Stanley

A sophisticated newspaper movie critic named Stanley was so dedicated to his work that he paid a team of surgeons to transplant him into a video projector, so he could both show films and provide a running critical commentary. His head stuck out near the lens, and he was installed in an elite downtown venue.
Stanley was living a film critic's dream. The beautiful people flocked to his screenings, there were any number of guest appearances on tv shows, and pundits wrote extensively about the obsession with film in today's popular culture.
Unfortunately, the medical science behind the transplant operation turned out to be imperfect. Tape backed up and unreeled out his nose, while DVDs glitched when he ran out of memory. As Stanley sputtered, the audience looked, laughed, and left.
Eventually he was tossed out of the theatre, and then his contract with the newspaper was not renewed. Eventually he finally found a good position at a small but prestigious University, where he became an Assistant Lecturer of Cinema and an Audio Visual Application.
He continued his public screenings but audiences found his unreliability annoying, while his commentary sounded so yesterday. Soon his movie critiques appeared only on placemats in restaurants and his movie screenings went from first run cinemas to second-run multi-plexes, until after a few years he was reduced to being the Entertainment Associate at a Summer camp for teenagers, showing them dreadful movies about Summer camps for teenagers which were infested with killers of teenagers. Stanley despised these films, and his critic's wit was largely lost on audiences who were only interested in the next kill.
At least he could still tell himself that he was living his dream.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Fast Food Heaven

One Summer afternoon, as Frank placed his old newspapers in the blue recycling bin in his back yard, he yet again had the disquieting experience of watching his little Shitzhu perform her own version of recycling, creating waste from one end and then gobbling it back up with the other. It certainly was part of the cycle of life, although not to everyone's taste.
Taking a cue from how fast food chickens are raised, Frank purchased a large barn with a lot of small cages, brought in a truckload of small dogs, and then packaged and marketed their produce as the ultimate fast food:
Protein,minerals, but no transfats
Edible package, so it doesn't have to be opened and you don't have to look at it
Available in chunky or smooth
Predigested
Not having to open the package before eating was clever, but Frank showed his genius with pre-digestion, which turned out to be the biggest selling point for fast food fans. Government regulation was not a problem'politicians and Health Department officials were among his hungriest customers.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net





The Mediator

When Harold was born he did not like what he saw of life on the outside. It was cold, filled with unpleasant sounds, and looked like just about everything could be painful. So he asked his mother if he return back inside her.
Harold's mother was a highly qualified mediator. She wanted to deny him but that would be rejecting her own child at birth; furthermore, she could not deny ownership of aspects of the situation. So she let him back in, deciding to draw on her extensive professional experience to help them both adjust.
However, Harold was not interested in adjusting. Once inside, he had every reason to stay and none to leave: it was safe, warm and nurturing. His mother was reluctant to pressure him to go out in the world, given the boundaries which she had helped establish.
Space problems were common during his early childhood, given he had all the usual toys. As there was only so much room, there was no place for siblings, but his mother did not mind that too much as she felt she already had enough on her hands. Family friends spoke quietly about strains on the marriage, but Harold's father was a remarkably patient man.
Time went by. Soon Harold was about to turn twenty-one. His mother, ever the professional, had planned for the moment: "I love you very much," she told him after he blew out the candles on the birthday cake, 'but isn't it time you went out on yoru own and started seeing other people?"
Harold continued to be reluctant, but she insisted. They talked through their situation in regular sessions mediated by one of her colleagues. Eventually Harold built up the confidence to go outside and, after a whirlwind courtship, found the girl of his dreams.
After the marriage ceremony there were some difficulties when Harold and his new bride Sylvia first moved in. There was nowhere for her furniture. But eventually they all did settle down to live normal lives, except perhaps for Harold's mother, who did not get around much anymore.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Mortal Immortality

Michael did not want to live forever, but neither did he want to be forgotten. History is interested in the powerful, politicians and generals, while Michael worked in a grocery store. The only time he was in a newspaper was the ad announcing his marriage. Michael felt he did not deserve to be forgotten just because he was not powerful.
His partner and he adopted two children, both of whom grew up well. The family remained close even when the children moved out. Michael and his partner spent many of their off-work hours with their family or playing basketball or volunteering at a soup kitchen.
A few weeks before he became sixty, Michael was told that he had inoperable cancer. He grieved for losing his loved ones, and for his vanishing. He had written no book, had no highway or school or landfill named after him, so he would die lost to time and history.
As he lay dieing, his partner began placing photographs around Michael. He put them on their night table, alongside him on the bed--wherever Michael could see them. Photographs of him, them, their children. Of the staff and customers of the grocery store, of the soup kitchen clients. So many photographs that they fell over him, spilling onto the bed and the floor. Then his partner turned on the computer and Michael saw he was a hit on Google. His partner clicked a mouse and Michael saw a website with all the pictures, and the story of their lives together.
Holding his partner's hand tightly, Michael died, continuing to live.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Total Rapport

An eminent scholar once ate an extremely intelligent apple, which upon entering his stomach encountered a philosophical carrot. While waiting to be digested, having little else to occupy their time with, they entered into a discussion concerning the relationship of entities to one another. The carrot maintained that beings existed to work together, whereas the apple replied that each entity became involved with another only when absolutely necessary.
A garrulous rutabaga fell into the debate, offering the viewpoint that an entity's life span is merely empty space between creation and death.
The apple used this remark to substantiate its argument.
So did the carrot.
Soon some string beans tossed their ideas into the lively debate. With so many intelligences at work, they came close to uncovering the ultimate interrelationships of all entities to each other when a swollen flood of beer washed them into the scholar's intestines, where they disappeared forever.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Politician Who Got Smarter

When Charly Humble was elected to Parliament, his IQ was 134. After eight years in office it dropped to 129. When he was elected to Prime Minister, it sank to 108. Charly's IQ was following a typical politician's arc.
But then a terrorist blew up a building. Charly toured the wreckage and looked strong. His approval ratings shot up, and something remarkable happened: the higher his approval ratings climbed, the smarter Charly actually became. When people thought he was smarter, he became smarter. His IQ was 98.6 on the day of the bombing, but after showing up at the site and looking like a leader, it rose to 115. After speaking on tv about standing up to the terrorists, it rose until he became almost as smart as he had been before he entered public life.
Using his new intelligence, Charly realized the connection between his ratings and increased brainpower. Knowing that if there were only a few more events, he would be a genius, he decided to start a war against the terrorists.
It worked--but only at first. As the war dragged on but the terrorism did not stop'unfortunately, Charly had invaded the wrong country--his poll results plummeted followed rapidly by a drop in Charly's intelligence, until he was worse off than before he had started. When he became an idiot, he did the smart thing and stopped the war.
Fortunately, his opponents had been in government even longer than Charly had, and were even dumber. He eventually retired and was appointed to a patronage position. An honourary degree stabilized his intelligence, and his public pension was significant.


Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Downsized

When international competition cut the profits of The Soft Flower Company, the CEO knew it was time to be mean and for someone else to be lean. None of the long time employees knew exactly what was planned for them. Theirs had been a pleasant company to work for.
It was still kind of pleasant after thirty percent of the workers were laid off, even though production increased ten percent. After overtime pay was eliminated and sick time was reduced, however, it turned grim. The remaining employees did not complain, glad to keep their jobs.
Profits rose. The remaining employees, who were stockholders, were happy. The managers were happy with their bonuses. For his own bonus, the CEO bought a third house and the airplane to fly there.
He could have stopped, but by now the CEO was enjoying himself. He decided that the natural progression of his new management plan was to not just make the employees feel smaller, but to actually make them smaller as people. So the next week he introduced random drug testing, then he placed video cameras in employee washrooms, and by the end of the month had all the employees in cubicles.
The changes eventually had the desired effect.
Soon each employee shrank psychologically until they were in a unique way downsized. Even their immediate families shrank morally and then ethically, in a trickle down effect. It was not all bad, however, as new employment opportunities opened up for the morally stunted employees. For example, an HMO needed people of a certain stature for its Board of Directors, and several Soft Flower employees made the short list.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


The Lawyer Who Loved Money

Melvin loved money. A successful commercial attorney, at first he enjoyed making the money he made from law suits into suits. He would stare at himself in the mirror, dressed in a nice three piece made of twenties, and feel a thrill. In time, he grew to love money so much that he ate it. He preferred hundreds, nicely washed with a taste of Caesar dressing.
His unusual dietary habits actually attracted clients. They figured anyone that hungry for money was their kind of lawyer. Sadly, it was doomed. He could not keep himself from eating, and as it grew worse he began dining on withdrawals from his clients' accounts. He kept putting off his clients, giving them table scraps, but one day several of their new lawyers turned up angrily at his office. Melvin shoved thousands of dollars into his mouth in front of them until he turned green and paper thin and anti-counterfeiting measures appeared across his face and then Melvin was lying on the floor, brittle and wrinkled.
The other attorneys looked at Melvin a long time, then took him to the bank and deposited him.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Different Fathers

Job worked hard, had a wife and family, volunteered with non-profits. His brother was a bachelor, worked part time, spent his afternoons playing golf. They rarely spoke or wrote. On those rare times they were together, they were not.
After many years of not seeing each other, they had to spend a week with their mother for her eightieth birthday. It was uncomfortable, but everyone was on good behaviour, at least until a terrible fight when his brother refused to help clean up after dinner. Job took his brother outside for a talk while their mother washed the dishes, partly realizing they were leaving her to do the cleaning.
For the first time his brother spoke of how their father always criticized him, never let him have his own bank account, until it seemed as if they had grown up with different fathers. Their mother confirmed a lot it when Job asked her. He knew he should remember more of his childhood, but the blanks remained blank.
He began to phone his brother once a week.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Literary Illusions

An author laboured under the delusion that he knew how readers reacted to his writing. It being a delusion, he knew he had it, but he did not know what it was about. As it bruised his ego to have a delusion, he decided one day to ask it to leave.
"Leave? Certainly not," the delusion replied. "I've quite the solitaire running going. Unlike you I know what I have and am quite comfortable."
Worried, the author enrolled in Universities and after being awarded Degrees asked if he had not Education enough to rid himself of his delusion.
Responded the delusion, "Thanks for the friend! I love Cribbage."
Angry, the author improved his soul through Religion, until he asked if he had not Religion enough to rid himself of his delusion.
The delusion replied, "Now we can play Hearts!"
Considering this last remark, the author tried Love, finding a woman and listening to her when he had to and doing his share of the housework until he asked if he had not Love enough to rid himself of his delusion.
'Bridge at last!'�

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Making A Statement With Money

Once upon a time a billionaire learned he was to die soon from cancer. He was determined to make a statement with his death, so he began to liquidate his holdings to construct a huge crypt. When it was completed he began to sell his properties, converting his holdings into gold bars which were then stored in the vault. One statement he wished to make was that you can take it with you.
A ruthless businessman, he gave little thought to the consequences of his actions. His selling of massive quantities of stocks and other properties caused the markets to plummet, leading to a severe Depression. He did not care, and finally stood in front of the completed crypt, knowing that although he would soon die, his death would make a statement. An enraged citizen who had lost his life's savings in the Depression spotted the wealthy and leapt upon him in a rage and killed him.
The Foundation looking after his crypt implemented his wish of having him cremated. On every Christmas day until he ran out he was sprinkled on the sidewalk outside the vault. As a result, the poor people who walked the icy sidewalks never fell in front of his crypt and they finally saw him as being of some use to society.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


A Good Dinner is Hard to Find

A stock broker was sitting on a park bench one afternoon when a mosquito lit upon his arm and demanded lunch.
Protested the stock broker, 'I need my blood for myself. But I am always open to a deal.'�
The mosquito contemplated. 'I happen to have many viruses which I can share with you. Perhaps one of them will end up like penicillin and make you richer than you already are.'�
Being richer than he already was fundamental to his life motivation, so the stockbroker allowed the tiny insect to suck out a few drops of his blood. She nodded her thanks and flew away.
A few days later, her daughter returned, with a few hundred relatives. The stock broker was impressed, although he saw it as an increasingly high risk business transaction. "The bigger the deal, the bigger the profit,'� he chortled as he rolled up his sleeves.
"The insect sisterhood appreciates the hundreds of new lives we can create with your blood,'� they said as they ate their fill.
Day by day he traded his blood for the possibility of receiving a beneficial virus. Instead, three weeks later, he sat on the bench suffering from malaria, West Nile Virus and other dreadful conditions. Thousands of mosquitoes descended on him, all descendants of the original insect, all from his own blood.
The stock broker moaned, "I can't continue. I'm dieing."
One of the great great great great granddaughters of the original mosquito nodded. "You should have sold short," and finished him off.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


The Best Laid Plans

The country's birth rate was dropping. A forward-looking Government grew worried about the shrinking population and developed a fertility serum. The Government encouraged all of its families to have more children. It did this by offering the fertility serum for free, providing bonuses, and renting hotel rooms for qualified couples.
Many couples took the Government up on its project.
The Government had done a fine job of public relations. By the end of the inoculation campaign, however, disturbing rumours surfaced that the serum had not been properly tested, and that when taken in combination with certain foods it actually made anyone who took it sterile.
In the new society, what there was of it, there were fewer ulcers and, gradually, none at all.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Passed Tense

Martin was unaware he was muttering to himself as he walked down the street, engrossed in his boss' criticisms, not confronting his wife, dealing with the friend who forgot he existed. Martin lived in the past.
He stopped at an intersection. As he waited for the red light to change, he barely noticed it turn yellow, then red again. His muttering grew more intense, and the light turned yellow, green, stayed on green, flickering, and then went to red again. Martin took his eyes from the traffic light and saw people and their machines jerking back and forth, caught between past and present, in effect going nowhere, unable to escape the past, like him.
He concentrated and stabilized time, at least for the moment. People stopped. Their machines stopped. Time was frozen. Martin realized that his golden opportunity had arrived. He could control time, and that meant he could travel back into the past and correct all the awful things that people had done to him all his life.
When he thought of his wife, however, he kept thinking not about what she would do differently, but what he should have done. And when he thought of his boss, he kept thinking of what he had done wrong. As for his friend, he never tried to contact the friend either.
Slowly the people around him began to move again, the traffic light switched to green and time was restored. Martin did not take much notice because as he walked towards home he started to mutter again, except now about his own mistakes.
Later, he decided this was progress.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Boiled in Salted Water

As the broadcast and print industries became owned by fewer and fewer multinational companies, the cultural industries dropped their last pretensions about being more than making money. As a result, all media became vegetable entertainment.
As it turned out, It was not a big change.
Cultural industries had been pumping out vegetable art for years.
No art was produced which would hurt or challenge anyone. Newscasters were young people who had gifted cosmetic surgeons. Serious dramas never suggested solutions except to accept. Increasingly, the audiences of vegetable media turned into veggie people. They still went to their jobs and often were more productive.
Eventually the real vegetables took over. By the time they controlled everything, the veggie people did not care. Corn often grew into politicians or telemarketers, while onions frequently became entertainers (they could make people cry).
Veggie people encouraged their children to spread out, but depending on the climate and soil conditions they often did not fair well the farther from home they went. Bananas in Alaska were tragedies in the making.
The dead veggie people were conveniently turned into fertilizer. It was not much different from before, except there were no coffins. Vegetables ruled society and everyone acknowledged that to be a vegetable was to achieve society's highest goal.
Corn ate people dogs on sticks. Vegetables especially enjoyed people after they had been boiled in salted water until nice and soft. The veggie people chosen cooperate fully.
We like ourselves properly prepared for those who eat us.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Herman and the Big Cheese

A middle-aged rat named Herman was minding his own business when a three hundred pound cheese hurtled down from the sky and landed on top of him.
"Heavens!" cried Herman, who was alive, buried in a large hole in the cheese.
At first he waited for help, about ten seconds, and then decided to eat his way out.
He ate steadily for six days, and on the seventh he rested. By this time Herman had merged with The Cheese. They were One. Everything he wanted of life was in The Cheese. He ate his way out and then ate his way back in.
Herman lived fabulously for many years, never looking further than his front door. The moral being a rat and his cheese are never parted, or perhaps it is that you can't dine with God and expect to stay on a diet.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Hamburger

An advanced society made the Hamburger its God. Fast food restaurants became places of worship. Many people had heart attacks, strokes, quite a few more had ulcers, varicose veins, stomach cancer, and could not climb stairs without gasping. But they would not give up their religion.
School children wrote lengthy epic essays glorifying Cheeseburgers. Stern teachers checked carefully for mistakes. Some teachers were radicals, and did not check so carefully.
Political candidates ran on a pure beef platform which the public ate up. Everyone prayed to The Hamburger to make their life better. Many found it profitable. Hamburgers became an enormous business. Franchise companies had thousands of outlets. After work people drove to the nearest drive-through for a prayer dinner with onion rings.
The demand for burgers was great. It became increasingly difficult to obtain fresh meat. One by one, in the dead of night, homeless people disappeared, which certainly made the streets more pleasant for those people with homes. The burgers were chewier but no one really minded. This meat source project was publicly named Human Resources. Every city soon developed its own Human Resources Department, supported by government, business and the church because, as any fool could see, poverty was finally being wiped out.
The fools began to disappear next.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


The Fly III

Dr. Seth Brundle did not get out much, spending all his time on his Teleporter, a computer assisted device to transport a person safely from one Telepod to another. There had been mistakes in the past, but he was convinced there would be no more inside out baboons. He believed that he had gotten out the bug.
So, one night, he stepped into Telepod One. When he rematerialized in Telepod Two, it appeared that his device had worked perfectly. In the mirror, he looked fine. But then an ambulance's siren sounded outside, and Brundle ran out of his laboratory to chase it down the street.
Something had gone terribly wrong!
Brundle ran back to his lab and searched through the replay of the teleportation sequence and screamed in horror. He was no longer nerd. He was now nerdlawyer.
Yes! Somehow a lawyer had snuck into Telepod One and the computer had fused their cells together! Nerdlawyer desperately sought a solution while suppressing the urge to hang around a ski slope and wait for a skier to accidentally cross the border. In the end, they could think of only one solution: dilute the lawyer cells by transporting again, only this time with a human.
Nerdlawyer raced out onto the street and mugged the first person they saw, a woman. They held her as the door closed on them in Telepod One. When Telepod Two's doors opened out stepped one person who, remarkably, still looked like Brundle. But when the nerd and lawyer began debating about what to do next, a female voice reminded them that this was a horizontal democracy and she'd heard plenty from both of them already.
It raced back to the computer and screamed again: it was now nerdlawyerfeminist.
At first the nerd and lawyer were concerned, but the feminist had them well in hand after showing them some multiple orgasms. And, certainly, Brundle no longer had to go out to socialize.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Zoltan, The Rat Person

After a subway wreck, before the repair crew could arrive, a young baby crawled deep into the tunnels and was adopted by a society of rats. He grew big and strong. The rats named him Zoltan. He loved his little rat comrades, who had taught him everything he needed to know about life in the big city.
Eventually Zoltan went into politics. He convinced the electorate that rats should be given the vote, and since there were far more rats than people, in the next election Zoltan was elected the new Mayor.
Zoltan did everything possible to make life easier for his rat friends.
All of the skyscrapers were torn down in favour of small wooden houses which were more community-based. Of course that denuded the community of the forests but no plan is perfect.
Cement sidewalks and asphalt streets were removed to reveal the earth below. Dogs and cats were allowed to run wild and garbage was dumped in large open pits, for the rats. Flowers grew. So did disease.
Many people died in the plagues which followed, but Zoltan felt that was reasonable because it was natural selection. The rats certainly thrived. The people who survived regretted having elected Zoltan. However, in the next election they voted him in again, figuring as usual that at least with him they knew what they had.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Bad Words

One day when he was yelling at her he saw the worst of his words fly out of his mouth and strike her. The first punched her lips, the next her right cheek, the third her left. From then on, whenever he looked at her he saw the power of his words on her.
Eventually, the bruises from that first time faded, after he apologized and took the words back. But then he got really angry again, and his words struck her until she fell to the floor. Dark purple bruises remained on her cheeks and lips and neck for longer. She would smile and appear to forgive him, appear to forget the words, her skin looking normal. But one day he found her using make-up. He could not take some words back.
She stopped using make-up, and over the weeks the dark purple patches spread across her throat and chin, her eyes and cheeks, her arms, her legs. Some words bruised harder than others, some scarred. Looking at her face he saw the impact of his words, her eyes surrounded by his darkness, and then he did not see even her eyes. She was all his words.
That was when she left him.
He watched as she walked past him with a suitcase. As she walked to the front door a large dark bruise on her face suddenly was flung off and struck him in the eye. A scar on her neck slapped his neck as she opened the front door and closed it behind her.
Only then did he yell angrily at her. But she was gone. His words hit the door and came smashing back at him. He could not stop his anger and kept yelling until he was covered with bruises and scars and purpling darkness and his eyes and lips and ears were sealed shut and he lay on the floor shaking with rage.
But his anger meant nothing without her.
He cried. The darkness remained.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Humane Housing Department

A sophisticated Government's Housing Department decided to develop a project researching the use of cardboard as the structural building material for municipal public housing projects. Cardboard for the walls, cardboard for the floors. For the windows, thinner cardboard.
In a model of cooperative research on societal needs and how the tax dollar might best be spent, the Government paid a University to do the research, Local Industry sold the Government the cardboard, and the Government paid local construction companies to erect the cardboard houses. There was much money to be made in this project on behalf of the poor.
Several hundred one room cottages were constructed. Several thousand people below the poverty line were installed in them.
The cottages were made entirely of cardboard and were susceptible to collapse if leaned upon. People living inside had to keep away from the walls. In the end that did not helped as the cottages tended to melt in a strong rain. About seventy percent of the subjects died from pneumonia and related diseases over the four year project.
After the study was successfully completed the Government allowed those people who survived to continue to live in the cottages, provided they assumed the cost of repairs.
The Government proudly boasted of the project's bonus. Not only had it created the cheapest municipal housing project in history, with an acceptable loss of lives, but it made use of those poor who died by burying them in a common grave which then became landfill for the new stock exchange.

Note: this story was written in 1970. A few decades or so later, a Canadian city actually experimented with temporary cardboard living structures for homeless people.
Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Dramatic Irony

An airplane on its way to some other nation to attack it with a new biochemical weapon instead crashed a mile from the airport into its own country's chief reservoir. The weapon mixed with the water and turned it into beer. It was good beer, too.
Naturally, everyone wanted a drink.
Soon pretty much everyone was having a roaring good time. A national holiday to honor beer was declared by the King, in what many called his wisest decision. The King himself came to the reservoir, got drunk and hit a cop. Fortunately he was the King, so he was let off with a caution.
But then something unusual began to happen.
Everyone who drank the beer started to die.
The beer was good but it was also infected with the biochemical weapon. Their own country's biochemical weapon. The mock beer recognized no national boundary, no ideological conflict. Within a week, ten million were corpses. The non-beer drinkers did not escape, as they all drank coffee or herbal teas made with water from the reservoir.
That left the computers.
The bigger computers got together and proceeded to construct a new society based on mathematical principles in which intelligent machines could live in peace with each other, no matter what their operating system.
That broke down too, although at least it took a little longer.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Pot Luck

A group of elephants, thinking themselves wisest of all the beasts, decided to form a society. The rhinos said don't do it, but the elephants went ahead anyway. For their society the elephants needed a leader. They opted for a King. The rhinos said don't do it, but the elephants went ahead anyway. They elected a King. Since he had not previously been royal he did not suffer from inbreeding, and his Kingdom was quite successful.
Then, after many good years, the King died. The elephants found themselves terribly confused. Before there had been a King and His subjects. They had followed their King's orders. But now all elephants were equal. It had been a long time since all the elephants had been equal. They had forgotten how to make their own decisions.
The elephants decided to seek advice from the Wise Old Elephant. The rhinos said don't do it, but the elephants put all their faith in the Wise Old Elephant's advice.
The Wise Old Elephant lived next to the University ruins. He told the crowd of eager elephants that if they could not understand equality they should repeat history rather than learn from it, and elect a new King. The elephants cheered, for that was exactly the advice they wanted to hear.
The Wise Old Elephant suggested they elect Death their King.
If the elephants had not been so used to being told what to do, life might have worked out differently. But when they elected Death their King, he claimed them. As they died, the elephants asked the Wise Old Elephant why he had given them such bad advice. He replied, because they were willing to follow it.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Dr. Benway

I once met the leading researcher in starvation. He operated a Clinic to study hunger. Funded by a government grant, the Clinic had tall stone walls and a solid iron gate and crowds of starving people outside waiting to be allowed inside for treatment of their hunger problem.
A stately, dignified man who had once headed a University's Biology Department, Dr. Benway was re-assigned to head the Clinic after the University received the grant.
As he led me through the polished corridors of the Clinic, he told me that 'We have a federal research grant to determine, once and for all, whether or not starving people will stop being hungry if they get food. Staff here is limited because the grant was not as large as we would have liked. We have a year and a half waiting list. Unfortunately, most applicants do not last long enough for us to include them in the study."
'I don't see what there is to study,'� I told him. 'Why don't you just feed everyone waiting outside?'�
'You must appreciate the grant system when combined with the academic system,'� he replied. 'Our grant is to study famine, not stop it. However, your point is well taken and has already been the subject of much internal discussion. We are considering applying for a grant to give food to the applicants but that would then undermine our study, if the applicants are no longer hungry.
'It is quite a conundrum.
'However, the University's Ethics Committee has been looking into the matter and anticipates producing a white paper on the subject next year.'�

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Spin Doctor

One day a spin doctor working at the highest levels of the federal government wrote a typical series of press releases. In the first he typed collateral damage to describe several deaths during an Armed Forces training exercise. Then there was a stock market correction, a new value-added fee, and finally that a country selling us the kidneys of its political prisoners was a nation with whom we had a good trade balance.
His work done, for the moment, the spin doctor sat back to relax and sip some coffee. But as he looked up, he saw the phrase dead people not on his monitor screen, but sitting on top of the monitor, bleakly staring at him. Next to it, equally grim, was tax. Sitting on his keyboard was crash.
He pushed back from his computer work station on his roller chair, stood, stopped, closed his eyes, caught his breath--just as he had been taught in therapy. Opening his eyes slowly, hoping for the best, instead he saw, sitting on his chair, body parts.
None of them spoke, but their glares were worth a thousand words.
The Spin Doctor struggled was being haunted, but he enjoyed power and its benefits. So he continued to write media releases and speeches for the highest levels of the federal government, and continued to shun phrases that were too truthful, and the ghosts continued to haunt him. He did his best to avoid them. They wailed when he went into libraries, but he could still sit go to work in the federal government, hang out at car dealerships, and at home enjoy most television.
The non-words gradually faded away as people forgot them. That was the good part. The bad part was that new ones constantly replaced them, so the Spin Doctor remained haunted for the rest of his life. It actually did not bother him too much because if he had those type of feelings, he would not have been a Spin Doctor to begin with.
It is an oxymoron to associate a moral with a spin doctor. If there was one, it would be: words can only haunt the hauntable.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Triumph of Media

The manager of an AM radio station was no longer content with playing hit singles before they were released. Instead he got a major jump on his competition by playing songs before they were recorded. His radio station got a lion's share of the ratings as groups became famous before the musicians had even met each other. The station became famous for "pre nostalgia." People pined for good times that never existed.
Emboldened by such great success, the station manager decided to take his idea one step further by arranging for recordings to be performed by artists who had yet not been born. Golden Oldies were aired years before the instruments played on them were invented. The station became famous for "non-nostalgia". Virtually everyone listened to it, which was bad news because it and its audience became so involved in something that never existed that they ceased to exist themselves.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

A Slave Of Property

Harriet wasted her invaluable time on earth at a job. The only reason she stuck with the job was because it enabled her to buy possessions to help her recover from the job. The circular nature of her life worried her, so one evening she pushed all of her possessions into a big pile in the living room and set it on fire.
She moved away from the big city and built a hut in the woods. Water came from a nearby stream, food from her garden, clothes from the plants around her.
Word got out about the wonderfully strange woman who lived in the woods without possessions. Soon people began to visit, also worried about wasting their lives on material objects. Harriet advised them to burn it all. No one followed her advice but everyone felt better just thinking about it.
Harriet became a tourist attraction.
Thousands visited her. To raise money to publish pamphlets about the dangers of consumerism, she started a gift shop, Natural Harriet's, where she sold collectables.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Dog Who Saw God

A dog was about to eat lunch when she was interrupted by an awesome flash of light, and suddenly there was God.
"Greetings!" thundered God.
"Nice to meet you," replied the dog who, being a dog, had nothing more than eating on her mind.
The dog's 'don't bug me' attitude angered God. "I AM GOD!" God roared, rattling the Heavens.
The dog took a bite, chewed reflectively for a moment, and finally replied, annoyed, "What?"
The world shook. Buildings collapsed. Bars closed everywhere as churches filled. Without knowing it, the dog was single-handedly responsible for a world-wide religious revival.
"But I am God." God grew hoarse and weak. "Please believe in me," god pleaded, weakening still more.
The dog blinked and replied, "I am trying to eat."
Faced with such profound disinterest, god discorporated. However, all the revitalized religions continued. Their belief did not help God because none of them knew God. Only the dog had seen God. And God means nothing to a hungry dog.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Ghost

When he looked in mirrors she looked back.
His mother had always been there for him, and later in life he became there for her. By the time she turned eighty-nine she was easily confused. She was there but not there. It was the same body, the same voice, but when he looked it was not her. That was when parts of her began to fade away.
She heard less of what he said. Her ears faded away. She did not seem to notice. Although her missing ears alarmed him he said nothing, but instead learned to repeat himself. When his wife and children were along she had difficulty sorting out all the voices so she kept quiet--at least, that was why he believed she was being quiet. Not knowing made it harder.
When a conversation longer than a minute or two became a chore as she gradually mostly just asked questions, her lips faded. She spoke at length about only the past or the retirement community she lived in. Sharing her company began to feel like baby sitting, and he hated thinking that.
She began using a walker, and her legs faded. Trips out became limited, carefully planned affairs. She had the energy to visit a store or have dinner, but rarely both, and sometimes she did not want to go out at all.
It was his nightmare, losing her piece by piece until he felt he was visiting a ghost. Even her eyes were buried behind thick glasses, and when he reached out and touched her hand, it felt cold. When he looked at her he tried to see her as he remembered her.
He took her on drives through the old neighborhood while they spoke of people long dead. She liked that.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Up His

The Leader of the Royal Democratic Party discovered one day that he could fit a large ping pong ball up his nose. Curious, he fit still larger balls up his nose. Sometimes they hurt, but mostly they tickled. He experimented. He dispensed with a bread basket, a stove and, to complete the wild night, an Edsel.
The next day, during an Armed Forces Day parade, he stuffed an entire tank up his nose. With the crew still inside. He laughed at the generals and went on to absorb a small office building. After that there was no stopping him.
He threatened to stuff the entire society up his nose if the people did not meet his terms, and be damned if he'd think twice! He did not bother to identify his terms.
Society had no choice. It yielded. And in that glorious moment the Leader of the Royal Democratic Party realized that his power was limitless. He could stuff anything up his nose and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.
And then he floated, the world stuck up his nose, the Universe stretching to infinity before him.
He lost the next election, but by then it was kind of late.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Curse of Feedback

Writing short stories was difficult enough for Robert, but getting feedback so he could write better stories was nearly impossible.
No one seemed to like his stories, but they wouldn't say anything. Even his mother and father did not like his stories. The stories were not bad, just not good, and none of his friends or relatives could bear to tell him the truth. Of course, their expressions told him, or when he gave them a story and they never mentioned it again.
The whole feedback thing was very awkward.
Yet writing is communication.
A big part of the problem, he decided, was that he was such a nice guy. He was kind to his mother and father, he loved his wife, he was a team player at work. Thinking about it one day he realized that because he was so nice, his friends and relatives and co-workers did not want to hurt his feelings.
He could fix that.
He began being a louse.
He was nasty to his mother and father, did not talk with his wife, went out for himself at work. Soon they were all upset enough with him for them to honestly tell him what they thought of his stories. The only problem was that now none of them would read one of his stories because they disliked him.
Even worse, without other people he had nothing to write about and nothing to write for.
He gave up being a louse. His family and friends forgave him his literary lapse, and returned to not mentioning his stories again, but at least even if he was never a very good writer, he kept writing, and he was a happier person.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

They Talked About Everything, Except What Mattered

He and his elderly mother talked about the weather, about the food in the retirement home, about remembering Dad--they talked about everything, except what mattered.
As she closed in on ninety, their morning phone calls went from discussions to something else. She started asking questions instead of coming up ideas. 'So what else is new?'� quickly became 'What else?'� Soon he realized that after a few minutes of conversation she ran out of steam, and about all she would say would be 'What else?'� All the weight fell on him to keep the conversation going. So he went online and read news headlines to her, which worked but then there was always 'What else?'� He read to her about every topic he could find, every topic except what mattered.
Her putting the electric kettle on the stove and turning the burner on, that was what mattered. Her forgetting when his wife was flying back and asking him three times in ten minutes when she was returning, that was what mattered. Her telling him she had to pick up some pain killers and hemorrhoid cream because she had run out but no she still had some but it was not important and he did not have to worry about it she did not even know why she brought it up she had been up all night with irritable bowel syndrome and she woke up with a runny discharge every morning did he have a runny discharge in the morning so don't worry about the pain killers she could do it herself she'll take a cab, and he reminded her it was winter and too icy for her walker so he said he would pick it up, but she said it was not a problem she did not even know why she had brought it up she can just take a cab and get it with her walker and when he said they could deliver it she asked why he said that was he trying to make her feel guilty and besides she did not think they delivered pain killers but he should not worry and he should stop asking her how many painkillers she had left what did that have to do with anything she was not sure she had none no maybe she had a few left why was he getting so upset and what does he mean he has done this before he has never done this before; and then he told her it was his mistake. They talked about his mistake, but not about what mattered.
At moments she cried, telling him she was losing it and what was becoming of her. But she had always been strong, had always sucked it in, and suck it in she still did. She saw the end of her life every morning, saw herself petering out as half-remembered thoughts in a retirement warehouse.
They talked about everything, except what mattered.
How could they talk about that?

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Man Who Lost It Before He Got It

One day a young traveler in search of a guru who would tell him how to live his life happened upon a small village in a forest and soon noticed that large numbers of villagers came and went from a small red house. Curious, he stopped a woman coming out of the house, and asked what attracted so many people.
"The wise man," replied the woman.
Ah, thought the youth, I have finally found my guru! "Could you take me to him?" he asked.
'The wise man is available to everyone,'� she replied, and led him into the modest house.
Once inside the young traveler saw, to his astonishment, that the small house had only one room, in the centre of which was a baby in a crib, with a woman sitting next to it. He looked about for a wise old man but no one else was in the room.
The woman told him to ask the baby his most important question, so he did: 'What should I do with my life?'�
The baby played with himself.
"This is an answer?" the young traveler cried angrily. He stormed out of the house and never returned. Convinced that he would never find a guru who would tell him what to do with his life, he wrote a book of advice on what to do while waiting to find your guru, which he now thought was an idle dream. Many people used his book as guide for life, and looked up to him as their guru.
Ironically, the baby's answer was on the money.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Possessed

Many years from now archeologists will brush dirt from a buried object in pursuit of mysteries. Slowly the brushes will reveal a hand, a thin hand, the fingers long, the hand long lifeless. A left hand. Nothing else of the body remains.
The archeologists will be unable to determine whether the hand is from a man or woman. It grasps fragments of something, but they can not tell what, fragments held so tightly by fingers which refuse to let go. Once the fragments must have had great value.
The hand was found in a cemetery. Some archeologists think the fragments are pieces of its own coffin, while others believe that the solution to the mystery will come when they decipher the equation written on each fragment in tiny letters: m&m.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Man Who Knew What To Do

Fred knew what to do when there was a problem.
When he was at work and his manager criticized him, Fred knew to be warm and receptive. When he was at home and his fourteen year old daughter was caught yet again sneaking out of the house, Fred knew he and his wife had to ground her. When the referee made a bad call on his team, Fred knew sportsmanship was more important than winning.
Fred was the man who knew what to do, but there was a problem: he never did it. He was cold and abrupt with his manager, did not ground his daughter because he and his wife wanted their Saturday afternoon together, and he told off the referee who quite literally told him off the court. That night Fred sat alone in his family room actively watching a reality tv show, trying to figure out why he was involved in so many oxymoronic situations.
Each situation seemed so different. Under pressure he made the wrong choice because he was insecure, was self-interested, was angry. Yet he as he thought it through, the link between the situations became crystal.
He came to understand that in each situation he acted as if it was about him. Not about his manager, daughter or wife, team or referee. And he realized that was reasonable because everything was about him. Fred thought and thought and thought and could not think of anything in his life that was not about him.
Once he had figured that out, Fred knew what to do spontaneously in the future.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Deranged Albatross

Once upon a time a deranged albatross perched upon the big clock atop City Hall, staring down until she singled out a particularly inept City Councilor. , and as he strode up the steps to City Hall something wet plopped on his head. Looking up, there was the deranged albatross.
Cursing, the Councilor ran into the Council Chambers where he demanded that the albatross be shot. His motion was stopped. In outrage he dashed to his office, grabbed the shotgun he kept in case the people who elected him ever realized what they had done, went outside and pulled the trigger.
Fortunately for the albatross, he was as good a shot as he was a politician. He hit the clock, part of which fell on his head and he went to the hospital.
On his release he returned to City Hall and, to his rage, there was the albatross, sitting on a reconstructed clock. She again pooped on his head, and he again stormed into City Hall, demanded the removal of the albatross, again lost the vote, again grabbed the shotgun and again ended up in the hospital.
This sequence was repeated until the Councilor resigned. The albatross then retired to Vancouver.
The unanswered question: why was the albatross the one that was considered deranged?

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Fool's Gold

All her life she looked for gold. Gold in her family, gold in her career, gold in the eyes of her daughters, the lips of her husband, even looking to the golden age of retirement.
She definitely had ungolden moments. But even then, the pyrite turned to gold because she saw the glitter, and the glitter was what counted. It worked, she would say, if you never let yourself stop looking for the gold.
And then she was retired. Her children grew up and went to other cities. She found her husband lying on the porch one morning, the Sunday paper in his hand. For the first time in her life, she felt alone. But still she saw gold. There is always gold, if you looked for it. She worked towards the gold, looked towards the gold, lived towards the gold.
And then a few years into her retirement, she suffered some mini-strokes. After them, it was hard to remember what happened yesterday. Then she broke her hip and had surgery. After that, she had to give up doing her cheque book, and at times she was confused about whether she should get out of bed in the morning. But she would get up, and when she did she would look at her landscape painting on the wall, and each morning she would see the flowers, and she would smile, because they were golden.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

The Seventh Commandment, Revised

As more people became Christians, God became increasingly unhappy with how His flock interpreted His published work. Many believers read the Bible over and over, but continued to break His commandments. God thought His commandments were clear, yet Christians fought in wars--started them, even.
Yes. It was the Seventh Commandment which had the gravest problems.
When He first worked on it, God thought it just right: Thou Shalt Not Kill. No qualifications, no room to interpret. Nothing about neighbours, nothing about false witness. Yet politicians who led prayer breakfasts to Him in the morning declared war in the afternoon. Something was wrong. Maybe the phrasing. God tried rewrites.
Thou Shalt Not Kill But In Self-Defence. But there was no excuse for killing. That's why my Boy turned the other cheek.
Thou Shalt Not Kill But If Thou Art A World Leader. But then the killing would never stop.
Thou Shalt Not Kill Unless I Say You Can. But too many already claimed to talk with Him.
No, the wording was not the problem: the problem was His flawed creations. The flaw was hopeless. He would have to start all over again. And so He did. Which meant killing all His human creations, which He did. It was His duty.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

You Can Change

On January 2, Janet put her New Year's resolution into effect at work. The resolution was made after she saw her manager stiffen as she had described her concerns about a rule he had just implemented. Thinking about it, she had an epiphany: something in her manner had put him off. She knew what to do.
On March 4, none of Janet's colleagues supported her ideas during a meeting, even though of course they were much better ideas. Thinking about it afterwards, Janet had an epiphany: she had not talked up each colleague before the meeting. She knew what to do.
On May 6, Janet lost a promotion to another colleague, even though she knew her work was superior. That evening, going over her employment history, Janet had an epiphany: she realized that she never went out to lunch with any of her colleagues, socializing. She knew what to do.
On July 8, Janet
Later that night, looking at a full moon, Janet
When Janet looked into a mirror, she saw someone else.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net



Arguments Of The Spousal Kind

The arguments between Henry and his wife occurred every day while they drove to work together in the morning, or drove home from work in the afternoon. They argued about disciplining their children, whether a relative still owed them money, whether the recycling had to be placed in the back lane even if it was Day Four of the cycle. As the trips to and from work were only twenty minutes each way, these arguments were both intense and rarely resolved.
Henry got so tired of needing information and comebacks on the tip of his tongue that he began preparing notes. He started with small slips of paper, which he kept in his shirt pocket. It worked the next time they argued. His wife noticed, and the following morning he saw that she now held her own small slips of paper.
Henry moved up to post-it notes. A few days later, his wife was using color- coded post-it notes, with tabs. So Henry advanced to index cards, which were both larger and less likely to crumple in his pocket. His wife got a notebook. Henry got a notebook computer. She got a Palm Pilot with internet access.
And yet despite all the innovations, including advances in both the depth of information and brevity of response times, the arguments continued.
Henry thought a long time about why the arguments did not stop. He eventually realized that their arguments were never going to stop because they had become a perverse form of entertainment for them both. After that insight, he and his wife began arguing during parties. They were invited back frequently.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net



Understanding Sex

There was so much he did not understand about sex.
For example, why did it have to be so wet? Whether on the bed, couch or floor, there was always a wet spot; sometimes, a puddle. He tried tissues, towels, dehumidifiers. Nothing worked. And it was only worse with someone else.
He did not understand what attracted him to a woman or what attracted (not that many) women to him. He did not understand why breasts attracted anyone other than hungry babies. And he did not get buttocks.
He did not understand all the movement, pushing and sweat.
Giving the woman some attention or something seemed necessary before having sex, but after the first time, why have to do it all over again?
Unfortunately, his last question remained unanswered, as he never had sex with a woman a second time, for some reason.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net



Multi-Tasking

Mary multi-tasks. She is a modern person.
At work, she takes orders on the phone and while chatting with the client types the order into the computer while checking her three open windows for more. After work, she goes out with the girls for drinks. Once she had three relationships at the same time.
As soon as she gets home, Mary pops a frozen dinner in the microwave, boots up, goes online, opens her email and Word, starts file sharing, brings up an all news cable channel; when the microwave beeps she gets dinner and eats while reading email, listening to the news and making comments in her favorite chat room. The dinner does not taste like much, but she is not thinking about it. The email is mostly spam, but she only glances at it, maybe missing a few interesting ones. When the chat room gets boring, she types an odd word into Google, just to see what comes up.
In bed she gives herself multiple orgasms.
Mary is in group therapy.

Victor Schwartzman
Victors@mts.net



The Fox and the Chicken

A famished Fox raided a barnyard one morning and picked out a plump Chicken to serve as his dinner companion. After she was taken back to his lair, the frightened Chicken pled for her life.
'O spare me!'� she clucked.
The Fox considered. 'Most certainly. You have my word as a Fox'if you first do
something for me.'�
'And what is that?'�
'My lair is a frightful mess. Clean it up, then bring in some herbs from my garden, and we will have dinner together.'�
The Chicken immediately got to work, to save her life. After the kitchen and everything in it sparkling, she cleaned the rest of the lair, washed the floors, mowed the rug and got the herbs. When she finished, the Fox picked up a newly cleaned sharp knife and asked, 'Do you prefer being roasted or fried?'�
'But you can't!'� cried the Chicken angrily. 'You gave me your word!'�
'How can a Fox's word ever be good to a Chicken?'�
The dinner was superb, and the Fox felt that the herbs brought out the Chicken's best flavours.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net


Slippery Slopes

He was sliding, out of control, arms and feet spread wide for balance. He wanted to stop but it was a long open slope with no exits and a deep chasm at the end. If he tried to stop by falling over, there were nasty looking rocks all around him, and anyway the surface was so slippery he would continue to slide.

Sliding is controlled falling.

He could not remember when or how he had started sliding on the slope, but now he was sliding faster and farther, ever more quickly, wind lashing his face, making it difficult to see the treacherous rocks on either side of him all the way down to the chasm.

One large rock coming up on his right looked like his mother. She had become confused and unable to look after herself over the past year, following some mini strokes, and by now he no longer answered her questions with any thought, or even at all. She either got it wrong or forgot, so why bother? Dodging the rock made him pick up speed, sliding down the slope even faster.

A large number of small rocks coming up quickly on his left reminded him of customers entering the store just when he wanted to start a break. In his first days he tried to give each customer the best deal, but now he tried to sell them the most expensive item, just to see if he could do it. He jumped over one rock., narrowly missed another.

Two rocks in front of him looked like his twenty something son and daughter who lived with him half the time, with his ex-wife the other half. As he slipped carefully between the rocks he thought of how he does not ask one or the other of his children why they do not come home some nights, and how one or the other does not ask him why the apartment smells all the time of grass.

The chasm was closer, little time was left before he plunged into it. He was frightened. Several jagged rocks resembled kisses he planned to give his wife but never did. He did not see her cues, then he ignored her cues, then he came home one day and read a note. He jumped over the rocks.

He realized that the only way to save himself from the certain death of the chasm would be to stop moving, but he could only stop moving by deliberately falling against the very rocks he had spent the entire slope dodging. He had no choice: he might be badly injured, but at least there was a chance he would not die.

So, to stop himself, he threw himself against the nearest rocks and they rushed up to his face and he shut his eyes and was astonished when the rocks cushioned his fall.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

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