.

“There are more days when frost is a possibility in a year than there are days when frost isn’t a possibility.  There’s frost in spring and there’s frost in autumn,” the pessimist said.

“Frost stops the flowers from sprouting too early in the spring,” the optimist said, “And frost brings fall colors.”

“Frost doesn’t bring fall colors,” the pessimist said, “The change in the angle of the sun brings fall colors.” 

“But the fall colors are brightest when highlighted by frost,” the optimist said.

“If you like that sort of thing,” the pessimist said.

“I happen to know that you happen to like that sort of thing,” the optimist said.

“Fall fits my mood,” the pessimist said, “It reminds everybody that things die.”

“Why is it so important to know things die?” the optimist asked.

“Don’t try that trick on me,” the pessimist said, “Don’t say that knowing our time is limited makes us appreciate our time all the more. I’d just as soon appreciate my time forever.”

“But you know you won’t appreciate your time forever,” the optimist said, “And yet you still appreciate autumn.”

“It’s because I know I’m not dead,” the pessimist said, “Seeing all those things dying in the fall, I know I’m not dying.  I like that.”

“And spring tells you that when everything died in the fall, you didn’t die,” the optimist said.

“Exactly,” the pessimist said, “Every year, it’s born, every year it dies, then the following year, I’m there to see it live and die again.”

“So why are you complaining that it’s all going to die?” the optimist asked.

The pessimist replied, “Who’s complaining?”

The Parable of the Trees

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how can local economic interests be harnessed to retard global deforestation?”

Josh spoke thus:

A government inspector had been sent into the woods.

“He wants to inspect?” one of the locals said to a neighbor, “We’ll give him something to inspect!”

The neighbor laughed, and the two of them watched as the inspector disappeared behind the scrub that marked the edge of the woods.

“These college boys think they know a thing or two,” the local said to the neighbor, “They talk about global warming.  They talk about acid rain.  They talk about glaciers.”

“What do I care about glaciers?” the neighbor said, “I ain’t never needed a glacier.”

“And polar bears.  And tree frogs.  And pygmy owls,” the local said.

“If I saw a polar bear I’d shoot it,” the neighbor said.

“You gotta shoot it,” the local said, “Polar bears don’t know nothing but killing.”

“Polar bears kill first, ask questions after,” the neighbor said.

“They don’t even ask questions after,” the local said, “Who they gonna ask?”

“Ain’t no one gonna answer ain’t been eaten,” the neighbor said.

“That college boy won’t find no bears in them woods,” the local said.

“No sir,” the neighbor said, “Won’t find no pygmy frogs nor tree owls neither.”

“Won’t stop him looking, though, I’ll wager,” the local said.

“Them college boys is always looking,” the neighbor said.

“They ain’t never seeing, that’s the problem,” the local said.

“They oughta ask who knows,” the neighbor said.

“They oughta ask us,” the local said.

“Look at them woods, for example” the neighbor said.

“Didn’t take no climatologist to make them woods,” the local said.

“Didn’t take no Al Gore, and didn’t take no Audubon Society,” the neighbor said.

“It took people saw there needed to be woods,” the local said, “Else there wouldn’t be no wood.  People need wood.”

“Common sense,” the neighbor said.

The inspector came out of the woods.

“Remarkable!” the inspector said, “A sustainable, commercial ecosystem!”

“You didn’t get lost in there, I guess,” the local said.

“But how did you do it?”  the inspector said, “How did you know how to balance the system?”

The local shrugged and said, “We’re farmers.  Give us something worth planting, we plant.  Planting’s what we do.”

The neighbor said, “You plant, things grow.  It ain’t rocket science.”

The Parable of the King of One Hundred Wives

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, is the one-hundredth mile a significant mile if the mile is unmarked?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was a king who had one hundred wives.  The king would sleep with each wife in succession, one a night, faithfully rotating through the one hundred.

The king did not know the names of his wives.  The faces of some he recognized from passing them in the corridors of the palace.  Some he found pretty, some he found less attractive.  The king had no favorites.  The kind held no grudges.  The king slept with his wives, one a night, in a regular one-hundred-night cycle.

The king’s advisor kept a list.

“Who is it tonight?” the king would ask the advisor, and the advisor would inform the king of which wife would be the king’s consort.

“I like her,” the king would say, if he remembered the wife and liked her.

“I don’t like her,” the king would say, if he remembered the wife and didn’t like her.

Mostly the king would nod with royal decorum and ask, “Who is visiting tonight?” or “What’s on the menu for dinner?” or even, “Who’s on the menu for tonight?” if the king was feeling playful.

The advisor would never betray emotion when informing the king of who was visiting, what was on the menu for dinner or who was on the menu for the night.  The advisor would inform the king of the visiting dignitary, emissary or ambassador.  The advisor would inform the king of the courses that would comprise the dinner.  The advisor would inform the king of the king’s companion for dinner and for the night.  

The wife who would spend the night would always be the king’s companion at dinner.  Sometimes this was delightful.  Sometimes this was a bore.  Most times it was what it was, a conversation and a partner in bed.

The purpose of the hundred wives was alliances, not companionship.  The king had many allies.  

This was why the king rotated his wives systematically.  Showing a favorite would offend ninety-nine other wives, and by proxy offend ninety-nine allies.  

This was why the king had no offspring born of his wives.  To impregnate a wife would be not to impregnate ninety-nine other wives.  Again, ninety-nine allies would be jeopardized.

This was why the king had a concubine.  This was why the king’s concubine was the mother of the king’s two sons.  Some day the king would have to work out who would inherit his kingdom.  He had no legitimate heirs.  He had two sons.

Perhaps, the king mused one day, he should have the sons killed.  They were a complication.  He would consider the quandary.  First, however, a more pressing matter was at hand.

“Who’s on the menu for tonight?” the king asked his advisor.

The Parable of the Young Woman Accused of Being a Witch

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, are not the rights due all persons accused of a crime the same under the law?”

Josh spoke thus:

A bailiff was called to oversee the trial of a woman accused of being a witch.  A mob had gathered around the woman.  She was young and attractive.

“Who accuses this woman of being a witch?” the bailiff asked the crowd.

“I accuse her,” an older man said.  The man was not attractive.

“What has she done to you, old man?” the bailiff asked the older man, “Has she destroyed your crops?”

“I have no crops,” the older man said, “I am a miller.”

“Well, miller,” the bailiff said, “Has she done something to your mill?  To your flour?”

“My mill and my flour are unharmed,” the miller said.

“She has bewitched my husband!” the miller’s wife said, stepping out of the crowd.  The miller’s wife was also not attractive.

“How has she bewitched your husband?” the bailiff asked the miller’s wife.

“She has bewitched his eyes, she has bewitched his heart,” the miller’s wife said, “My husband has not looked at another woman since our betrothal, and now his head is turned every day when this witch passes to the meadow to tend the cattle.”

The bailiff looked at the miller’s wife and looked at the young woman accused of being a witch.  The bailiff concluded that the young woman needed no witchcraft to turn any man’s head, especially any man married to the miller’s wife.

“Have you any evidence?” the bailiff asked the miller and his wife.

“I have told you!” the miller’s wife said, “What more evidence do you need?  Even now, he can’t keep his eyes off her.”

The miller quickly averted his eyes to the ground.

“I demand a trial!” the miller’s wife said.  She moved to her husband’s side.  “We demand a trial!  Don’t we, darling?”

“We demand a trial,” the miller mumbled.

“This is a trial,” the bailiff said.

“We demand a proper trial,” the bailiff’s wife said, “A proper witch’s trial!  We demand she be thrown into the pond!  If she floats, she is a witch and must be burned.  If she sinks, she is innocent.”

“Either way, she dies,” the bailiff said.

“We have the right to a trial!” the miller’s wife said.

“We want a trial!” the crowd chanted, “We want a trial!”

The bailiff raised his hands.

“People!  People!  What is this trial you demand?  The days of such madness are passed!  We do not try innocence and guilt by chance!  We consider the evidence!  We weigh the sides of the argument!  We are a nation of reason!  We are a nation of rational laws!  Our citizens have rights!”

“She’s a foreigner,” the miller’s wife said.

“Is this true?” the bailiff asked the woman accused of being a witch.

The woman accused of being a witch nodded.

“Right, then,” the bailiff said, “The pond it is!”

The Parable of the Artist’s Eternal Act

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, is art eternal that is ephemeral?”

Josh spoke thus:

An artist was in search of a medium.

The artist visited Stonehenge.  Stonehenge had lasted for over ten thousand years.  Yet Stonehenge was being weathered away.

The artist visited the Pyramids.  The Pyramids were younger than Stonehenge and they were in worse shape.  The white stone that had once made them almost unbearably bright in the desert sun now glowered with soot below the minarets of Cairo.

The Colossus of Rhodes was extinct, as was Alexandria’s lighthouse.  Babylon’s hanging gardens were recently rumored never to have existed at all.

Altimira and Lascaux had their caves, but they were barely accessible, and the tourists were destroying them.

In Rome and Greece, acid rain had flattened the noses of the gods.  In Afghanistan, the Taliban had flattened the Buddhas.  During World War II the Allies had flattened Dresden.

The artist considered literature.  Yes, books withered and worms burrowed, and libraries burned, but words were in the ether.  The Pentateuch was an oral tradition long before the scribes of Jerusalem, and the Iliad and the Odyssey were performed by firelight before they were committed to papyrus.  Shakespeare’s plays were plays--performances.  They were committed to quartos eventually, but their words were spoken first, recorded later.  And with modern electronics, be it a momentary haiku or a sweeping novel, the word had been reintroduced to the ether: in the Cloud.  

And words were eternal were they not? In the beginning was the Word, Luke said.  And in the end the Alpha would be the Omega.  The word was destined to remain.

But how many people could read Luke in the original Greek?  How many Greeks, even, could read Homer’s words as originally set down?  Even Shakespeare, hundreds of years ago, complained of Cicero in the Greek.  And who could read Shakespeare, even, now?

The word might have been eternal, but its meaning was fleeting.

Music, then, that soothed the savage breast?  Everyone loved a good tune.  Some loved a bad tune or two as well.  Songs, the artist knew, were traveling by radio wave across the universe.  The artist wondered where those songs would go, and who would hear them when they got there.

A tune then, but how to make it last forever?  What was forever?  From the beginning to the end.  The artist had missed the beginning, so what was the point of the end?  How could the artist begin at the beginning and last until the end?

“You want to sing to a Higgs-Boson particle?” the physicist asked the artist, “Why?”

“Because the Higgs-Boson is the beginning and the end, the alpha and omega.  The Higgs-Boson is eternal.”

“The Higgs-Boson lasts about as long as it takes for an electronic device to measure it.  It’s the least eternal particle I know of,” the physicist says.

“And for the entire existence of the Higgs-Boson, my song will be eternal,” the artist said.

“Sing for twenty-four hours, and your song will be eternal for a fruit fly,” the physicist said, “And the fruit fly might actually hear the song.”

And that is why the artist performs daily in the children’s hospice, painting, acting, singing, playing tunes.  Because everyone loves a good tune.  A good tune lasts forever.

The Parable of the Child’s Foot

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, is the rule of law a law of rules, or is it something more?”

Josh spoke thus:

A child was not stepping onto the lawn.  The child had been told not to step onto the lawn.  The child wanted to step onto the lawn.  The child’s foot was raised.  The child’s toe was pointed at the meeting of lawn and path.  The child’s toe was approaching the lawn.  The child was hesitant.

“Put your foot down,” the child’s parent told the child.

“If I put my foot down, it will be on the lawn,” the child said.  Technically this was true.  While the child’s foot was not on the lawn, the child’s foot was above the lawn.  Were the child to have lowered the foot directly down, the child’s foot would have been on the lawn.  The child had been told not to step on the lawn, and the parent’s instruction was now clearly to step on the lawn.

“You know what I mean,” the parent said.

The child did know what the parent meant.  The child knew that the parent meant that the child should place the foot on the path.  But that was not what the parent had said.

“I’m not stepping on the lawn,” the child said.

“Put you foot back on the path,” the parent said, “Or so help me you’ll get a spanking you won’t forget.

Spanking, the parent knew, was illegal.  Striking a child in anyway was clearly prohibited by law.  The child did not know it was prohibited by law, but the child did know that the parent was not allowed to strike the child.

“You can’t spank me,” the child said.

“Do you want to find out if I can spank you?” the parent asked.  The parent stood up off of the park bench where the parent had been sitting.

“You’ll go to jail!” the child said.  But the child put the foot back on the path.  The parent sat down.  The child raised the foot.  The parent stood.  The child lowered the foot onto the path.

“How come I have to do what I’m told but you don’t?” the child asked.

“You have to mind your parents,” the parent said, “It’s in the Bible.”

“Why is it in the Bible?” the child asked.

“So children will mind their parents,” the parent said.

“Is no smoking in the park in the Bible?” the child asked.

“Don’t be smart,” the parent said.  The parent's cigarette dropped from the parent’s hand onto the lawn.

“Littering!” the child cried.  The child moved to retrieve the cigarette but could not step off the path to get it.

The Parable of the Undertaken Actions

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, sometimes I feel I spend more time at work recording my actions at work than I spend actually doing work.  Is there a way out of this rut?”

Josh spoke thus:

A person of action was sitting in a cubicle.

“I am a person of action,” the person of action wrote on a pad of paper.  Below this, the person of action wrote a title for a list.  The title read, “Actions to undertake.”

“That’s a to-do list,” the person in the next cube told the person of action.

“If it were your list, it might be a to-do list,” the person of action said, “You are a doer.  I am not a doer.  I am a person of action.”

“What actions will you undertake?” the doer asked the person of action.

The person of action told the doer an action the person of action might undertake.

“I can do that,” the doer said.

“Of course you can do that,” the person of action said, “You are a doer, you do things, and that is a thing you can do.”

“You can do that too,” the doer said.

“It’s not my job to do that,” the person of action said, “It is my job to undertake the action.  I am a person of action.  I undertake actions.”

“I’m free this afternoon,” the doer said, “I can do that for you.”

“I don’t want you to do it for me,” the person of action said, “I’ve been tasked to undertake the action.  If you do it, the action won’t be undertaken.”

“Well then I can undertake the action,” the doer said.

“Then what would I do?” the person of action asked.

“You could do something else,” the doer said.

“If I start doing things, then who will undertake the actions?” the person of action asked.

“I can undertake, and you can do,” the doer said.

“But I’ve never done that,” the person of action said.

“And yet the action has been undertaken,” the doer said.

“I’m good at taking actions, I take actions.  I am a person of action,” the person of action said.

“Is there a difference?” the doer asked.

“Of course there’s a difference,” the person of action said,  “If the action is undertaken, it’s recorded on the spreadsheet.  Anything that’s done is put in the database.”

The doer said, “But surely if you cross-reference the spreadsheet and the database, you’re talking about the same things.”

“Doing is a verb,” the person of action said, “An action is a noun.”

“I could record the thing that is done as a noun, in the spreadsheet,” said the doer, “And I could record taking the action as a verb in the database.”

“You could do that,” the person of action said.

“You could take that action,” the doer said.

“I’ll add it to my list,” the person of action said.

The Parable of the Motorcycle Purchaser and Vendor

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what is it that makes political compromise so difficult these days?”

Josh spoke thus:

“I’m an all or nothing person,” a potential purchaser said to a motorcycle vendor.

“I can see that you are an all or nothing person,” the motorcycle vendor said, “And I can see that this is the perfect motorcycle for you.”

“It’s got more horsepower than I need,” said the potential purchaser.

“Which is why it’s the perfect motorcycle for you,” the motorcycle vendor said.

“Its wheels are so big that my toes can barely reach the ground when I’m in the saddle,” the potential purchaser said.

“Which is why it’s the perfect motorcycle for you,” the motorcycle vendor said.

“Its handlebars are so wide, my hands can only just reach the throttle, brake and clutch,” the potential purchaser said.

“Which is why it’s the perfect motorcycle for you,” the motorcycle vendor said.

“It’s so loud that my neighbors will be offended every time I start it, every time I ride it, every time I tune it in the driveway,” the potential purchaser said.

“Which is why it’s the perfect motorcycle for you,” the motorcycle vendor said.

“I’d lose control and injure myself riding it,” the potential purchaser said.

“Which is why it’s the perfect motorcycle for you,” the motorcycle vendor said.

“Maybe if it wasn’t so loud,” the potential purchaser said.

“Then it wouldn’t be loud enough,” the motorcycle vendor said.

“Maybe if its handlebars weren’t so wide,” the potential purchaser said.

“Then the handlebars wouldn’t be wide enough,” the motorcycle vendor said.

“Maybe if the wheels weren’t so tall,” the potential purchaser said, “If the saddle weren’t so high up.”

“Then the wheels wouldn’t be tall enough,” the motorcycle vendor said, “The saddle wouldn’t be high enough up.”

“Maybe if it had less horsepower,” the potential purchaser said.

“Then there would be too little power,” the motorcycle vendor said.

The potential purchaser hesitated.

“Maybe if you were taller,” the motorcycle vendor, “Maybe if your reach were broader.  Maybe if you weren’t so afraid of your neighbors.  Maybe if you weren’t so afraid of speed.  Maybe if you weren’t so afraid of crashing.  Maybe if you weren’t so afraid.”

“What are you suggesting?” the potential purchaser asked.

“What if you weren’t rider enough for this motorcycle?” the motorcycle vendor asked, “It’s all or nothing.”

“I’ll take it,” the purchaser said, “I’ll take it all.”

The Parable of the Reporter, the Producer and the Camera Person

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, when cable news becomes the news what’s new about the news?”

Josh spoke thus:

A reporter was watching nothing unfold.

“There is nothing to see,” the reporter said to the camera person.  Indeed, there was nothing to see.  This was the third hour in which there was nothing to see.

Three hours ago something that might have been expected not to have happened hadn’t happened.  Whatever hadn’t happened might have been expected not to have happened.  It would not have been a surprise for what had not happened not to have happened.  So when what would have been expected not to have happened hadn’t happened, no one had been surprised.

There had been a lack of reports of nothing happening all over the city.  In the northern neighborhoods, once affluent, then middle class, then poverty stricken, now gentrified, many things that might have been expected not to have happened did not happen.  As would have been expected, there had been no need for confirmation by the authorities that the northern neighborhoods were devoid of happenings that might have matched the description of what might have been expected to have happened had what hadn’t been expected to have happened been expected to have happened.

To the east, where what might have been expected to have happened might have more probable, there was no sign of what might have happened happening.  To the west, another zone open to a lack of occurrences of what hadn’t occurred, what might have been expected to have happened, had it happened, would have happened without being recognized as having happened.

The southern part of town, then, was where the reporter, producer and camera person had pinned their hopes.  And like a herd to a lead bell, other reporters had congregated, drawn by the possibility of a happening.  

The police had been called in to cordon off the area designated as that area where an event might have been expected were an event expected.  Blue and red and yellow lights circulated atop emergency vehicles, police cars and city service vans.  Were something to have happened, emergency response, law enforcement and the city would have been prepared.

The citizens of the southern quadrant were in lock down.  The national guard was on alert.  Snow plows were readied.  The snow plows weren’t expected to be needed, but the snow plow drivers’ union was sharp and knew an overtime opportunity when they saw it.

It had been a mystery what had triggered the mass search for what was happening.  It had been a little event, a seemingly meaningless, prima facia random event, a quotidian, routine action.  But the reporter’s news team was a crack news team and the reporter’s news team had tools at its disposal.  Now the reporter’s news team had utilized those tools, and the reporter’s news team’s producer was being notified of the scoop.  Only the reporter’s news team’s producer knew the origin of the lockdown, the origin of the vigil, the origin of the search.  

What had happened to spark the search for what was being searched for?

“It was us,” the producer said to the reporter, “Our dispatcher heard you had gone out, and our dispatcher had alerted our crews that the media was on the move.”

“On the move?” the reporter said, “We were going out for Chinese for lunch!”

The reporter, the producer and the camera person stood silent for a minute.

“Do you think anyone would notice if we just snuck out?” the reporter asked the producer.

“Let’s go,” the camera person said.  The reporter and the camera person began clandestinely to pack their equipment into their van.

The producer dialed the home office, “Home Office, we’re about to...”

“Shhhhh!” the reporter interrupted.

The Parable of the Wrestling Cowboys

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, New York and Boston famously dislike each other, so how do you interpret how Boston reacted to the hurricane and now New York is reacting to the Marathon Bombing?”

Josh spoke thus:

Two young cowboys had been ordered to watch two calves in a pen.

“I’m gonna name mine Burgers,” one young cowboy said.

“I’m gonna name mine Fertilizer,” the second young cowboy said.

“I’m gonna name mine Stinky Gas,” the first cowboy said.

“I’m gonna name mine Chicken Fried Steak,” the second cowboy said.

“I’m gonna name yours Mangy Full-o-Worms,” the first young cowboy said.

“You ain’t gonna name mine nothin’!” the second young cowboy said.

“You stop me,” the first young cowboy said.

The second young cowboy jumped at the first young cowboy.  The two young cowboys fell in the pen with the calves and started wrestling.  They wrestled among the legs of the calves.  The frightened calves lowed.  The calves’ mother trotted toward the fence separating her from her offspring.

The two young cowboys continued to wrestle beneath the two calves, oblivious of the calves, the calves’ dung and the calves’ mother.

The nervous mother cow pushed against the fence.  The fence bowed.

Emboldened by their mother’s proximity, the two calves kicked gingerly at the young cowboys on the ground.  Consumed by their quarrel, the young cowboys continued to fight.

“Quit punchin’ me!” the first young cowboy said.

“I ain’t punchin’!” the second young cowboy said, “It’s you’s punchin!”

“I ain’t punchin’!” the first young cowboy said.

“You are too punchin!” the second cowboy said.

“Well so are you punchin’!” the first cowboy said.

“Let’s both stop punchin’!” the second cowboy said.

“You first!” the first cowboy said.

“Both together!” the second cowboy said.

Both cowboys stopped wrestling, the better to determine whether the other had ceased punching.  Each calf gave a cowboy a kick.

“The cows are punchin’” the first cowboy said, standing.

“Cows don’t punch!” the second cowboy told the calves.  The first cowboy helped the second cowboy up.

“Cowboys can’t punch if the cows is punchin’!” the second cowboy told the calves.

“Lansakes!” both cowboys said as they reached for their hats on the pen floor.  They brushed off their hats and put them on their heads.

With a wrinkled nose the first cowboy said to the second cowboy, “I’m gonna call you Cowpat.”

The second cowboy replied, “I’m gonna call you Dungface.”

The calves and the mother cow all lowed.