The Parable of the Three Witches and the Three Pumpkins

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how do you celebrate Halloween?”

Josh spoke thus:

Three witches were carving pumpkins.

“My pumpkin is a king,” the first witch said.

“My pumpkin is a sorcerer,” the second witch said.

“My pumpkin is a pumpkin,” the third witch said.

“You have to make your pumpkin a man,” the first witch said.

“You have to make your pumpkin the man you want to marry,” the second witch said.

“My pumpkin is a pumpkin,” the third witch said.

“My king will be the greatest king of all,” the first witch said.

“My sorcerer will be the the greatest sorcerer of all,” the second witch said.

“My pumpkin will be a pumpkin,” the third witch said.

“That is who you are going to marry?” the first witch asked the third witch, “Are you going to marry a pumpkin?”

“Don’t worry,” the second witch said, “That’s not just a pumpkin, that’s the greatest pumpkin of all!”

The two witches laughed at the third witch.  The third witch ignored their laughter.

The first witch carved her pumpkin into a king.  The pumpkin had a crown.  The pumpkin had strong facial features.  The pumpkin was a fine king.

The second witch carved her pumpkin into a sorcerer.  The pumpkin had a sorcerer’s cap, sprinkled with stars.  The pumpkin had wise eyes.  The pumpkin was a fine sorcerer.

The first witch admired her king.  The second witch admired her sorcerer.

“Look how sad your pumpkin is,” the first witch said to the third witch.

“Your pumpkin is so plain,” the second witch said, “Your pumpkin will never amount to anything.

“It’s not a pumpkin,” the first witch said, “It’s a bumpkin!”

“It’s a pumpkin bumpkin!” the second witch said.  Again the two witches laughed at the third witch.  Again the third witch ignored their laughter.

The first witch placed her king on the mantle.  The second witch placed her sorcerer on a table.  The third witch took her plain pumpkin outside.

“That’s where your pumpkin belongs!” the first witch said, “Out in the pumpkin patch!”

“That’s where your bumpkin belongs!” the second witch said, “Out in the bumpkin patch!”

As they laughed a third time, a handsome man road up to the witches’ house on a strong horse.

“I need a pumpkin for a pie!” the handsome man said to the third witch, “And I need someone to make the pie.  We are having a harvest banquet at the palace, and no one has a pumpkin.  We cannot have a harvest banquet without pumpkin pie!”

“You may have this pumpkin,” the third witch said, “If I may attend your banquet with you.”

“Gladly,” the handsome man said, “Climb up.”

The third witch mounted the horse behind the handsome man, and the two of them rode to the palace with the pumpkin.

“Why can’t you ride a horse?” the first witch asked her pumpkin king.

“Why can’t you invite me to a banquet?” the second witch asked her pumpkin sorcerer.

Both witches tossed their pumpkins into the fire.

The Parable of the Child, the Child’s Teacher and the Graveyard

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what eternal secrets do you think the NSA learned by spying on the Pope?”

Josh spoke thus:

A child was staring at a graveyard.

“What are you looking at?” the child’s teacher asked.

“I’m waiting for them,” the child said.

“For whom?” the child’s teacher asked, “Are you expecting someone to come through the graveyard?”

“They’re in the graveyard,” the child said.

“Who is in the graveyard?” the child’s teacher asked.

“The ones who are going to come,” the child said.

“Who’s going to come?” the child’s teacher asked, “Do you have friends in the graveyard?”

“They’re all my friends in the graveyard,” the child said.

The child’s teacher looked out into the graveyard.

“Do you mean the dead?” the child’s teacher asked, “Are you friends with the dead?”

“They’re not dead,” the child said, “They’re black.”

“Who is black?” the child’s teacher asked, “Are there people who come to you?  Do people come to you and talk to you?”

“They don’t talk,” the child said, “They come to me.  They’re happy to see me.  I’m happy to see them.”

The child’s teacher dropped down to the child’s level and looked into the child’s eyes.

“Do they touch you?” the child’s teacher asked.

“They sometimes touch my hands,” the child said, “They sometimes touch my feet.  Sometimes they touch my hair and face.  They come from that way.”

The child pointed to the cloister on the opposite side of the graveyard.  The naked branches of the trees in front of the cloister stood out crooked and black against the grey sky.  A breeze moaned through the branches.

The child’s teacher stood up and looked for anyone coming from the cloister.

“Do they take you anywhere?” the child’s teacher asked the child, “Do they ask you to do anything?”

“They don’t ask me to go anywhere,” the child said, “They don’t talk to me.  They just come.  Always here.  Always this time of day.”

Evening was closing in on the child, the child’s teacher, the graveyard, the cloister and the black limbs of the trees.

“They’re coming,” the child said.

The child’s teacher stood up, peering into the gloaming for sign of approaching figures.  The only movement the child’s teacher could see was a shimmer of movement among the branches, black on black.

As the child’s teacher watched in the direction of the cloister, a group of black shadows rose from the trees and approached the child and the child’s teacher.  The child reached into a coat pocket and brought out a handful of seed.  As the shadows approached, the child flung the seed upward.  The seed rose black against the sky, then fell, dun on the twilit path.  A murder of rooks descended on the seed.

The child held out a hand, palm up, and a rook came to rest on the child’s wrist, pecking at the seed in the child’s palm.

“Rooks!” the child’s teacher said, relieved, “You were waiting for rooks!”

The birds milled around the feet of the child and the child’s teacher.  The child’s teacher looked around.

“We really shouldn’t be feeding the birds, you know,” the child’s teacher said.  As a rook approached the child’s teacher, the child’s teacher held out a hand to the child and asked, “Spare us a handful, won’t you?”

The Parable of the Woman and the Paints

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, who is so desperate for attention that they will wear blackface and call it humor?  Who is so desperate to be angry that they care?”

Josh spoke thus:

A woman came across an artist’s paints.  The woman grabbed a brush and chose a color at random.  The woman painted the bridge of her nose.  She looked in the mirror.

“That’s a better nose,” the woman said to the mirror.

The woman chose another color and painted the left side of her nose.  She then chose a third color and painted the right side of her nose.

“Never have I seen a finer nose,” the woman said to the mirror.

It took a long while for the woman to find two colors for her cheeks.  Some colors were too cheerful.  Others were too complimentary.  One color was perfect for the right, but there was no matching color for the left--or rather too many colors matched. At last the left and the right combined for just the right balance between congruous and incongruous, and in the mirror the woman saw cheeks at once fattened and piqued.

The woman turned her head to measure the effect of angles.  Her dimensions increased and decreased in the reflection.  Her profile pivoted like a seesaw.  The prism of the glass refracted and reconstructed.  The woman winked into the the glass, and the glass winked back.

The woman had long considered her ears out of proportion with her brow and soon reworked her composition with a lightening and a darkening.  A rage of bright pigment slashed across a prominent background, and the woman wondered at her beauty.

“What color for the neck?” the woman asked the palette.  The palette answered with a coy blend of metallic and matt.  The woman craned and twisted to ensure the brushstrokes contoured correctly, then broke the collar of her artwork with a humorous dash of contrast.

The woman settled against the wall and watched a gathering crowd, come to see the artist paint.

“I don’t like that painting,” a child said of the woman.

“It’s tribal,” the child’s mother said.

“I want to paint it white,” the child said, “I want to paint it black.”

“We’re not white, and we’re not black,” the mother said to the child.

“I am white,” said the woman who was a painting.

The child screamed.

The Parable of the Painter and the Short Film

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how does a plagiarist expect to get away with plagiarism in a digital age?”

Josh spoke thus:

A painter was watching a cartoon.

“I want to paint this cartoon,” the painter said to the painter’s self, “I want to take every frame of that cartoon, and I want to paint every frame of that cartoon.  Then I want to take each of my paintings of each of the frames of that cartoon, and I want to photograph them.  Then I want to show the film of photographs of the paintings of the film.”

“You realize that’s exactly what the filmmaker did, don’t you?” the painter asked the painter’s self, “You do understand how animation works?”

“Of course I realize that’s exactly what the filmmaker did,” the painter said to the painter’s self, “I’m the filmmaker.  I made this cartoon.”

“Well then you’ve already done it,” the painter said to the painter’s self, “You’ve made this film.  It’s done.”

“The cartoon is done,” the painter said to the painter’s self, “The film isn’t.”

“Then you could take the film, make a cartoon of each frame, photograph each frame, and make a cartoon movie,” the painter said to the painter’s self.

“I was thinking of sculpture,” the painter said to the painter’s self, “I could make a sculpture of the figure in each frame, take a picture of each sculpture, combine the pictures and make a stop-action film.”

“You could make it in 3D,” the painter said to the painter’s self.

“I could use those cameras from the Matrix and film each sculpture from three hundred and sixty degrees,” the painter said to the painter’s self.

“You could make three hundred and sixty films,” the painter said to the painter’s self.

“I could make three hundred and sixty times three hundred and sixty films,” the painter said to the painter’s self.

“It will be a huge project,” the painter said to the painter’s self.

“All from ten seconds of film,” the painter said to the painter’s self.

“All from a mouse on a steamboat,” the painter said to the painter’s self.

“Who’d ever put a mouse on a steamboat?” the painter said to the painter’s self, “You are a unique genius.”

The Parable of the Two Guerrillas Observing an Hotel

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, “Teacher, is it Western Democracy we or exporting when we give aid to other countries?”

Josh spoke thus:

Two guerrillas were looking at a tourist hotel.

“It has to be an American,” the first guerrilla said, “We need to kidnap an American.”

“An American?” the second guerrilla said, “We always take Americans.  There’s no value in Americans anymore.”

“We always take Americans because the Americans have the most money,” the first guerrilla said, “America is the richest country in the world.”

“Some Americans are the richest people in the world, yes,” the second guerrilla said, “But Americans are some of the poorest people in the world.”

“Not the Americans who come here,” the first guerrilla said.

“The Americans who come here are students and journalists,” the second guerrilla said, “When have you ever met a rich student or journalist?”

“The students who come here have rich parents,” the first guerrilla said, “And the journalists work for giant corporations.”

“The students come here to help our people,” the second guerrilla said, “They love our country after coming here, and when they go home, the tell everyone how much our people need help.”

“The students who come here are rich, condescending brats who treat us like museum pieces,” the first guerrilla said, “If they want to do us the most good, they should come to us, let us kidnap them, write to their parents to send money to rescue them and give us the money when their parents send it.  That’s a lot more valuable to us than the warm and fuzzy feelings they bring home.  They help us, we get money.  Win-win.”

“The journalists are here to champion our cause,” the second guerrilla said.

“The journalists are here for a good story,” the first guerrilla said, “A kidnapping is a good story.  If they want a good story, they should let us take them, they should write to their corporations to send us money to release them, we should take the money and give the journalists back.  They get a good story, we get money.  Win-win.”

“You talk about what we do like it’s a business,” the second guerrilla said, “Like banana exports.”

“It’s banana republic exports,” the first guerrilla said, “It’s geopolitical tourism.  Helping Third World countries is politically correct colonialism.  They’re still oppressing us, in the name of helping us.  We can’t escape the hegemony.”

“You’re in a cynical mood today,” the second guerrilla said.

“I’m sorry,” the first guerrilla said, “I’m in a bit of a mood today.  I think maybe I just need something in my stomach.”

“What do you want for breakfast?” the second guerrilla asked.

“I don’t know,” the first guerrilla said, “There’s a McDonalds on the next block.  Or Starbucks, maybe?  I could kill a mocha latte and a bagel right now.”

The Parable of the Child in the Pumpkin Patch

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what is in a name?”

Josh spoke thus:

A child stood in a pumpkin patch and looked at all the pumpkins waiting to gathered.  Each pumpkin sat blank and bland.

“You will be a ghost,” the child said to one pumpkin, and the pumpkin became a ghost.  The child could see the ghost’s sad eyes, the ghost’s screaming mouth.  The child could see through the pumpkin, and the child knew the pumpkin could float in mid air and pass through walls.

“You will be a vampire,” the child said to another pumpkin, and at once the pumpkin was a vampire.  The pumpkin’s fangs were sharp and prepared to pierce.  The child knew that someone’s blood would pass between this pumpkin’s lips.

“You are a cat,” the child said to a third pumpkin, and the pumpkin leapt into a tree.  The pumpkin, black as night, eyed the child.  The child avoided the pumpkin’s path.  The child knew the pumpkin was unlucky.

The fourth pumpkin the child chose was a goblin pumpkin.  This was a little pumpkin, but it was a clever pumpkin.  The goblin pumpkin winked at the child, its tongue stuck out in a challenge.  This pumpkin knew tricks the child feared.  This pumpkin demanded treats.

The child’s fifth pumpkin was a puzzle.

“Are you a devil?” the child asked the fifth pumpkin, but the fifth pumpkin would not tell the child its secret.  “Are you a demon?” the child asked the fifth pumpkin.  The fifth pumpkin was mute.

The child observed the fifth pumpkin from all sides.  It was a round pumpkin.  It was the roundest pumpkin the child had ever seen.  The child might have rolled the pumpkin in a skittles alley.  The child might have tossed the pumpkin in the sky and caught it in the way the child might catch the moon if the child could reach the trees behind which the moon descended.

“Are you the moon?” the child asked the fifth pumpkin, but the fifth pumpkin was not the moon.  The moon was descending behind the trees.

The child’s mother approached from the house.  The child’s mother had a knife.  The child’s mother approached the child and the fifth pumpkin.

“Yes, you will do,” the mother said to the fifth pumpkin, and the mother cut the fifth pumpkin from its vine.  The mother carried the pumpkin into the house, telling the child, “Fetch me cloves from the spice shed.”

“I know you now!” the child called to the pumpkin, “You are pie!”

The Parable of the Grandparent and the Children Next Door

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, are we monitoring the rest of the world better than we’re monitoring ourselves?”

Josh spoke thus:

A grandparent was watching the children in the neighboring yard.

“Just look at those monsters,” the grandparent said to the grandchildren in the grandparent’s living room, “They’re running around that yard like it’s a racetrack and they’re Secretariat.  That poor lawn is turning brown while I watch.  Who lets their kids ruin their lawn like that?  Just look at how brown that lawn is turning!”

The grandchildren didn’t watch how brown the lawn next door was turning.  The grandchildren were pouring plant food into the carpet to see whether it would make the carpet grow.

“And now look what they’re doing!” the grandparent said, “They’re pulling up flowers!  They’re running in the flowerbeds, and they’re pulling up flowers, and they’re making bracelets and bunches and garlands!  All of those flowers, dead.  All of those flowers gone!  And for what?  Gee-gaws.  Trinkets.  Bunches of flowers that will sit on the table for a day and be gone.  They don’t know how to water a bouquet.  They don’t know how to make a garland keep.  All those flowers gone!  Who lets their kids do that to their flowers?  Look at the way they’re tearing up those flowerbeds!”

The grandchildren didn’t watch how the children next door were tearing up the flowerbeds.  The grandchildren were plucking the nap out of the sofa’s upholstery.  They were grabbing the fringes of the cushions and unravelling the woven threads.

“Well isn’t that too much!” the grandparent said, “Now they’ve gotten at the apple trees, and the plumbs and the pears.  They’re grabbing fruit as though they had a right to it.  What time have they put into caring for those trees?  What trimming have they done?  What troweling beneath, to keep the soil aerated?  How have they sprayed for may flies and inchworms and beetles?  They’ve done nothing.  Nothing!  And now they’re climbing and plucking and eating and tossing like those apples are theirs, like they own those plumbs, like those pears grow just for their pleasure.  Look at how they snatch and grab at those apples!

The grandchildren didn’t watch the children next door snatching and grabbing at apples.  The grandchildren were in the kitchen, pulling jams down from the cupboards, snatching rolls out of the breadbox, grabbing butter and juice from the refrigerator.

“Some people don’t know how to watch after their young ‘uns,” the grandparent said to the grandchildren, “Some people just don’t know the damage they’re doing.”

The Parable of the Communications Monitors

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, if the NSA isn’t allowed to listen to us anymore, who will it listen to?”

Josh spoke thus:

Two communications monitors were eating lunch together.

“I could use a vacation,” one of the communications monitors said, “I haven’t had a vacation in months, in years maybe.”

“Oh, I could tell you vacation stories!” the second communications monitor said.

“I think I want to go to Europe this year,” the first communications monitor said, “I’ve always wanted to go to Greece, but I’ve never gone.  I’d love to see the Aegean.  I’d love to see where Odysseus sailed.  I’d love to see Lesbos.  I want to see the Parthenon and the Plains of Marathon.  I want to dive for pearls in the Mediterranean.  I want to sip Ouzo and watch the sunset reflect off of Mount Olympus.

“Oh, I could tell you stories about the Aegean!” the secon communications monitor said, “And stories about Lesbos!  Amazing stories about the Parthenon, Marathon and Mount Olympus!  And don’t get me started talking about Ouzo!”

“Believe it or not,” the first communications monitor said, “I want to go to Strasbourg.  I know it’s not a usual tourist destination, not for someone’s first trip to Europe, but I’ve always thought of Strasbourg as such a romantic place.  The way it’s nestled on the Rhine, half French, half German.  Wonderful old half timbered houses, leaning out over narrow cobbled streets, a soaring gothic cathedral.  German sausage and beer.  French cooking.  French wine!  What a lovely place to go, what a European place!”

“What I couldn’t tell you about traveling to Strasbourg!” the second communications monitor said, “The intrigues!  The trysts!  The rendezvous!  Strasbourg, gallic and teutonic!  Ancient and futuristic!  You should really let me tell you about the goings on in Strasbourg!”

“And, of course Paris!” the first communications monitor said, “City of Light!  City of artists!  City of dancing, city of cuisine, city of romance!”

“Who can resist Paris?” the second communications monitor said, “Everyone knows Paris is the center of fashion, of La Mode!  All the people who have strolled the banks of the Seine, sat at cafés in the Latin Quarter, sipped wine in the crooked, alpine alleyways of Montmartre!  The things I could tell you about Paris!”

“You’ve never been to any of those places,” the first communications monitor said, “You’ve never been out of the country.  You’ve gone to less places than I have.  You never leave this office.”

“Who needs to leave the office?” the second communications monitor said, “I hear it all.  That’s my beat.  Those are the communications I monitor.  Anything happens in Europe, anything at all, it comes across my desk, it displays on my monitor, it travels through the airwaves, through the wires, through my headphones.  It fills my senses, my mind, my very being.  It becomes me and I become it!”

“Two things,” the first communications monitor said, “First: you really, really, really need a vacation.  Second: I’ve got to get transferred from the Midwest to European monitoring.  Or maybe I should move to Europe.”

“If you do,” said the second communications monitor, “I’ll be the first to hear about it.”

The Parable of the Two Gossips’ Bet

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, should it be a shock when friendly nations spy on each other?”

Josh spoke thus:

Two gossips were sharing a garden fence.

“I’m done with gossip,” the one gossip said to the other.

“You’ll never give up gossip,” the second gossip said, “Gossip isn’t a choice.”

“Are you saying I was born a gossip?” the first gossip asked.

“I’m saying you’re a gossip,” the second gossip said, “You are a gossip, you’ve always been a gossip, and you always will be a gossip.”

“I can stop if I want to,” the first gossip said.

“I bet you can’t,” the second gossip said, “In fact, I’ll bet you a year of the best inside information down at the factory that you can’t keep a simple secret for a day.”

“That’s an empty bet,” the first gossip said, “There’s nothing happens down at that factory that I don’t know about.  It’s me that tells you everything that goes on down there.”

“I know things you don’t know,” the second gossip said, “I know things that’d curl your toes, if you knew.”

“You never do,” the first gossip said.

“Try me,” the second gossip said.

“Tell me,” the first gossip said.

“Make the bet first,” the second gossip said.

“Never mind the bet,” the first gossip said, “I don’t believe you.  Prove you know something I don’t know about down at the factory.”

“Make the bet,” the second gossip said, “Bet you can keep a secret for a day.”

“And if I lose?” the first gossip asked.

“If you lose,” the second gossip said, “You have to tell me a secret you’ve only told your husband.”

“You’re on,” the first gossip said, “I bet that if you can tell me anything that happened down at the factory and I didn’t already know it, I’ll keep it a secret for a day.”

“A full day, mind,” the second gossip said, “Twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours,” the first gossip said.  

Just then, the first gossip’s husband returned from working at the factory.  The second gossip whispered something in the first gossip’s ear.  The first gossip turned and slapped her husband.

“You did that?  With her?” the first gossip said to the first gossip’s husband, “You did that with her?  You promised only we...”

The first gossip stopped mid sentence and turned to the second gossip.

“That was the secret!” the first gossip said, “That was the secret I’ve only told my husband!  That was the secret I was going to tell you if I lost the bet.”

“I know,” the second gossip said with a slight smile.

The Parable of the Suicide and the Pram

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what is the root of our fascination with Halloween?”

Josh spoke thus:

A suicide was looking at a perambulator.

“What a queer word,” the suicide thought, “‘Perambulator’ is a strange word.  I like ‘pram.’  ‘Pram’ is such a cheerful word.  ‘Pram’ says sunny days in Hyde Park, among the other prams, beside the Serpentine, behind the tall apartments.  ‘Pram’ says a slightly runny nose on a cold winter’s evening, but wrapped warm as home in a woolen blanket, so that runny noses for a lifetime will instigate a comforting nostalgia.”

The suicide was feeling wordy.

“‘Perambulator,’” the suicide thought, “Is a word rife with stern governesses, crisp, metallic clothing, smoky curtains and damp washcloths.  ‘Perambulator’ is latin conjugations and sums and raps on the knuckles. ‘Perambulator’ is military and stern.  How queer that such a friendly object could have such an unfriendly name.”

The suicide’s attention shifted to a tree.  The tree was newly barren, its fallen leaves forming an irregular carpet beneath the suicide.

“Not so pretty now, eh?” the suicide said to the tree, “A little naked in this wind, eh?  Spring’s a long time ago, eh?  And a long time coming.  Spring is always a long time coming, and a short time leaving.  I was always impatient for spring.”

The tree did not appear impatient.

“You weren’t so patient when you were young, eh?” the suicide said to the tree, “You were all shoots and spearing and elbowing out.  Well your elbows are out now, eh?”

The suicide did not know what that meant, but the tree’s elbows did appear to be out, stretched as supplication, welcome or threat, or all three.  The suicide attempted to mimic the tree’s elbows with the suicide’s own.  The suicide could not move.

“No, of course not,” the suicide said to the tree, the leaves and the perambulator, “Moving’s not what I do now.  Which is a pity, because tree, leaves and perambulator are all urging me to look at something behind me.”

The suicide was glad the suicide was unable to look behind.  Behind always frightened the suicide.  Lately forward was frightening as well.  No, the suicide decided, forward was no longer frightening.  Forward had a pram.

“It’s a queer last thing to see, a pram,” the suicide said to the pram.

The Parable of the Wall of Candy

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how predictable was the flop of the Obamacare software?”

Josh spoke thus:

A child was staring at a wall of candy.

“I want a licorice,” the child said to the child’s parent.

“There are three kinds of licorice,” the child’s parent said to the child, “What kind of licorice do you want?”

The child looked at the wall of candy.

“I want a peppermint,” the child said.

“There are four kinds of peppermint,” the child’s parent said to the child, “What kind of peppermint do you want?”

The child looked at the wall of candy.

“I want gummy bears,” the child said.

“There are eight kinds of gummy bears,” the child’s parent said to the child, “What kind of gummy bear do you want?”

The child looked at the wall of candy.

“I want licorice,” the child said again.

“There are three kinds of licorice,” the child’s parent said again, “What kind of licorice do you want?”

The child began to cry.

“I want licorice!” the child shouted.

The child’s parent looked for a clerk to reach for a box of licorice.  The child’s parent couldn’t find a clerk.

“Can anyone help me find a clerk? the child’s parent called out, “I need to find a clerk so I can buy some licorice.”

A passing shopper showed the child’s parent an electronic interface in the wall.  The child’s parent began to work the interface, passing through a series of on-screen menus.  At last the parent found licorice.  The child’s parent chose licorice on the screen.

“THERE ARE: 3 KINDS OF: LICORICE,” a message on the screen read, “PLEASE CHOOSE THE KIND OF: LICORICE YOU WOULD LIKE.”

The child’s parent waited for the screen to show the three choices of licorice.  No choices came on the screen.  The child’s parent returned to the welcome screen and chose peppermint.

“THERE ARE: 4 KINDS OF: PEPPERMINT,” the screen read, “PLEASE CHOOSE THE KIND OF: LICORICE YOU WOULD LIKE.”

The child’s parent waited for the screen to show the four choices of peppermint.  No choices came on the screen.  The child’s parent returned to the welcome screen and chose gummy bears.

“THERE ARE: 8 KINDS OF: GUMMY BEARS,” the screen read, “PLEASE CHOOSE THE KIND OF: GUMMY BEARS YOU WOULD LIKE.”

The child’s parent waited for the screen to show the eight choices of gummy bears.  No choices came on the screen.  The child’s parent returned to the welcome screen and chose licorice.

“THERE ARE: 3 KINDS OF: LICORICE,” the screen read, “PLEASE CHOOSE THE KIND OF: LICORICE YOU WOULD LIKE.”

The child’s parent waited for the screen to show the three choices of licorice.  No choices came on the screen.

The child’s parent began to cry.

The Parable of the Two Drunks and the Single Bottle of Beer

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, when someone pushes a boulder out of the way in a national park, to prevent the bolder falling on passersby, is that an act of charity or of vandalism?”

Josh spoke thus:

Two drunks came back from the bathroom and went to regain their bottles of beer.  When approached the bar, there was only one beer where they stood.  It was full.

“Hey, there’s only one beer here,” one of the drunks said.

“What did you do with your beer?” the other drunk asked.

“What do you mean what did I do with my beer?” the first drunk said, “That’s my beer there, on the bar.”

“That’s not your beer,” the second drunk said, “That’s my beer.  You must have taken your beer into the bathroom.”

“Who takes their beer to the bathroom?” the first drunk asked, “The bathroom’s where I go to relieve myself of beer, not where I go to get beer.  You must have taken yours to the bathroom.”

“If I’d taken my beer to the bathroom, I’d have it in my hand,” the second drunk said, “Do you see a beer in my hand?”

“Do you see one in mine?’ the first drunk said, “I’m telling you, that’s my beer on the bar.”

“The heck with it,” the second drunk said, “I’ll just order another.  If the other beer’s in the bathroom when I go again, I’ll take it.  Let’s just say this one here is yours.”

“I already told you it’s mine,” the first drunk said.

“Whatever,” the second drunk said.  The second drunk asked the bartender for another beer.  The bartender told the second drunk that it was after last call and the bar was closed.

“We can share,” the second drunk said.

“I’m not sharing,” the first drunk said, “You go get your beer out of the bathroom.”

The second drunk went to the bathroom.  There was not a beer in the bathroom.  The second drunk returned to the bar and told the first drunk that there was no beer in the bathroom.

“Let’s share,” the second drunk said.

“You wouldn’t share, if it was your beer,” the first drunk said.

“I’m telling you this one here is my beer, and I want to share it,” the second drunk said.

The first drunk moved to grab the beer. The second drunk moved to stop the first drunk from grabbing the beer.  Their combined hands knocked the beer bottle to the floor, where it shattered.

“Hey!” a large man shouted from the pool table, “What did you do with my beer?”

The two drunks didn’t answer.  Instead the two drunks ran for the door, reaching for their jackets which were lying on the bar.  Next to each of their jackets was a full bottle of beer.  The drunks grabbed their two bottles and ran out of the bar.

The Parable of the Snow Safety Inspector

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher when BART workers went on strike, did Murphy’s Law dictate an accident to a BART worker?”

Josh spoke thus:

A snow safety inspector was examining a wall of snow.

“This is lighter snow than I’d expected,” the snow safety inspector said over the snow safety inspector’s radio, “This time of year, with these conditions, you expect heavier snow.”

The snow safety inspector waited for a reply from the snow safety inspector’s radio.  There was no reply from the snow safety inspector’s radio.

“It’s the moisture content that does it,” the snow safety inspector said into the snow safety inspector’s radio, “This time of year, you expect that there will be more moisture in the snow.  The snow melts and then refreezes, you see.  When the snow melts and refreezes, it becomes denser.  The water content is higher.”

The snow safety inspector again waited for a reply from the snow safety inspector’s radio.  There was no reply from the snow safety inspector’s radio.

“Also, the snow that originally falls has a higher moisture content,” the snow safety inspector said, “When the air is warmer, it contains more moisture.  Therefore the snow that forms in that air contains more moisture.  The flakes are bigger, in simple terms.  Just like with melted snow, that means there is more ice per cubic millimeter.  There is less air.  That means it’s less dense.  And what’s there instead of air is water.”

The snow safety inspector expected a reply to this statement over the snow safety inspector’s radio.  There was no reply.

“Denser snow is obviously heavier snow, by definition,” the snow safety inspector said, “Water is heavier than air.  The more water, the heavier the snow.  So this time of year, with more moisture in the air, and with the constant melting and refreezing of the snow--in effect into just ice--you would expect heavy snow.  What I see in front of me is not heavy snow.  It’s light snow.  It’s powder, almost.  If I were skiing, I would love this snow.

The snow safety inspector waited for laughter over the snow safety inspector’s radio.  There was no laughter over the snow safety inspector’s radio.  There was no reply over the snow safety inspector’s radio.  

There was no reply over the snow safety inspector’s radio because there was no one at the other end of the snow safety inspector’s radio’s transmission.  The person who would have been at the other end of the snow safety inspector’s radio transmission was on strike.

In fact, the snow safety inspector was on strike.  The whole snow safety inspection department was on strike.

This was why nobody had blasted any potential avalanches from the slopes of the mountains above the road the snow safety inspector was driving along when the avalanche fell on the road the snow safety inspector was driving along and buried the snow safety inspector’s car in snow.

“Hello?” the snow safety inspector called over the snow safety inspector’s radio, “A little help here?  It’s not dense snow, it should be easy to move.”

There was no reply over the snow safety inspector’s radio.

The Parable of the Great Stone Blocks

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, on the anniversary of the formation of the first trade union in the North American colonies, how fitting is it to see Walmart workers on strike?”

Josh spoke thus:

A mason was looking at a group of seams in a stand of stonework.

“That’s amazing,” the mason said to the mason’s apprentice, “Do you see how tightly those seams fit?  That’s because they were craftsmen built this wall.”

“I don’t see any mortar,” the mason’s apprentice said, “How did they build a wall with no mortar?”

“You don’t need mortar when the blocks fit that well,” the mason said, “The stones stay in place by themselves.”

“If our bricks fit better together, would we not need mortar?” the apprentice asked, “Because, when I put two brick together, they fit perfectly.  Do we not need mortar?”

“Bricks are small,” the mason said, “Bricks will shift if there’s no mortar.”

“But giant bricks wouldn’t shift,” the apprentice said, “Why don’t we make giant bricks?”

“Clay doesn’t make giant bricks,” the mason said, “Clay only makes small bricks.  Giant bricks would fall apart.”

“So why don’t we use giant blocks of stone?” the apprentice asked.

“Giant blocks of stone are too heavy to move,” the mason said, “But bricks are easy to move.  So we use many bricks to give us walls as tall as any walls made of giant blocks of stone.”

“The people who built this wall moved giant blocks of stone,” the apprentice said.

“It took many, many people to move those blocks,” the mason said.

“So we use few people and many bricks,” the apprentice said, “And the people who built this wall used many people and few blocks.”

“That’s democracy,” the mason said, “A lot of people, like a lot of bricks.  Each one is small and made of clay, but together they are as powerful as a giant wall of stone.”

“So aristocracy is giant stones?” the apprentice asked, “A small group of great stones transported by a great many people?”

“That’s how it is,” the mason said.

“So which is better?” the apprentice asked.

“Stone blocks last longer,” the mason said, “But bricks are easier to maintain.” 

“No, I mean democracy or aristocracy?” the apprentice asked.

“Stone blocks last longer,” the mason said, “But bricks are easier to maintain.”

The Parable of the Train Engineer and the Train Conductor

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, with its paralysis removed, what can Congress achieve in the rest of the year?”

Josh spoke thus:

A train engineer was angry with a herd of buffalo blocking the track.

“If it ain’t one thing,” the engineer said to the conductor, “It’s another.  I’m a busy man!  I don’t have time for these interruptions!”

“We’ve got a schedule to keep,” the conductor said, “We have places we have to get.”

“First there was that bad signal just outside Chicago,” the engineer said, “That took forever to fix.  And it took me forever to get back in my groove after that.”

“It didn’t need to have been a problem, neither,” the conductor said, “If they’d not diverted us to the other track.”

“Just because they had to service another signal,” the engineer said, “It’s like they got a list of things that got to go wrong and they got to fix, and if them things don’t go wrong, they fix them anyways, even though they don’t need fixing.  Least ways, that’s the way it looks.”

“It keeps them in a job, don’t it?” the conductor said, “They can’t get paid for fixing nothing if nothing’s broke.”

“So they break it?” the engineer asked.

“Like firemen setting fires,” the conductor said, “Or soldiers shooting indians to start an uprising.”

“Or ladies going out of doors, just so as you got to open a door for them,” the engineer said, “A lady did that just the other day.”

“That was no lady,” the engineer said, “That was my wife!”

“Is that how the joke goes?” the engineer asked.

“Beats me,” the conductor said, “What do I look like, a comedian?”

“I wish you looked like Buffalo Bill and got these buffalos out of my way,” the engineer said.

“Blast the whistle,” the conductor said.

The engineer blasted the whistle.  The nearest group of buffalo looked up.  The engineer blasted again. The buffalo shied away from the whistle.

“You might have something there,” the engineer said.  The engineer blasted the whistle a third time, and more buffalo moved away from the tracks.

“Start her up,” the conductor said, “I’ll keep blasting the whistle.

The conductor blasted the whistle while the engineer started the train moving.  Eventually the combination of the oncoming train and the blasting whistle moved the buffalo off the track, and the train could proceed.

“I can finally concentrate on my job!” the engineer said, and the engineer stared straight ahead at the miles of straight track ahead.

“I love the freedom of the rails,” the conductor said.  The conductor stared ahead along with the engineer.

“The freedom to act,” the engineer said, eyes ahead, “That’s all a man wants.”