Introns: A Fable

At one point in early 2011, a brand new island is discovered off the coast of Scotland, quite by accident. It is called Lumberia. The Royal Geography Bureau sends out a team in a boat. The team consists of an ethologist and a preacher. As they row out to the island, each of them surveys the island's inhabitants through a pair of powerful binoculars.

"The Lumberians are powerfully built, wearing flannel shirts, carrying hatchets, and living in robust wooden houses," says the preacher. "They all look very much alike."

"I agree," says the ethologist. "They look quite like Scotsmen. I think they are descended from Scotsmen."

"Nonsense!" says the preacher. "Scotsmen come in all shapes and sizes. The Lumberians look very similar to each other. They were clearly created by God to make lumber on the island. See how they are perfectly suited to logging, protecting themselves against the cold with their sensible flannel clothing. Obviously that didn't come about by chance! They are so similar to each other because, when God created the first Lumberian, He got it right, and decided not to fix what wasn't broken."

"I'm not saying the Lumberians are descended from all Scotsmen equally," says the ethologist. "Their geographic isolation would restrict their genetic diversity. They are merely descended from a few ... perhaps a single clan. I can't say for sure -"

"Ha!" shouts the preacher. "You admit you don't know!"

"True," says the ethologist. "But I may later. Right now I think that they may be descended from the McCheznicks of a wooded village on the Scottish coast near here. They look like McCheznicks, wear the same clothing, and excel at the traditional McCheznick trade of cutting timber. When the clan landed on the island, they thrived here for the same reasons they thrived in their similar home environment."

The preacher shakes his head. "You deny all the beauty of God's work with your preposterous theory of someone teleporting from the mainland to this island!"

"Actually, I think they used a boat, or several," says the ethologist, pulling at the oars.

"Ah ha! You just assumed a boat."

"Until we reach the island, this will all be necessarily hypothetical. There may have been a few strong swimmers, or a land bridge that has sunken out of sight. But assuming a boat is less a leap of faith than assuming a god."

At this point, each of them asserts his vehement belief that the burden of proof lies with the other. Each of them makes a few references to Okham's Razor. The argument continues until they reach the island.

After making landfall and greeting the inhabitants, each of the visitors sticks with his Theory of Lumberian Origins, despite the revelation that all the inhabitants of the island are named McCheznick.

A Grand Palace for the Lightning Bugs

Lightning bugs flatter me

They regard each of my branches as a grand palace

Just today I overheard one of them saying a single branch had 

one hundred thirty-seven prime places to perch

(and over four hundred mediocre places)

His abdomen flashed blue-white, which is hardly surprising

Though of course he was doing it just for me

Because all lightning bugs are silly, and think I am here just for them.

Today a man saw lightning bugs superimposed 

on a cloudy horizon decorated with lightning

That’s right, just regular old lightning

He was a short man, not more than three meters tall

(though Grandpa told me a man that size can do fiercesome things 

with a bow-saw)

Yet the sky performed its background to the lightning bugs' dance

And he thought it was there just for him.

The lightning bugs never fly so high as when they want to reach my tops

(you can call them turrets, if you want, and imagine them made of stone)

They never fly as high as an airplane

   looking down on me, thinking I’m short and forgetting me quickly

Nor do the squirrels, or the crows, or the pleasanter birds

No matter how many friends perch in my branches, it is no burden to bear

For a palace

of a few cubic meters

of softwood.

If Magic Worked Like Insurance Underwriting

Zartok's mage sense reminded him of a task. To supply his staff with wool, he would need a sheep. He had left the project with his assistant, a move which seemed logical at the time but which left troubling thoughts as he tried to study. He stood up from his desk, donned his robe, left the candles burning, and headed down the winding stone staircase.

He entered the laboratory in the subbasement of his manse. Assistant Mage Klipthak sat on the floor with his grimoire open and an overturned vial next to him. A group of distracted sheep wandered about, sniffing various magic paraphernalia.

“Klipthak, didn’t I tell you to turn a single cow into a sheep?”

“Why yes, Senior Technical Mage, sir, but I did!" the lad blinked. "At least, I started with a single cow?”

“Oh, no no no, Klipthak. Don’t tell me you didn’t follow my exact instructions, down to each subitem? Verbatim?!” Zartok stroked his long white beard and furrowed his great brows. He couldn’t blast his assistant for this sort of error but wished he could.

Klipthak was apprehensive but not exactly contrite. “Well, Senior Technical, I followed them almost exactly -“.

“ENOUGH!” came the roared answer. Zartok paused for effect. Klipthak cowered behind his grimoire, waiting for the lightning bolts. Instead, his master continued. “Recite your spell in its entirety, with all the hand motions. Pray be exact.”

After three minutes of timid but exact recounting, Zartok sighed. “I see what you’ve done, boy. An easy mistake to make, but easily avoided if you had followed orders. First, when you referred to the target animal as four-legged creature, the universe thought you wanted four sheep. You don’t need to specify number of legs for a within-phylum transformation spell. So now we have four sheep.”

Klipthak mistook the pause for a chance to speak. “So we’ll eat mutton," he offered.

“SILENCE! We eat no mutton! You know how you added permancy to that spell, so your sheep wouldn’t change back to a cow at sundown?” Klipthak nodded. “Well, you added it to the spell’s object level. Permanency is a meta-level item if you only want the spell’s effects to be permanent. On the object level, it makes the object permanent. We shall never eat mutton because … you … have … made … me … FOUR ... IMMORTAL ... SHEEP!”

Klipthak turned pale and began to cry.

The Gnospel of Slang

One day about four million years ago, the Monad looked upon the Universe He had created, and saw that it was okay. But not great. He was dissatisfied.

He gathered His aeons together. "It has come to My attention that creation is lacking. There are simply not enough slang words for marijuana!"

One of his aeons (not named) responded, "But, my liege, there are currently over six thousand slang terms for marijuana. Is that not enough?"

The Monad scoffed. "Zut alors! Of course it's not enough. We need more! Just make up another 40 trillion by Tuesday."

The aeons gasped. It seemed like a daunting task. They set to work until sweat glistened on their heavenly foreheads.

On Monday evening the Monad became restless, and started lurking around the office trying to see if any progress was made on His new plan. He happened upon the desk of Sophia, the aeon of wisdom. "Sophia," He said in His gravelly voice, "What progress have you made for me?"

Sophia blinked at him. "Umm ... 'doobage'?"

"Forty trillion!" the Monad roared.

"My lord, our task is to make 40 trillion new slang words for marijuana. Yet there are less than a billion words in all the extant languages combined! Are you certain this is a reasonable task?"

"Forty trillion!" the Monad repeated. "Back to work, Sophia!"

Sophia said nothing, but turned back to her work. She smoothed her raven-black hair with her pale fingers in a vaguely hot but very Goth sort of way. Once the Monad had wandered back to His office, she crept away from her desk to make a baby. She didn't inform her mate, a male aeon whose name is lost to history. This was probably not a great idea.

"'Probably not a great idea'?!" the aeons cried in unison. Okay, fine, it was probably the worst idea in history. After a long, arduous, yet easily-concealed pregnancy, Sophia gave birth to the Demiurge, and he went on to create the Cosmos, filling it with dirt, landfills, people, and all sorts of other dirty disgusting stuff.

And that, my children, is how the world was created.

Denmark in a Nuthshell

Preface: Given the nature of the subject matter and the opacity of my writing, I have decided to help out the reader by marking with an asterisk those facts about Denmark which sound like jokes but aren't.  (Those that the sound like a joke but are unmarked are actually jokes, usually made up by me.  Since Danes like to laugh about themselves, and I am half-Danish, these jokes will be half-funny.)

I don't know what the Danish national beverage is, but it might be akvavit or aquavit or however it's spelled.  Aquavit is a very Scandinavian sort of caraway-fennel vodka*.  It is reported to taste like rocket fuel, which is strange since Denmark does not have a space program.

Denmark minus Greenland is half the size of Maine and a sixth the size of Oregon.*  Some people say Greenland is not actually green, but if you look at a world map you can see that it actually is.

Denmark is spelled "Danmark" in Denmark.  The D e n m a r k spelling was necessary because there is no A in English.

People from Denmark are called "Danes".  If you call them "Dutch" I will go berzerk, brandish my battleaxe, and sunburn easily.

Denmark Vessey was an African-American slave who led a revolt.  It failed.

The Little Mermaid is a story written by the most famous Dane of all time, Hans Christian Anderson.  A copper statue of The Little Mermaid sits in Copenhagen harbor, sadly contemplating her native sea and delighting tourists with her grace and innocence.  The statue has been decapitated twice and blown up once.*

In addition to H.C. Andersen, famous Danes include navigator Vitus Bering, astronomer Tycho Brahe, philosopher Soren Kierkegaard, comedian Victor Borge, and King Christian X, who led the peaceful resistance to Nazi violence against Jews.  Other prominent Danes include several generations of extremely violent Vikings and a shamefully small number of death metal musicians.

Danish is a close relative of English, but it sounds rather like the sound Italian toddlers make when they have a mouthful of dishwashing liquid.  The Danish alphabet has 29 characters*; the three extra ones are formally known as "A and E stuck together", "A with a dot over it", and "O crossed out so it looks like a zero on an old PC".

Danish wildlife includes wild boar, feral Great Danes, and Swedes who get on the ferry to take advantage of relatively low local excise taxes on liquor.  The Danes have some of the best and worst food in the world.  The former includes a variety of fresh fish, dark rye bread, butter, and salty licorice flavored with ammonium chloride*.  The latter includes marzipan, tilsit, pickled herring, and some sort of horrendous concoction made from stale bread soaked in flat beer; its name translates to "beer bread".  No, really - it is supposed to be made from soaking stale bread in flat beer.*

Out of guilt for tilsit, "beer bread", and those centuries of Vikings mistreating British peasants, the Danes have transformed themselves recently into nice people.  "Recently" being around five hundred years ago.  Basically, all the Danes went to see the a travelling production of Hamlet and realized that if they kept on like they were, they were all going to end up stabbed or poisoned.  So they turned in their battleaxes, freed their thralls, and decided to only colonize uninhabited places.

Danish explorer: Wow, this whole island is covered with ice!  It should be totally uninhabited!

Native Greendlander: "Should be", but isn't.

Danish explorer: Aww, nuts.

At The Employment Office

"I'm considering a career in Information Hoarding," I said, trying to sound optimistic. "I can tell you all about myself - salary requirements, education, preferred work environment, the whole nine yards. Here's my resume!"

The man behind the desk sat impassively. His hands were nowhere to be seen, probably on his knees. He didn't touch my resume. "You've come to right place. I know all about that field. Or rather, I know about all of them - really it's a melange of sub-fields." He smiled contentedly.

I paused, waiting for him to continue. I gave up. "I'm very excited about it, but I can't seem to find much about it on the web, and none of my contacts know much. Is there a typical way someone gets into this field?"

"Oh, no standard way to get into it. Depends on the sub-field, really. Which sub-field are you most interested in?"

"Well," I replied sheepishly. "I honestly don't know anything about the sub-fields. I need more information on them. Actually, I need any information on them!"

"Oh, there's a wealth of information on them," he said encouragingly. "Absolutely. Just gotta know where to find it."

I was heartened. "Can you help me find it?"

"Sure," he said, and smiled again.

This time I promised myself I wouldn't speak until he did, and that I could bear any length of silence. I broke after what seemed like five minutes, but was probably not one. "Sometimes I feel like I allow discussions to founder because I focus on conveying an overall impression and a set of goals, while my listener is fixated on a few missing keywords."

He nodded knowingly. "Yes, that's very possible."

"What should I do now?" I asked, wondering if he heard it all as an undifferentiated hiss.

"Whatever you want to!" he declared in the same encouraging force.

I thanked him and bade him farewell. He beamed and gave me a friendly wave as I left his office.

The Eldritch Coffees of Sam

I'll try to gather my thoughts about me before my mind falls into the brief mercy of slumber. Mine is a tale of Sam, the fabled Barista of the Blasted Heath, who turns out endless lattes to the tuneless intonations of an unseen piper, and the horror that befell me when I visited his lair.
It seems so far in the distant past that I was a callow, foolish youth, yet reason tells me it was a mere three years ago. I was born in a wooded area, dotted with dappled meadows and farmhouses whose inhabitants spoke only in whispers of the dark things that lay beyond the edge of the forest. Despite their warnings, the elders could not quiet my infernal curiosity, the dark desires that burned within my heart to investigate - perhaps conquer! - the fabled, foresaken Heath.

One day only a week after I had turned twenty-one I set out on one of my usual rambling journeys near the edge of the wood. I had not yet developed the courage, or foolhardiness, which would cause me to venture out onto the Heath itself. Instead I stood on the rich soil of the wood and gazed onto the Heath, simultaneously repelled by its desolation and drawn in by its otherworldly strangeness. Suddenly the cheerful sound of the meadowlarks died away, and I could here only an infernal hissing moan. Later, I would learn that it was the sound of what Sam called, in his swarthy Slavic accent, a milk-steaming machine. Upon first hearing it, I was stricken dumb by the nameless terror.

The sound gave way all too swiftly to the second sensation of that weird afternoon, my first contact with the aroma of fresh-roasted Sumatra. The deathly-black beans had been harvested under the uncaring sun of far-off islands, and brought to my very doorstep on creaking barques manned by lean, hunted sailors. It was my good fortune, that day, to be unable to see the gaunt, stooped figure of Sam himself, for the grey haze of caffeine vapors were too thick for my poor eyes to penetrate.

My fortune did not last. How, O how was I to resist the call of the latte, of the mocha, of the espresso? Not even at night, far from the Heath, wrapped in my too-thin blanket, could I free myself from the heady fumes of Sam's bar. The hiss of the steaming machine rubbed my nerves raw and kept my eyes open like a doorless cellar. I tried to console myself with liquor, with light music, with nonsensical poetry, but nothing could free my mind from this steaming black prison. I returned again and again, against my better judgement and the urgent words of the elders, trying to catch a glimpse of the author of these horrors - and yet fearing that I might.

It is hard to believe now, but at the time I was not aware of my fate. How could I not have known that dabbling with the weirdness of the Heath would lead me to ruin? Now, not even knowing the answer could console me. After many months of coy wanderings on early afternoons, once during a particularly sleepless night the idea struck me to visit the Heath once again.

It was a moonless night. I brought with me an electrical torch, thinking that if I encountered anything threatening I could simply extinguish the torch and thus disappear. My feet took me along the paths I had followed so many times, never once tripping or stumbling. In the dead of night, the boundary of the woods did not appear to be so forbidding. I took my first few steps onto the Heath, and breathed a sigh of relief when nothing molested me.

Such a naive sigh! As if a few steps out of the security of my forest proved anything about my ability to defend myself in that cheerless, insane place! With this callow vigor flowing through my poor veins, I proceeded further on the heath with my torch in my pocket. At first, the ground felt fairly normal, but as I proceeded my feet began to sink into the peat. Still, I was not deterred. The wind had abandoned its usual crass icyness, and died down to a mere breath. I walked on with a childlike determination on my brow.

Tonight, I would see the bar of Sam. It mattered not if it were occupied. I wanted to feel the grounds in my hand - to touch a cup which had held the unspeakable liquid so many times over the countless years. If I could do this, I reasoned, I could return to sleep, and normalcy, and some shred of sanity.

I saw the bar. It was an old-fashioned tumble-down shack of the kind a peat-cutter might rest his old bones in. Still, I knew it was the epicenter of the horrors. I moved toward it, steadfast, and woefully ignorant. The door was not locked. Curse that doorknob! Curse that hand that had left it unlocked!

What happened next I cannot and must not remember. I only know that they found me at the edge of the wood three days later, deathly mute and almost dead of exposure, with my pockets full of coffee grounds and a milk-moustache upon my quivering visage. Dr. Zann pronounced me beyond his power to help, and prayed that I should recover of my own inner strength.

Have I made such a recovery? I do not know. I can walk and speak and, sometimes, eat. I can write these words. But it is a rare night that passes without some dream of the hissing machine, or the smell (dare I say - the taste?) of that beverage, leaving me bolt-upright and damp on my bed. My cat Little Pancho shuns me after dark now; I can no longer rely on his lazy form to comfort my tired shins. My days are spent in fear that I will yet again cross paths with the dreaded Sam and his dark tonics.

The Pre-History of the Nile Delta

Okay, so one day about four trillion years ago, Osiris, Ra, Isis, Bast, and Seth were all sitting around in the Egyptian desert. They were hot, since air conditioning was about four trillion years from being invented, and due to various principles of thermodynamics, it doesn't work outdoors anyway. So Isis, who was looking hot in more ways than one, said, "Hey guys, let's play this new boardgame I got!"

Ra and Osiris were hip to the idea, but, since Seth is evil, he doesn't like boardgames. For the same reason, he happens to really like urban legends, so he started in. "Betcha thought glass is a solid. Ha! You're wrong! It's a liquid!" Ra wasn't particularly interested in that, since he was busy looking for some dice, but Osiris raised an elegant black eyebrow. Isis was annoyed that no one was noticing how hot she looked, but in fairness, they had known each other for like two million years so the guys were probably used to it.

"Didja know dog mouths are totally free of bacteria?" Seth cackled, licking his lips. "Their saliva kills all germs!" he said, bringing his face close to Isis's. Isis recoiled at the stench and turned to an old bookshelf that she thought might hold an old copy of Diplomacy.

"Found 'em!" Ra said with great excitement, as he found both dice under the couch. Osiris looked up from a book and smiled. Bast lay on her side in the shadow of the bookshelf. Isis looked looked under the Diplomacy box and found her absolute favorite game, Pictionary. Seth was annoyed that no one was paying attention to him. He stood on his head and waved at his friend's with his hind paws. He began to get dizzy so he righted himself and started in again.

"Did you know that bitch Andrea Dworkin said 'All sex is rape'? Man, I could talk about that for hours."

"Yeah, well, Andrea Dworkin is an idiot," said Isis, since she couldn't think of anything else to say. Ra went to look for a card table, wondering if this Andrew Dworkin person might combine Isis's good looks with a less haughty personality.

Osiris spoke for the first time. "Or, perhaps, the person who misquoted Ms. Dworkin as having said that is an idiot." He smiled sagely, as he often did. Ra set up the card table, and Bast wasted no time in hoping on it and moving to the exact center.

Seth whirled on him. "No! No, no! When someone asserts that someone said something stupid, it's always true! It is, cause I said so, and I'm a god, dammit!"

Osiris smiled some more, and said, "My dear Seth, I think you'll find that 'Goddammit' is a completely anachronistic phrase for this period. Just kidding!" Ra approached the table, trying to figure out how they could set up the game without disturbing Bast, who had just fallen into a deep slumber. Osiris ignored this and continued, "Seriously though, I looked up the definition of liquid and I have to say that, at room temperature, glass just doesn't fit that definition. I am starting to believe that, at this point, your credibility leaves something -".

At that moment, he was cut short by Seth's having chopped him into little pieces. Seth even fed a very politically-incorrect part of Osiris to a fish. Naturally, this spoiled the game. Ra sat at the card table pouting, hoping to get Bast to sit on his lap (which she wouldn't do despite his claim that he had some calf's liver), while Isis, despite her haughty attitude and keen awareness of her good looks, made herself useful by travelling all over Egypt in a Chevy Nova collecting various parts of Osiris for his eventual reassembly. In the interim, Seth thought he was a pretty cool cat, or a pretty cool aardrvark, or whatever he was.

And that, my children, is how loudmouths were created.

Finally! A Fair IQ Test!

Despite the persistent usage of intelligence quotient tests as a psychometric method, questions remain about their fairness and utility.  Critics say IQ tests may be culturally biased, or test an overly-narrow set of functions in pursuit of the elusive concept of “measurable cognitive ability”.  The critics are right, but most do not go far enough.  In fact, the real problem with IQ tests is that they are biased against people with low IQs.  Dim people rarely score well on IQ tests, and this imbalance must be corrected.

To that end, we have designed a brand new multiple-choice IQ test with the help of a panel of consultants selected for having below-average IQs.  Please take the time to circle the best answer to each question, to better understand your true intelligence quotient.

Can we be sure of the sign - positive or negative - on the answer to the question “What is the square root of four?”

A.  No.  Technically the answer could be two or negative two, though convention prefers a positive number.

B.  Two.

How do you spell “affect”?

A.  A F F E C T.  Are spelling questions really appropriate to a written test?

B.  E F F E C T.

What is the sum of 3.0 and 2.5?

A.  5.5.

B.  Decimals are hard.

If you ain’t got no boots, how many boots do you got?

A.  Difficult to say.  Intepreted in its usual colloquial use, you would have none, but logically, you would have to have at least one boot.  This is why double negatives should be avoided.

B.  None.

Explain why it is unnecessary to use correct grammar and punctuation, noting that clear communication is not important.

A.  I don’t think I can do that.  It’s just not correct - clear communication is very important.  I’ll just have to sit this one out.

B.  Clear communication isn’t important!? well this is one of those things I think should be left to the individual like you Know I mean I can always figure out what people mean even if “their” grammar isn’t to good so I think really it’s more important to get across what you are trying to say and say it and be clear not to get bogged down in “some” rule about grammar.  Or punctuation I mean I think it is important to tell the truth, I have pretty bad grammar to tell you the truth, and I think honesty is important?  So the answer to the question is yes.

Do you watch between two and four hours of television per day, or more than four?

A.  Isn’t that more like a survey question than a test item?  And haven’t you left out the possibility of a test-taker not watching TV at all?

B.  I only watch public television, so I can be smart.  I watch a balanced mix of reality TV, dance shows, sports, and headline news.  My sister-in-law said the government controls TV, which makes everything public TV, right?

If you feel marginalized by a high-tech economy which puts a premium on cognitive ability, is it better to become a habitual amphetamine user or a teenage mother?

A.  Well I hope those aren’t the only options!  My recommendation would be to enroll in a reputable technical-vocational school and learn a marketable trade.  

B.  Dude.  Tweakers are awesome!  Gimme somma dat crystal.

Who is cooler, Jessica Simpson or Paris Hilton?

A.  Surely that’s a matter of opinion.  How could I possibly answer?

B.  Paris!!!  Skinny people ROCK.

Why should brainy kids get beat up?

A.  What an awful thought!  Is this test for real?

B.  Cause they’re so weird.

Isn’t it fun to prove your manliness by lying flat on your back in the middle of a highway?

A.  What?  Did I read that right?  I think this test is a sham.

B.  Yes yes YESS!!!

SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY!  MY COUNTRY RIGHT OR WRONG!  BLING!  

A.  Oh that’s it.  If you’re not even going to ask proper questions then I am not going to waste my time with this travesty any more.

B.  WOOT WOOT WOOT!  BABY!  LIKE TOTALLY!  DITTO!

___________________________

If your answers were all As, your percentage correct is zero, and your IQ is zero.  

If your answers were all Bs, your percentage correct is 100, and your IQ is 100.

If your answers were some As and some Bs, your IQ is 50, and your percentage correct is unknown, because percents are hard.

I hope you have found this test to be helpful in determining your astrological sign, or your hat size, or whatever it was it was supposed to test.

Tera and Hedgehog

Tera and Hedgehog lived near Shropshire. They had a small house under the hill with the chestnut tree on the very top. Each autumn, Tera and Hedgehog would gather food for the coming winter. The wind would blow gently in the autumn, and turn into an icy chill each December. During the harsh winter, Tera would spend the long months playing for Hedgehog on his fiddle and reading poetry. Each spring they would emerge blinking and scampering into the warm sunshine.


One autumn, Tera entered the little house under the hill with his arms full of groceries. Right away he noticed something was wrong. "Where oh where can the marmalade-pot be?" he cried, hastily putting away the baguette, fresh turnips, and pork sausages he had purchased. "Perhaps on the high mantle in the study?" he asked to no-one in particular, for Hedgehog had not yet emerged from her inner sanctum. Tera was a short, stout sort of fellow, and he blustered about in his waistcoat beneath the high mantle looking for something to light upon.

"Hedgehog, oh Hedgehog!" called Tera quietly into his friend's room. "I simply cannot find the marmalade-pot, old fruit, and I'm too abbreviated to see onto our highest mantle!" Only the sounds of gentle rustling could be heard in response. Hedgehog was sleeping quite late even for a hedgehog, this being autumn and all.

Tera didn't want to wake his dearest, oldest friend, so he cast about for a step-stool or wheelbarrow or something which could aid him in his quest. He took out his gold pocket-watch from a waistcoat pocket and noted the time. "Onion sauce! It is almost three o'clock and the Reverend will be here straight away!" Just then he thought of the elderly clay vase under the kitchen sink. Since Tera's pansies had died the previous summer, the vase had been unoccupied. Inverted, it just might serve as a platform to summit the mantle!

He set out for the kitchen on his short limbs, entirely too quickly. He caught his wool trousers on the rough corner of a small chest in which Hedgehog kept sundries like her favorite skull-mask. "Oh fiddlesticks! Confound this inconvenient item!" he cried, as he sadly ran his hands over the torn knee of his second-favorite trousers. Just then he remembered the time and the impending visit of the Reverend and continued into the kitchen. He found the vase under the kitchen-sink where he had left it, empty except for a fat old spider who had made it his home.

Tera tipped the vase on its side and began to roll it into the study. As he passed by Hedgehog's open door he heard her voice calling out to him: "You stupid fool, Tera! What the hell are you doing?" Her voice sounded snuffly.

"Why good day, old fruit!" Tera called back as he struggled with the vase. "The Reverend will be hear any minute and I can't find our marmalade-pot! Don't you think it may be on the mantle in the study?"

Tera was answered by the sound of Hedgehog hastily getting out of bed. Her lean, disheveled form appeared just behind him. Her mohawk had grown out considerably and she had generous bags under her coal-black eyes. "What the hell are you doing with my vase?" she demanded.

"Oh Hedgehog, dearie, I'm sure you'll remember this as the vase I used to keep my pansies in?" answered Tera cheerfully. "My mum gave it to me upon my nineteenth birthday! Perhaps if I inert it I can use it as a step-ladder to the high mantle."

Hedgehog leaned heavily against the wall, slightly disturbing a small painting of Tera's grandfather. "'Inert'? That's 'invert', you moron," she said, practically shouting when she pronounced "invert".

Tera laughed his warm, piping laugh. "Of course! Silly me, I'm always saying one thing when I mean another." He turned the corner into the study. Soon the vase was upside-down on the old Persian rug and Tera was scrambling to get atop it. Then came the Reverend's rap at the front door. Just in time!

Tea at Tera and Hedgehog's was always a cheery affair. This afternoon was no exception. Tera regaled the Reverend with tales of his rescue of the marmalade-pot, while the Reverend described his effort to repair several pews at the chapel, which had been damaged by water in a flood the previous month. Hedgehog was nowhere to be seen, but her presence was made apparent by the sounds of music which emanated from her room at a quite audible volume:

The abductions have already begun
All around us we've infected someone you love
Initiate the start of an alien war
We're already one!

Give into what you cannot fight
Walk Among Us! Walk Among Us!

It was a tea both the Reverend and Tera would remember fondly for some years.

The History of Chocolate

Scene 1.

THE SCENE is a verdant Meso-American jungle at the dawn of the 16th Century.  The jungle is filled with the sounds of tropical birds.  THE CHARACTERS are a strapping young Aztec jaguar warrior and an equally strapping young Spanish privateer-explorer.

Conquistador:  In the name of the Pope and the King of Spain, I command you to surrender and repent!

Jaguar Warrior:  Oh crumb.  We’ve just met and you’re getting all pushy.  Let’s be friends?

Conquistador:  Think again.  I’m about to introduce you to the concept of religious warfare!

Jaguar Warrior:  Oh, I know all about that.  Last week my uncle slaughtered 500 Mixotec peasants in honor of an assortment of bloodthirsty nature gods.  The gods had some full bellies after that, I’ll wager.

Conquistador:  You’re going down, human sacrifice boy!

Jaguar Warrior:  Pot...?  Kettle?

Conquistador:  [thumbs back serpentine on absurdly primitive firearm] The power of Christ compels you!

Jaguar Warrior:  I don’t think your Christ wagered on this. [proffers Belgian chocolate bar in outstretched hand]

Conquistador:  Ha!  Your primitive weapon is no match for a state-of-the-art 8-gauge firelock backed up by Spanish steel and years of post-feudal military training.

Jaguar Warrior:  It’s not a weapon.

Conquistador:  Eh?

Jaguar Warrior:  Go ahead, try a bite.

Conquistador:  A bite?  I guess it couldn’t hurt. [breaks off a square and tastes it tentatively]

Jaguar Warrior:  There’s a good fellow.

Conquistador:  Whoa.  I mean....  Holy Christ, that is good!

Jaguar Warrior:  You like it?

Conquistador:  It’s a whole new world of gastronomic beauty!

Jaguar Warrior:  And I can show you whole palaces full of it.

Conquistador:  For real?!

Jaguar Warrior:  Yep.

Conquistador:  Which way?

Jaguar Warrior:  I’d be happy to show you.  Of course, we’d move faster if you’d leave behind all that armor and weaponry.

Conquistador:  Of course!  Silly me. [puts down firearm and strips out of helmet and armor with surprising speed, revealing “six-pack” abs and a black Speedo bearing an image of the patron saint of Aragon]

Jaguar Warrior:  Off we go.

Scene 2.

THE SCENE is the interior of a large stone structure in the middle of what is now Mexico.  It is a store room filled with chocolate in various forms, on shelves, in barrels, and in stacks.  THE CONQUISTADOR is still clad only in the Speedo, with candy wrappers piled loosely around him.  THE JAGUAR WARRIOR is there too; his obsidian-toothed war club has been leaned against a wall.

Conquistador:  Ohh ... mmmm ... ohhhh. [drops empty wrapper]

Jaguar Warrior:  Good stuff, huh?

Conquistador:  I’m feeling a little woozy.

Jaguar Warrior:  That’s the sugar crash.  

Conquistador:  You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I don’t think I can eat any more.

Jaguar Warrior:  Oh, it happens to everyone.  Sounds like your attitude to my people has changed.  You haven’t called us “hellbound heathens” in two days.

Conquistador:  Did I say that?  [rubs belly lazily]  Funny how things change. 

Jaguar Warrior:  Welcome to apostacy.

Conquistador:  [sleepily] Amen to that, brother.  I think I’ll title my book Post-Catholic: How Chocolate Awakened Me to the Peace-Loving Utilitarian Internationalist Who Lives Within All of Our Hearts.

Jaguar Warrior:  The only problem with chocolate is, it’s a pain to move it all.  Have to hoist up big barrels on your back and slog through the jungle.  It would be nice if it were easier, but one can’t have everything, I suppose.

Conquistador:  Or you could just use wheelbarrows.

Jaguar Warrior:  You could just use whatbarrows?

Conquistador:  [almost asleep] Wheel....

Jaguar Warrior:  What in the name of Quetzlcoatl is a “wheel”?

Conquistador:  Oh, it’s a solid object, approximately disc-shaped, usually made out of wood.  It supports the weight of an object, and by turning, prevents the repeated investment and loss of gravitational potential energy necessitated by the footsteps of man or beast of burden.  Totally revolutionized cargo and passenger transport in Eurasia.  Pretty cool invention. [falls asleep]

Jaguar Warrior:  What, you mean you rest a heavy object on an axis threaded through the center of a vertical disc, and then you just push?  Or pull?  You’d have to lubricate the bearing, but that wouldn’t be too much of an engineering feat.  [pause]  Holy crap.  That would revolutionize transport. You could make linear clearings through the jungle, connecting settlements, perhaps studding the clearings with flat rocks to prevent wheels sinking  into the soft earth.  Why stop at wheelbarrows?  You could rest a rectangular pallet on four wheels, with two axels, for a much more stable load.  [pause]  By increasing peaceful intercourse between communities, peoples could present each other with their great gifts - from intricate craft goods to pure knowledge!  Meso-America could exit the era of violence, superstition, and strife, and enter a new age of communication, compassion, and learning!  [pause; turns to sleeping CONQISTADOR]  I completely had the wrong idea about you people.

Conquistador:  [wakes up with sticky mouth-noises] What did you think about my people?

Jaguar Warrior:  Well, I thought you were skull-cracking, bible-thumping simpletons.  Turns out that, with the invention of the wheel, you have given humanity the greatest tool since the atlatl. [CONQUISTADOR gives a blank look]  It’s a spear-thrower.

Conquistador:  Oh.  Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but the Spaniards didn’t actually invent the wheel.

Jaguar Warrior:  [looks disappointed]  Well, what did you invent?

Conquistador:  Watch.  {stands up and pulls a pair of castanets from God-knows-where; begins to flamenco]

Jaguar Warrior:  Santa Maria!

Conquistador:  I won a contest in Malaga once.

Jaguar Warrior:  Apparently the sugar crash has worn off.

Conquistador:  Oh yeah.

Jaguar Warrior:  Let me try.  [begins to roughly imitate CONQUISTADOR]

Conquistador:  Not bad. [both dance for a while] Hey, watch out!  {Jaguar Warrior trips on a chocolate barrel and hits leg on sharp corner of stone wall; blood flows from a small shin wound wound]

Jaguar Warrior and Conquistador:  Oh crap!  {Jaguar Warrior mops blood from leg]

Jaguar Warrior:  I knew I should have worn my stretchy cotton body-suit.  I’m starting to feel feverish.

Conquistador:  Don’t fear.  I’ll raise your children as if they were my own.

Jaguar Warrior:  I knew I could count on you.  Blood poisoning sucks ass. [slumps over and stops moving]

19th Century Physician:  Wheels, cotton clothing, and chocolate are okay, but they’re not much compared to germ theory.  

Conquistador:  Sweet fancy Moses!  Where did you come from?

19th Century Physician:  Time machines are pretty neat, too.

Conquistador:  Well, don’t just stand there!  Can’t you help him? [waves hands and points to fallen Jaguar Warrior]

19th Century Physician:  No, he’s already dead of a rapid blood-born infection caused by ubiquitous tropical pathogens.  

Conquistador:  Is there nothing you can do?

19th Century Physician:  Help a dead man?  Do I look like God to you?

Conquistador:  Well, with those corrective eyeglasses, a rigorous scientific method allowing you to understand microbiology, and a freekin’ time machine ... yeah, you pretty much do look like God to me.

19th Century Physician:  Oh.  [rolls eyes]  Barbarian.

Conquistador:  Ad hominem!

19th Century Physician:  [looks guilty] Yeah, you’re right.

Conquistador:  Want a Butterfinger?  [proffers wrapped candy bar]

19th Century Physician:  Yeah.  [takes candy bar]

THE END

The Saga of Sweet

One day about four billion years ago, long before the world had been created, this enormous giant was sitting around with Odin, Ve, and Vili, talking about rugby. Ve was making a point which was very comical, since it subtly communicated - to experts only - that he was getting rugby confused with Australian Rules Football.

The giant took a sip from a flagon made from the shinbone of a celestial impala. (I don't know either.) He mocked Ve subtly in a way no one understood. Then Odin stood up.

"Gentleman, you may be wondering why I have gathered you all here," he cried.

"You haven't gathered us here at all, good brother," cried Vili. This all took place so long ago that no one said anything, they just cried stuff. "We were all just sitting around discussing barbaric sports."

"Well, nonetheless, I have a plan," Odin replied. "We should make a total crapload of carbohydrate. Right now!"

Ve stroked his long pre-cosmic beard and wondered what "carbohydrate" meant. The giant nodded sagely. Vili protested again. "But Odin, you half-cocked barbarian, where would we put all this carbohydrate once we've created it?"

"That's a fair question, Vili my boy. I've considered it at length. We ... should create ... a world!" Odin cried triumphantly.

"A world?" the others cried in unison. Actually, it wasn't quite in unison, since the giant was sharp by at least a half-step. But I digress.

Anyway, some more funny stuff happened, the giant ended up dying in a really unpleasant but strangely cinematic sort of way, and the world was created. And that, my children, is where we get desserts from.