Now I’m thinking about power. Am I powerful or not? I would say that I’m not powerful. Why? Because, even limiting my scope to the realm of possibility, nothing that I desire to happen happens. If I were powerful, as long as I avoided demanding the impossible (like for all of the world’s gold to become chocolate, so that I could eat it), whatever I desired would come true: it would get done.
But here’s how powerless I am: Currently, there is brutal violence occurring in regions of the globe, such as the countries known as Yemen, Syria, Somalia, etc… I wish for all the horror to stop; I wish for these places to enjoy harmonious existence. Yet despite my demand for peace, it refuses to happen.
World Peace is insubordinate to my wishes.
Actually, I must issue a correction — it appears that I truly AM powerful, because World Peace DID break out, the moment I wished for it: As of 19 March 2022, there is now no longer warfare occurring anywhere.
So now I guess I should admit that I have vast power, because I caused all war to stop; but we must admit that there’s still a certain amount of power lacking in me, because I began this essay bragging about how powerless I am, and now reality proved me wrong. That type of embarrassment is difficult to live down — I’ll need to purchase a Public Relations Department to finesse my image and polish my brand’s name. Plus I should probably hire a team of lawyers.
It was easy to rehabilitate my reputation as a trustworthy prophet, because I invest in media. If you don’t possess at least one monopoly of mass-communication, then you’re condemned to stand around in a local parking lot handing out apologetic brochures to passersby, in order to obfuscate your shame. And that is not fun, let me tell you.
But I wish that everyone had so much free time that we all could grow severely bored with life. I think boredom is healthy. It is a rich soil from which ideas sprout.
And I prefer people who are not in shape. (“In shape” means being in excellent physical condition.) People who are in good shape frighten me.
Now here’s a question that one of my readers just sent me via telex: “What if you have no power, but you vote in a democratic election?” — I guess this reader is insinuating that voting gives the powerless a type of mini-power. My answer is this:
If the outcome in reality matches your vote, this does not prove that you’re powerful; it only shows that your desire momentarily coincided with the will of those who ARE powerful. For, had your vote contradicted the wishes of those in power, they would make sure that your choice never comes to fruition.
Another reader now asks: “Aren’t we ALL powerless?” — My answer is: No, there are some folks who do hold power; only none of us will ever know them personally.
The next reader asks: “Shouldn’t we then just leave the world, since everything is hopeless?”
I say: Yes, absolutely — if you can gain access to a spacecraft, and you have enough fuel in your tank, then fly to the nearest inhabited planet: I guarantee it’ll be better than Earth. (I recommend Jupiter.)
Now a little monkey sends me a message — his telex reads: “I really like all the things that you say.” — Well, thank you, little monkey! I appreciate hearing from you.
Numerous females among my readership also now send me photos of themselves: Each is wearing a scientific lab coat and posing in an art museum beside her favorite painting. — How did you know that I am a pervert? Thank you so much!
Officer Barbara
Now I’ll end this entry by going on a standard police mission with Officer Barbara. (I was thinking of Barbara Stanwyck when I named this character, but you could imagine any Barbara that you like — I won’t use her last name in the story.)
So Officer Barbara and I are seated in our patrol vehicle with our seat belts buckled. We are driving the speed limit, conscientiously.
Suddenly we see flashing lights in the rearview mirror, and we hear a siren growing increasingly louder.
“I think that one of our fellow police officers is attempting to pull us over,” I remark.
“But how can that be?” cries my partner, Officer Barbara. “We’re all cops, on the same Police Force — thus we’re all equal siblings: We should be friends, not foes!”
The pursuing squad car now is right on our tail. Looking back, I say: “Well, no matter what the ethics book proclaims about a situation like this, I think it’s best if we pull over. — We’re definitely their target.”
Officer Barbara casts one last sad, concerned glance toward the police vehicle that is now cruising directly on the bumper of ours, whose passenger-side officer is glaring at us and repeatedly making the hand gesture that means “steer onto the shoulder of the road and halt”.
So we come to a stop. Then the cops that were chasing us park behind us, open the doors of their police cruiser, and slowly approach our squad car.
“Do you know why we pulled you over?” asks the policeman, once Officer Barbara rolls down her window.
“No, honestly,” Barbara answers, “that’s what my partner and I were trying to figure out: Why would a cop stop a cop? It doesn’t make sense — we’re all one family, on this planet.”
“Well some relations are closer than others, if you know what I mean,” explains the officer at the window. “For instance, consider a father who begets multiple sons and daughters. Imagine these children grow up and marry foreigners. Now they all have children of their own. And those children’s children bear children in turn: Pretty soon the earth is overrun with offspring who are unknown to the original father. (It would be impossible to keep track of all the names of your legions of great-grandchildren.) So, when push comes to shove, the father favors those who are closest to his heart — the ones whose artworks strike him most as the type that he himself would have made, if he were alive.”
Officer Barbara pauses for a moment to think about this truth that has just been established, and then she turns to the policeman who stopped us and sez:
“I think I understand. So, what can my partner and I do to win the favor of our father?”
The officer at our patrol vehicle’s window sports an expression that seems to betray a feeling of pity, while his partner, who has been standing at my passenger-side window, looks away as if annoyed when I try to make eye contact.
“Step out of the vehicle, both of you,” sez the policeman.
So we climb out of our windows and take our places kneeling in the ditch next to our squad car. The officers set to work binding our limbs with hempen rope. Each one then lifts his glittering sword from its scabbard and decapitates us. Our headless bodies fall over in the ditch. The end is swift and painless.
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