The Parable of the Addict in the Book Store

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, why do famous people’s compunctions become addictions when they get caught doing something they know they shouldn’t be doing?”

Josh spoke thus:

An addict picked a self-help book from a shelf.

“Will this help me with my addiction?” the addict asked a store clerk.

“I’m afraid I’m not a expert on the subject,” the store clerk told the addict, “I’ve only just started working here.”

“Shouldn’t you be selling me on the book?” the addict asked, “Shouldn’t you be telling me that this is the perfect book to help me with my addiction?”

“But what if it isn’t the perfect book to help you with your addiction?” the clerk asked, “What if the book next to it is the perfect book to help you with your addiction?”

“The book next to it is a book on breast feeding,” the addict said, “Do I look like I need a book on breast feeding?  Do I look like I need help with my breast feeding addiction?”

“What about the book on the other side?” the store clerk asked.

“The book on the other side is a book on Feng Shui,” the addict said.

“Are you addicted to Feng Shui?” the store clerk asked, “Feng Shui sounds like it would be quite a good thing to be addicted to.”

“I’m not addicted to Feng Shui,” the addict said, “Neither am I looking to become addicted to Feng Shui.”

“It might help,” the store clerk said, “At least it would probably be more helpful than a book on breast feeding.”

“I’ll give you that” the addict said, “At least you’re selling me something.”

“I’m just trying to be helpful,” the store clerk said, “Can I see the book you’re considering?”

The addict handed the book to the store clerk.

“This book isn’t about addiction,” the store clerk said.

“All books are about addiction,” the addict said, “All writers are addicted to what they’re writing, and all readers are addicted to what they’re reading.”

“It sounds to me,” the store clerk said, “Like your addiction is to reading.”

“So then what do you suggest?” the addict asked.

“I’d suggest the book on breast feeding,” the store clerk said, “Followed by the book on Feng Shui.  And I’d finish with the book in your hand.”

“Will that cure my addiction?” the addict asked.

“You don’t cure that addiction,” the store clerk said, “You stuff it to overloaded.”

“Like forcing a child to smoke a carton of cigarettes to stop them smoking?” the addict asked.

“Like giving a child air, so they can breathe,” the store clerk said.

The Parable of the King’s Left Hand

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, did Bradley Manning leak information to Wikileaks out of a sense of duty to country or as a traitor?”

Josh spoke thus:

A king was angry at his executioner.

“I told you,” the king said, “To cut off my left hand.  Do not disobey your king.  Disobedience to your king is treason.”

“Your highness,” the executioner said with a bow, “To physically maim the king is treason.”

“I don’t care if it’s treason,” the king said, “Do as I say.”

“What will you do to me if I don’t cut off your hand?” the executioner asked.

“I will have you executed,” the king said.

“And what will you do to me,” the executioner asked the first minister, “If I cut off the king’s hand?”

“I will have you executed,” the first minister said.

“If you order him to be executed,” the king said to the first minister, “I will have you executed.”

“I am bound by the law, your majesty,” the first minister said.

“You’re bound by the law!” the king said, “I am the law!”

“Nevertheless,” the first minister said, “Physically harming the king is a capital offense.”

“Give me the axe!” the king said to the executioner, “I’ll cut off the hand myself.”

“I can not let the executioner give you the axe,” the first minister said, “That would be aiding and abetting treason.  Aiding and abetting treason is treason.”

“Giving me the axe to cut off my own hand is treason?” the king asked, “Explain that to me.”

“If you were to cut off your own hand,” the first minister said, “You would be guilty of treason against yourself.”

“I can’t commit treason against myself!” the king said, “I am the law!  If I want to cut off my hand, I can cut off my own hand!  I am the state!”

“That’s just it,” the first minister said, “An act against you is not just an act against you, it is an act against the state. An act against the state is treason.”

“Is there no one who can cut off my hand?” the king asked.

“The royal surgeon can cut off your hand,” the executioner said, “We do a lot of work together,” the executioner added, “Our fields, mesh, sort of.”

“Fetch the royal surgeon!” the king said.

“The royal surgeon will only cut off your hand if your hand medically needs to be cut off,” the executioner said, “The royal surgeon acts according to the Hippocratic Oath.”

“A curse upon the royal surgeon’s oath!” the king said, “I am the royal surgeon’s king!”

The royal surgeon arrived.

“What is the problem, Your Majesty?” the royal surgeon asked.

“I need you to cut off my hand,” the king told the royal surgeon, “My hand won’t come out of this jar.”

“Try unclenching your fist,” the surgeon said.

The king unclenched his fist, and his hand slipped easily out of the jar.

“You’ve saved my hand!” the king said to the royal surgeon, “These two would have cut it off.”  

The king turned to the executioner and the first minister. 

“You see?” the king said, “This is why we don’t act rashly and go hacking at each other.  This is why we consider things carefully.  This is why we have laws.”

The Parable of the Buffalo Hunter and the Antelope Hunter

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, is a gay priest more lonely than a straight priest?”

Josh spoke thus:

A buffalo hunter was forced to share a tent with an antelope hunter.

“I’m only sharing this tent with you because there were no other buffalo hunters to share a tent with,” the buffalo hunter told the antelope hunter.

“I’m only sharing this tent with you because there were no antelope hunters to share a tent with,” the antelope hunter said to the buffalo hunter.

“Don’t get the idea that you can share my buffalo hide to keep warm,” the buffalo hunter said, “Only buffalo hunters sleep under buffalo hides.”

“Everybody sleeps under buffalo hides to keep warm,” the antelope hunter said, “I’ve got my own buffalo hide.  I don’t need to share your buffalo hide.”

“Just make sure you stay under your own buffalo hide, then,” the buffalo hunter said, “I sleep one to a buffalo hide.”

“I only sleep two to a buffalo hide when there’s someone worth sharing with,” the antelope hunter said, “And since there’s no one here worth sharing with, I guess I’m sleeping alone.  Just like I hunt.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the buffalo hunter asked.

“We have a joke among us antelope hunters,” the antelope hunter said, “The joke is, ‘How many buffalo hunters does it take to hunt a buffalo?’”

“How many?” the buffalo hunter asked.

“More than one,” the antelope hunter said.

“What’s that mean?” the buffalo hunter asked.

“It means you buffalo hunters spend a lot of time with other buffalo hunters,” the antelope hunter said.

“Hunting buffalo takes team work,” the buffalo hunter said, “It takes coordination.  It takes understanding.  When you hunt buffalo, you understand your fellow buffalo hunters.”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” the antelope hunter said.

“Well how many antelope hunters does it take to kill an antelope, then?” the buffalo hunter asked.

“One,” the antelope hunter said, “One antelope hunter, one dead antelope.  We hunt alone.”

“That sounds lonely,” the buffalo hunter said.

“Sometimes it is lonely,” the antelope hunter said.

“Would you like to share my buffalo skin?” the buffalo hunter asked.

The antelope hunter replied, “Sometimes it is more lonely to share.”

The Parable of the Thief and the Three Shelves

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how is it that we romanticize jewel thieves and almost elect corporate pirates to the White House?”

Josh spoke thus:

A thief was paralyzed.

In front of the thief were three shelves.

On the top shelf were jewels.  There were diamond necklaces, the least valuable of which was worth tens of thousands of dollars.  There were Swiss watches, each worth more than the thief would have earned in a month were the thief a worker instead of a thief.  There were rings fit for duchesses and dukes, bracelets for princesses and queens and earrings for heiresses and movie stars.

The thief was dazzled by emeralds and rubies.  The thief was mesmerized by agate and topaz.  Coquettish amber twinkled,  turquoise and silver shimmered, gold shone.  There were settings as intricate as lace and cuttings of stone as exact as pure trigonometry.  The thief stared at the top shelf and hyperventilated.

On the second shelf were coins.  Currencies as diverse as as the cultures of the world crowded together in circular congregation.  If Ellis Island were heaped with copper, nickel, silver, gold and bronze, then this was what Ellis Island would have looked like.  Portraits of monarchs, emperors and usurpers, living and dead, gazed blindly in bas relief.  Eagles spread their brazen wings.  Loons coasted on silvery lakes.

There were circular coins, there were serrated coins, there were coins with holes in the middle.  Some coins were small enough to rest on a thumb nail.  Some coins would have split a trouser pocket.  Some coins were newly minted, some coins were as old as Hammurabi.  Some coins counted seven sides, and some coins counted more dimensions than coins aught.  There was platinum and there was clay.  There were teeth, there were bones, there tusks, there were stones.  The thief stared at the second shelf and shook.

The third and final shelf was paper money.  This shelf was less diverse than the other two, but it was immense.  Stack upon stack upon stack of printed bills, of euros, dollars, yen and pounds, rested undramatically next to stack upon stack upon stack of printed bills.  Each bill was a work of art, each as detailed in composition as a Bruegel, each as precise in its brevity as a Japanese ink haiku.  The thief stared at the third shelf and sweated.

The thief stood before the three shelves in an existential panic.

“This is a nightmare,” the thief self-reasoned, “What am I doing here?  I’m a car thief.”

The Parable of the Papal Visit

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, who’s bigger, the Pope or Bono?”

Josh spoke thus:

Two spectators were waiting for the pontiff to pass by.

“Is this your first pope?” the first spectator asked the second spectator.

“I’ve seen bishops,” the second spectator said, “In fact I saw this pope when he was a bishop.  The crowds were smaller then.  Everyone there was a real believer.  Not like now.  Now most of the people here only know his recent stuff.”

“So you’re saying he was a better bishop than a pope?” the first spectator asked.

“I just liked him better in a smaller venue,” the second spectator said, “He had a bigger connection with the crowd.”

“He’s got to be happy to reach such a big audience,” the first spectator said.

“The crowds are bigger and the shows are bigger,” the second spectator said, “But I heard him say the other day that it’s harder to get his message across.”

“He’s got all the media behind him, though,” the first spectator said, “He’s on TV almost every day.”

“Yeah, but TV waters down your message,” the second spectator said, “TV dumbs it down.  Everything has to be simplified and bland.  A bishop can speak from the heart.  A bishop can be controversial.”

“We was controversial as a bishop, that’s for sure,” the first spectator said, “But he was younger.  Do you think he’s less relevant now he’s older?”

“It’s hard to stay relevant when you’re commercial,” the second spectator said, “Your point of view is larger, but your message is less focussed.”

“I would have loved to have seen him when he first started,” the first spectator said, “His early sermons were legendary.”

“Of course, everyone says that,” the second spectator said, “Just like everyone says they were at one of his early sermons.  But if everybody was at his early sermons who said they were at his early sermons, his early sermons would have had to have been in football stadiums.”

“Like they are now,” the first spectator said.

“And twenty years from now,” the second spectator said, “If everyone who says they were at this sermon were at this sermon, it would take the whole city of Sao Paulo to fit them.”

“It is already taking the whole city of Sao Paolo to fit them,” the first spectator said.

“Well then I guess in twenty years, when everyone says they were here, they will have been,” the second spectator said.

“Like us,” the first spectator said.

“Like us,” the second spectator said, “Look here he comes.”

“And the he goes,” the first spectator said.

“He looks bigger on TV,” the second spectator said.

The Parable of Santa Claus and the Baby Seals

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, should we be alarmed that it was ninety degrees Fahrenheit in the Siberian Arctic yesterday?”

Josh spoke thus:

A child was looking at a map online.

“Where does Santa Claus live?” the child asked its parent.

“You know where Santa Claus lives,” the child’s parent said, “Santa Claus lives at the North Pole.”

“But there’s nothing at the North Pole,” the child said to the parent.  Santa Claus isn’t on Google Maps.”

“Google Maps doesn’t put Santa Claus on their maps because they want to help keep where Santa Claus lives a secret,” the parent said, “Or else everyone would go to visit Santa Clause, and Santa Claus and the elves would have no time to make toys.”

“So Santa Claus is like Batman?” the child asked, “Or like Superman?  They’re not on Google Maps either.”

“Batman and Superman are just stories,” the parent said.

“Is Santa Claus just a story?” the child asked.

“If Santa Claus were just a story, could he have brought you Mister Bobo Bear last Christmas?” the parent asked.

The child looked across the room at Mister Bobo Bear, a stuffed bear sitting on the family sofa.

“Did Mister Bobo Bear come from the North Pole?” the child asked, “Polar bears live at the North Pole.  Mister Bobo Bear isn’t a polar bear.  Mister Bobo Bear is brown.”

“Mister Bobo Bear is a Christmas present bear,” the parent said, “And Christmas present bears come from Santa Claus.”

“Do the elves live at the North Pole too?” the child asked.

“I suppose they must,” the parent said.

“And Google Maps hides them too?” the child asked.

“I suppose they must,” the parent said.

“Why doesn’t Google Maps hide the baby seals?” the child asked.

“Which baby seals?” the parent asked.

“These baby seals,” the child said, and the child showed the parent pictures of baby arctic seals.  Then the child showed the parent pictures of the baby arctic seals being clubbed by hunters, their bright white fur and the bright white snow contrasting sharply with the bright red blood smeared on the clubs of the hunters and sprinkled on the ground around the dead and dying seals.

The parent tried to snatch the computer from the child, but the child held the computer at arm’s length.

“The seals should have stayed at the North Pole with Santa Claus,” the child said, “Look.”

The child showed the parent a picture of a beacon floating in clear water.

“That’s the North Pole,” the child said, “And it’s floating in a giant lake.  The seals would be safe there.  Is the North Pole melting?  Is Santa Claus going to drown?”

The parent looked out the window at the beach to which the family home was adjacent.  The tide was rising.

“I hope not,” the parent said to the child, “I hope not.”

The Parable of the Riggers Watching Pressure Rise

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, has the power ration between the people and the corporatocracy reached a tipping point?”

Josh spoke thus:

Two riggers were watching the numbers.

“This pressure is unsustainable,” one rigger said, “The system won’t hold.”

“You don’t know the system like I know the system,” the second rigger said, “There’s plenty of room yet.”

“But you’ve gerry-rigged the system,” the first rigger said.

“I adapted the system to our needs,” the second rigger said.

“You know the Inspector is going to see how we’ve rigged the system,” the first rigger said.

“The Inspector doesn’t have time to worry about us,” the second rigger said, “The Inspector is overloaded.  It’s not like we’re the only ones rigging our system.”

“Look what happened in the Gulf region,” the first rigger said, “Look what happened in Texas.”

“Those were different issues,” the second rigger said, “Those people didn’t have their systems set up properly.  Our system is foolproof.  Besides, our representatives will have the Inspector tied up in paperwork for months.”

“No system is foolproof,” the first rigger said, “Not when there’s this much pressure involved.”

“You look,” the second rigger said, “The pressure will subside.  In six months, nobody will remember how high the pressure got.”

“Six months?” the first rigger said, “We’re supposed to sit here and weather out six months of this kind of pressure?  I don’t know about you, but I think it might be a good idea to jump ship soon.”

“And jump where?” the second rigger asked, “The sharks would have you in five minutes.  There’s no lifeboat when you jump ship.  And there’s no parachute.  It’s a long way down, and you’ll hit hard when you hit.  So take your choice, the fall or the sharks.  Either way, there’s no survival.”

“Couldn’t we just set the system up the way the system was originally set up?” the first rigger asked, “There’s a reason why the system was set up like it was, isn’t there?”

“If we set the system up the way it was originally set up, the pressure would be much worse,” the second rigger said, “The slave system was never sustainable.”

“So what’s the difference between the slave system and what we have set up now?” the first rigger asked.

The second rigger replied, “Under this system, they can vote.  Their vote is meaningless, but at least they can vote.  That’s a step up, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure I like politics anymore,” the first rigger said.

“You’re in up to your neck now,” the second rigger said, “You drew up these district lines as much as I did.”

“I know, I know,” the first rigger said, “The fall or the sharks.”

The Parable of the Politician’s Addiction

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how do politicians nowadays keep coming back from scandals as if the scandals are a badge of honor?”

Josh spoke thus:

A politician had an addiction, but the politician didn’t know what that addiction was.  

The politician consulted with the politician’s family physician.

“Do you have a problem with alcohol?” the politician’s family physician asked, “I know that you don’t have a problem with prescription pain killers, because I’ve almost never prescribed you pain killers.  What over-the-counter medications do you take?”

The politician listed the over-the-counter medications the politician took.  The list was not enlightening.  It included cough medicine, decongestants (pills, liquids, inhalers and liquid gels), aspirin, Tylenol and antacids.  The politician didn’t like to take medicine.

“So you don’t have an addiction to alcohol or pain killers.  Cough medicine isn’t your problem, and antacids aren’t habit forming,” the politician’s family physician said.

“Could my dependency be psychological?” the politician asked.

“You’ll have to ask your analyst about that one,” the politician’s family physician said, so the politician went to see the politician’s analyst.

“What do you think you’re addicted to?” the politician’s analyst asked the politician.

“I don’t have time for what I think,” the politician said, “I don’t know what I think.  That’s what I pay you for, to tell me what I think.  What am I addicted to?”

“You have a healthy diet, so you’re not addicted to food,” the politician’s analyst said, “You’re not even addicted to caffeine or chocolate, which is weird.  Everybody is addicted to caffeine or chocolate, or both.  You’re not addicted to tobacco or alcohol.  You don’t do any drugs.”

“I’m not physically addicted to anything,” the politician said, “My family doctor told me so.”

“I don’t see anything you’re psychologically dependent on, either,” the politician’s analyst said, “Unless you count analysis.”

“No, analysis is no good,” the politician said, “I need to be addicted to something else.”

“Ask your spouse,” the politician’s analyst said, “Your spouse knows more about you than anyone else.”

“What am I addicted to?” the politician asked the politician’s spouse, “Am I addicted to sex?”

“You definitely aren’t addicted to sex,” the politician’s spouse said.

The politician didn’t like the implication of how the politician’s spouse said that the politician definitely wasn’t addicted to sex, but the politician didn’t need to know what the politician wasn’t addicted to, the politician needed an addiction.

“Why is it so important for you to be addicted to something?” the politician’s spouse asked.

“There’s an election coming up,” the politician said, “And you can’t get elected these days without being forgiven for some addiction.”

“There’s only one thing you’re addicted to,” the politician’s spouse said, “You’re addicted to getting elected.”

“I do love serving the public good,” the politician said.

“You hate serving the public good,” the politician’s spouse said, “You love being elected.  You’re addicted to being elected.”

“Do you think that’s an addiction that will convince people to vote for me?” the politician asked.

The politician’s spouse replied, “It’s as bad as any other reason.” 

The Parable of the Concerned Citizen and the Concerned Citizen’s Neighbor

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how is information about the new healthcare laws best distributed around the country?”

Josh spoke thus:

A concerned citizen was building a wall.

“The government won’t do it, so I will,” the concerned citizen told the concerned citizen’s neighbor, “We need a wall.”

The concerned citizen’s neighbor looked on as the wall grew higher.  The concerned citizen’s neighbor said nothing.  The concerned citizen’s neighbor was considering helping the concerned citizen extend the wall, once the wall reached the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s property.  The concerned citizen’s neighbor was also concerned that the government was not building a wall.

The concerned citizen and the concerned citizen’s neighbor were not concerned with the wall that was missing between the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country’s neighbors.  The concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country’s neighbors were wealthy, and immigration into the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country from the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country’s neighbors was not a problem.  In fact, if anyone would have built a wall between the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country and the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country’s neighbors, to prevent immigration between the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country and the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country’s neighbors, it would have been the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country’s neighbors, and not the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s country.

The wall the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s government would not build was a wall between the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s county and the concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s neighboring county.

The concerned citizen’s and the concerned citizen’s neighbor’s neighboring county had just legalized medical marijuana.

“I don’t want to smoke marijuana,” the concerned citizen said to the concerned citizen’s neighbor, “I don’t that drug lifestyle in my life at all.”

“Do we have to smoke marijuana?” the concerned citizen’s neighbor asked.

“If we want to go to the doctor, we will,” the concerned citizen said, “The doctor will make me.  It’s medicinal.”

“What if you don’t go to the doctor?” the concerned citizen’s neighbor asked.

“What are you, stoned?” the concerned citizen said, “At my age I’d have to be high not to go to the doctor.”

“You’re high if you do, high if you don’t,” the concerned citizen’s neighbor said, “Pass me a trowel.  They’re tripping if they think I’m going to let them force drugs into my life.”

The Parable of Adam and the Naming of Things

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what do you think they should name the new heir to the British throne?”

Josh spoke thus:

A child was born unnamed.  This was a problem for the government.

“You must give the child a name,” a government official told the child’s parent.

“We don’t have a name yet,” the parent said, “We want to wait to name the child.”

“If you don’t give the child a name,” the government official said, “I can’t give you a birth certificate.  Without a birth certificate, there is no record of the child.  Without a record of the child, the child doesn’t exist.”

“The child clearly exists,” the parent said, “Look at it.”

“I can look at it,” the government official said, “But it isn’t there.”

“Of course it’s there,” the parent said.

“Not without a name, it isn’t,” the government official said, “If it doesn’t have a name, it could be anything.”

“It can’t be a raven,” the parent said, “Or a jet liner.  Or a unicorn.”

“A unicorn has a name,” the government official said, “A unicorn is a thing.”

“A unicorn isn’t a thing,” the parent said, “A unicorn is a mythical creature.  There is no such thing as a unicorn.”

“A unicorn is a thing because it has a name,” the government official said, “Because unicorns don’t exist, they are negative things, but they are still things.”

“Just like government officials are things,” the parent said, “And stupid government officials are things.”

“Yes, government officials are things,” the government official said, “And stupid government officials are things.  Luckily for you, stupid government officials are negative things.  Like unicorns.”

“So if I named my child Stupid Government Official, my child would be a negative?” the parent asked.

“If you named your child, your child would be a positive,” the government official said.

“So then a stupid government official would be a positive,” the parent said.

“I think the child would have a hard time of it in school with a name like that,” the government official said, “If you consider that a positive.”

“What if I gave the child your name?” the parent asked.

The government official shrugged and asked, “Do you want your child to grow up like me?”

“Could I give the child a holder name?” the parent asked.

“What, like To Be Determined?” the government official asked, “That’s a bit long, isn’t it?”

“How about TBD?” the parent asked.

“How about No Name No Child Benefit?” the government official asked, “Or No Name No Income Tax Credit?  Or No Name No Health Care?”

“How about Adam?” the parent asked.

The Parable of the General’s Choices

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, when in training, is it absolutely necessary to be strict in your dietary intake?”

Josh spoke thus:

A general had conceded that he had lost the battle.  The question now was how to proceed.

Pride demanded a stand to the death.  The general was reminded of the three hundred Spartans.  Their glory had been passed down from generation to generation.  In their day they were national heroes, not just to Spartans, but to all Greeks.  Which was saying something, because at the time the only thing the citizens of a Greek city state hated more than the Persians was a citizen of a neighboring city state.  Two-thousand years-plus of international fame was nothing to be sniffed at, not by a military man.

On the other hand, every one of the three hundred Spartans had died in that battle, and the general did not think that the current scenario warranted death.  The glory to carnage ratio was not high enough.

The next option was a strategic withdrawal, to concede the field in hopes of regaining tactical advantage.  A regroup on higher ground, perhaps.  Or consolidation under cover.  Reinforce the flanks, create enfilade, decrease the enemy’s numerical advantage.

Here, unfortunately, there was no higher ground on which to regroup.  The enemy’s advantage was singular, not tactical.  Simply put, the enemy was straight-up stronger.

Strategic withdrawal, then, was not viable.  The next option was retreat.  But where could the general retreat to?  The general’s flanks were collapsing, the general’s rear was deflating, only the general’s middle had any substance, and it was the general’s middle that was bearing the brunt of the attack.  There was no escape to the left, there was no escape to the rear, and counterattack was guaranteed defeat.

There was nothing for it, the general decided.  There was one option available, and only one option.

“I surrender!” the general cried, “I capitulate!  A lay down my arms and concede my enemy’s superiority.  I put myself at the mercy of my enemy.  I surrender!”

“Oh for goodness’ sake!” the general’s wife said, “You do this every time!  You are such a drama queen!  Just once, couldn’t you just admit that you like vanilla ice cream as much as you like chocolate?  It’s ice cream!  It’s not the Battle of the Bulge!”

“Two vanilla,” the general said to the server behind the counter, ignoring the obvious reference to the general’s belly.

The Parable of the Citizen Under Arrest

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how can the victim of a rape be put in jail for sex crimes?”

Josh spoke thus:

A police officer was arresting a citizen.

“What is the charge?” the citizen asked.

“Is this yours?” the police officer asked.  The police officer held up a piece of rope, about thirty feet long.

“It was in the cellar when I bought the house,” the citizen said.

“I bet it was,” the police officer said, “I bet you just happened to have just the correct amount of rope to hang over that branch there, the thick branch.”

“Why would I hang a piece of rope over that branch?” the citizen asked.

The police officer held up a length of curtain sash and asked, “Do you deny that this your curtain sash, that I just took from the curtains in your sitting room window?”

“I use it to open and close the curtains,” the citizen said.

“Of course you do,” the police officer said, “And I’m sure it’s never occurred to you that you might drape it over the large beam in your kitchen.  Is this yours?”

The police showed the citizen some weed poison.

“What’s wrong with weed poison?” the citizen asked.

“Nothing,” the police officer said, “If it’s used on weeds.”

“What else would I use it on?” the citizen asked.

“Is this yours?” the police officer asked, holding up a carving knife, “And all this?”  The police officer emptied a large bag onto the floor, forming a small pile of utility knives, medicine bottles, razor blades and plastic bags.

“Why did you take all of that out of my house?” the citizen asked.

“That’s evidence, that is,” the police officer said.

“Of what, that I own stuff?” the citizen asked, “Ordinary, everyday stuff?”

“Don’t be smart,” the police officer said, “You could suffocate yourself with those plastic bags.”

“I might,” the citizen said, “But why would I?”

“That’s what I aim to find out,” the police officer said.

“So you’re arresting me?” the citizen asked.

“On suspicion of suicide,” the police officer said, “Suicide’s illegal around these parts. It’s a capital offense.”

“You’d execute someone for attempting suicide?” the citizen asked, “Isn’t that counterproductive?”

“So you admit you were thinking about suicide!” the police officer said, “I hope you have a good lawyer.”

“You’re the one thinking about suicide,” the citizen said, “Maybe you need a good lawyer.”

The police officer looked at the pile of knives, poisons, medicines and rope and jumped back.

“Pick that up,” the police said to another police officer, “That’s evidence, that is.  And you,” the police officer said to the citizen, “Count yourself lucky I let you off with just a warning this time.”

“Can I keep my stuff?” the citizen asked.

“Do you have a good lawyer?” the police officer asked.

“Take the stuff,” the citizen said.

The Parable of the Dictator and the Rain

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how tiresome must it be for politicians to have to spend so much time gerrymandering and rigging election laws, just so they can continue to not listen to the people, and how tiresome are the people?”

Josh spoke thus:

A dictator was watching the rain.  The dictator hated the rain.

The dictator did not hate that the ground was close to saturation.  The dictator knew the consequences of saturated ground.  There was a strong possibility of flooding.  When the ground was saturated, the water had no place to go.  When the ground was saturated, fields became lakes.  Streets became rivers.  Hills became cascades.  Riverfront property became driftwood.

The dictator did not hate that the harvest was in jeopardy.  Rain and sunshine combined made for rapid growth and voluminous harvests.  But rain and rain combined waterlogged the crops.  Apples and pears rotted on the branch.  Potatoes drowned in the dirt.  Cabbage and lettuce liquified in the fields.  Wheat wilted.  Corn keeled over.  Beans swelled to bursting.

The dictator did not hate that the rain meant no parades.  The dictator was fond of parades.  Parades displayed the dictator’s sizable military--a military mostly bought with money from the crops that were now drowning in the constant rain--which was the source of prestige for the dictator among the dictator’s dictator friends.  What was the point of a sizable military if one could not show it off to one’s peers in a glorious parade?

The dictator did not hate that the rain meant no rallies.  Next to parades, what the dictator loved most were rallies.  Gigantic rallies with gigantic crowds, with gigantic banners, with gigantic loudspeakers through which the dictator gave marathon speeches extolling the evils of colonial nations, corporate internationalism and the Ford Motor Company.  The dictator had nothing against the Ford Motor Company, but the dictator had seen the Daytona 500 and decided that Chevys were best, because the dictator had liked a particularly red Chevrolet.  The dictator didn’t even hate that rain meant no stock car races, since there were no stock car races in the dictator’s country.

Actually, given the effect the rain was bound to have on the nation’s economy, the dictator thought that large crowds were best discouraged.  The army could patrol.  That would be marshal enough.

No, the dictator did not hate the rain because the ground was nearly saturated.  The dictator did not hate the rain because the harvest was in jeopardy.  The dictator did not hate the rain because there were no parades, and the dictator did not hate the rain because there were no rallies.  The dictator hated the rain for one reason and one reason only:

No matter what the dictator did, the rain did what the rain did.  The dictator had no control over the rain.  And what the dictator could not control, others could see that the dictator did not control.  That was why the dictator kept no cats.

“No, you may not keep it,” the dictator said to the dictator’s child, who held a kitten up to show to the dictator.  The dictator knew, however, that the child would keep the kitten, and that the dictator would end up feeding the kitten and changing the litter box.

Rain, cats and the dictator’s children.  They did what they did.

The Parable of Two Thirsty World Travelers

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how do you take you mind off the heat during this heatwave?”

Josh spoke thus:

Two world travelers were suffering from extreme thirst.

“They call the camel the ship of the desert,” the first world traveler said, “The camel can go weeks and weeks across the desert, over huge, rolling waves of sand, dunes three times as high as a house.”

“Don’t talk about camels,” the second world traveler said, “It only makes me thirstier.”

“Did you know they’ve found whale bones in the middle of the Sahara?” the first world traveler said, “They’ve found the bones of prehistoric sea monsters.  Well, by sea monsters, of course I mean dinosaurs.  Do they count as dinosaurs when they’re in the sea?  “Dinosaur” means thunder lizard, doesn’t it?  Because the dinosaurs were so large that their steps would have shaken the ground like thunder?  Would sea monsters have created thunder?  They had no footsteps.”

“Stop talking about sea monsters in the desert,” the second world traveler said, “It only makes me thirstier.”

“There are elephants in the Kalahari,” the first world traveler said, “Could you imagine that?  They’re not built for the desert like camels are.  Elephants need a lot more water, a lot more often, than camels do, and yet there they are, in the Kalahari.  Elephants!”

“Again with the camels?” the second world traveler said, “And now elephants?  Stop talking about elephants in the desert.  It only makes me thirstier.”

“The Atacama desert in Chile is the driest place on Earth,” the first world traveler said, “Nothing can live there.  Bodies left there by ancient Chileans mummified naturally through desiccation.  Could you imagine that?  So dry that bacteria can’t even live long enough to break down a human body.”

“Stop talking about desiccated mummies,” the second world traveler said, “It only makes me thirstier.”

“Death Valley is the lowest point in North America,” the first world traveler said, “And it’s also the hottest.  It’s one of the hottest place on the planet.  There have been temperatures of over 130 degrees Fahrenheit recorded there.  That’s what, 40-something degrees Celsius?  That’s almost halfway to boiling water!  You’re halfway to boiling just standing there!”

“Stop talking about boiling in the sun,” the second world traveler said, “It’s making me thirstier.”

“At the opposite extreme, the central plains of Antarctica are a frozen desert,” the first world traveler said, “You think of ice sheets when you think of Antarctica, but the center of the continent is dry.  It doesn’t snow there.”

“Why do you keep talking about deserts?” the second world traveler said, “We’re in the middle of the ocean, we’re practically dying of thirst, and you keep talking about deserts!”

“It takes my mind off of the salt water,” the first world traveler said, “We’re surrounded by water, but we can’t drink a drop.  It’s torture.  I’d rather think about places where there is no water than think about all this water surrounding us that we can’t drink.”

“Don’t say ‘drink,’” the second world traveler said, “It makes me thirstier.”

“Drink!” the first world traveler said, “Drink!  Drink!  Drink!  Drink!  Drink!”

“Okay, you win!” the second world traveler said, “That’s the last time I play this game with you!”

“You lose, you buy the next round!” the first world traveler said.

“And it’s the last time I go on a cruise with you too,” the second world traveler said, “Only you could turn the ocean into a desert just to win a drinking game.”

“Stop whining and order us some drinks,” the first world traveler said, “I’m parched.”

The Parable of the Young Boy’s Midlife Crisis

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what is halfway down an indeterminate path?”

Josh spoke thus:

A young boy was excited for his midlife crisis.  He had seen several movies in which men had midlife crises, and he thought a midlife crisis looked pretty good.

A man in a midlife crisis got to buy a new car or a new motorcycle.  The young boy owned neither a car nor a motorcycle, and had repeatedly been told that he was allowed to own neither a car nor a motorcycle.  The young boy didn’t even own a bicycle yet.  

The ownership of a bicycle had somehow become entwined with the boy’s messy room, which baffled the boy.  The boy had no intention of riding a bicycle in his room, what need was there to pick up his room?   Wouldn’t it be better to pick up the outside, where the boy would be riding the bike?  But picking up the entire outside seemed an impossible task.

Besides, the midlife crisis men never picked up their rooms.  Often the midlife crisis men even got to have rooms of their own.  Whole apartments and houses of their own.  If they were married, the midlife crisis men often moved out, frequently at their wives’ request.  They no longer had to share a room!  

The young boy had to share his room with his brother.  When the young boy went through his midlife crisis, he would move out of his room and never live with his brother again.

One thing that confused the young boy was when the midlife crisis men moved in with women other than their wives.  They finally get to move out, and they share a room on purpose?

The boy supposed that if the women just stayed a little while, like a sleepover, that wouldn’t be bad.  As long as the sleepover woman didn’t make him pick up his room.  The young boy would tell the sleepover woman to go pick up her own room, if picking things up meant so much to her.  She could even pick up the entire outdoors, if that made her happy.  Then she could rider her bike there.

Actually, the sleepover women seemed as messy as the midlife crisis men.  They left clothes all over the place.  Maybe the young boy would like the sleepover women after all.

But mostly the young boy would like the car and the motorcycle.

Midlife crisis men must be very good at counting, the boy thought.  They had to be, or else how would they know when it was the middle of their lives?  The boy would have to count very carefully to be sure he counted exactly halfway through his life.

Just to make sure, the young boy asked his father, “Dad, when’s the middle of my life?”

“You won’t know until the end,” the young boy’s father said.

“But that will be too late,” the boy said.

“Don’t I know it,” the young boy’s father said, “Don’t I know it.”