Sir Dangeford and the Moat

Back in the days of knights there lived a man by the name of Sir Dangeford. He was the king of a small country whose existence has been entirely ignored by the individuals who wrote history books. This is due mostly to the fact that Sir Dangeford wrote a letter to the guild of Historians telling them that they had been mistaken on a few points in several of their writings and that they were very foolish for having done so.

And so, Klaf was forgotten. However, some tales have been passed done from generation to generation and that is how I am able to relate this tale to you.

Sir Dangeford, as I have previously stated was a king. And a very fine king he was. His subjects loved and obeyed him and he cared for them. He was a very capable king even though he had a tendency to sometimes do foolish things, like write letters for example.

One day Sir Dangeford's advisor, a man hired to advise him in the many decisions that he had to make as the ruler of a small country, came in to speak with him.

"Sire," began the advisor in a dry, uninterested sort of way. "Your alligators have arrived."

"Did you just call me sire?" asked Sir Dangeford.

"Yes, of course I did sire," responded the advisor.

"Why," asked Sir Dangeford with a hint of annoyance in his voice, "would you call me that?"

"Well, sire, it is generally used as a sign of respect and seeing as I respect you and wish to convey that respect in a vocal manner I chose to use it when addressing you."

"But my name is Sir, not sire." argued Sir Dangeford. For it really was his name and I assure you that there is a reasonably good explanation for why that is so.

"So you wish me to call you Sir instead?" asked the advisor.

"Yes," responded Sir Dangeford vehemently.

"Then I shall endeavor towards that end, Sir."

"Now, what was it that you wanted to say?" asked Sir Dangeford.

"Well, sire..."

"SIR!"

"Yes of course, I forgot... Well, Sir, the alligators that you ordered for your moat have arrived. I simply wanted to inform you before you went for your afternoon swim."

Sir Dangeford pondered this new information for a moment.

"That's strange, I thought I ordered crocodiles," he finally commented.

"Yes, crocodiles," said the advisor suddenly, "the crocodiles you ordered have arrived."

Sir Dangeford frownded at his advisor.

"Are you lying to me?" he asked.

"Yes Sir, I am."

"Now why on earth would you do that?" asked Sir Dangeford.

"Well," responded the advisor, "I simply thought that perhaps you wouldn't notice whether you had alligators or crocodiles in your moat and since the reptile company that we usually order from was all out of crocodiles I assumed that we could simply order alligators instead and be none the worse for ware."

"Wouldn't notice?" said Sir Dangeford in surprise. "Of course I would notice. They're entirely different. Would you notice if tonight when you went home you found a woman other than your wife in your house?"

"Well, sir, I am actually not married and so I imagine I would be shocked to find any woman in my home."

"You're missing the point," argued Sir Dangeford. "Alligators and crocodiles are completely different creatures and you would have to think me a dolt or a simpleton to think that you could get away with ordering one in the place of the other."

"Sir, I do not think that you are a dolt," responded the advisor. "I just don't see the difference between these two animals."

"Well, you see," began Sir Dangeford switching to his informative tone of voice, "The most recognizable difference is that the alligator has a shorter, broader, u-shaped snout while the crocodile has a longer, narrower, v-shaped snout. Also, on the crocodile both the top and bottom rows of teeth are visible when the creatures mouth is closed whereas on the alligator you can see only the top row."

"Sir, if I may speak plainly, that is perhaps the most useless tidbit of information that I have ever been informed of."

"Oh," said Sir Dangeford skeptically. "Well you will be wishing that you had paid closer attention the next time you find yourself swimming in the Amazon and find that there is a large reptilian creature swimming in your direction."

"Sir, I doubt that at that point I shall care what sort of creature is swimming towards me but rather I shall be swimming for my life."

"Ah-ha!" remarked Sir Dangeford triumphantly. "Perhaps, though, you would be interested to note one other interesting but little-known fact. Alligators are in fact incredibly ticklish while crocodiles are not. Alligators are actually considered by some to be the most ticklish creature in the animal kingdom besides man himself."

"That hardly seems believable," responded the advisor.

"Well it is," argued Sir Dangeford and now any half-witted thief or invader who knows this little bit of information will be able to sneak past our defenses and penetrate this fortress! We must have crocodiles because they do not posses this horrible weakness. And what's more, that extra row of teeth makes them twice as intimidating."

"Alright Sir, I will order a replacement shipment of crocodiles immediately.

"Excellent," declared Sir Dangeford. "And could you also bring me my swimming tunic? It's time for my afternoon swim."

"But, Sir, what about the alligators?"

"Pah! Those over-sized geckos? I'm more afraid of getting pruny skin than of getting eaten by them. Now bring me my swimming tunic!"

"Yes, Sir, right away."

And so, Sir Dangeford had a lovely swim and eventually got a replacement shipment of snapping crocodiles. Not, however, before a thief who knew the difference between alligators and crocodiles managed to break into the castle. But that, is another tale.

THE END

THE BOSS

Henericks examined the document on his desk. It was a progress report for the last quarter. His company's latest product had been a major hit. Consumers had greedily began clearing store shelves to get every last unit. Henricks had been the project head and was thankful that all of his hard work had payed off. He was proud of his team and knew that he had done his company proud.

Suddenly a red light on the side of his cubical lit up. His eyes went wide. This light meant only one thing, the boss wanted to see him. Henricks became instantly flustered. The boss had only called him in twice before. Once when he first joined the company and once to ream him out. Quickly he grabbed the progress report, his project folder, and his stapler. He rushed out of his cubical returned a moment later to put back the stapler which, he realized to be completely pointless to bring to a meeting with the boss. Then he rushed to the large oak door at the far side of the office. In the uppish middle portion of the door the was a plack that read: 'Mr. Fogen.'

Henricks knocked on the door and waited. Silence greeted him. He knocked again. The silence was so loud it deafened him. Hesitantly he turned the doornob and opened the door a crack. Then he opened it wider until he could fit his entire head in. He saw Mr. Fogen sitting behind a large mahogeny desk tapping away on a keyboard.

"Excuse me Mr. Fogen," said Henricks as he slowly entered the room. "You signaled for me to come to see you?"

Mr. Fogen looked up at Henricks and smiled.

"Ahhhh," sighed Mr. Fogen. "Daw da DA! Da da ooooh!"

In the year 2012 it was determined that the complex interworkings of big corporations were too important to be trusted in the hands on adults who are so easily corrupted. Adults become self-focused as they attepmt to spur forth their own careers. It is that selfish motivation that can bring down a prosperous company.

Instead it was decided that infants would be better suited for the task. With their lack of experience or cognitive abilities it was decided by government officials that they were the most reliable source of leadership. Each infant was given a computer to use and it was the random key-strokes (or mashings) that were used to make important decisions within major companies all over the world.

Of course there were capable men and women working under these babies who were able to carry out complex activities and make minor decisions about products and distribution. But the major decisions were made by the infants. A complex computer program translated the button pressing into instructions that were then passed out to employees. The timing and forcefullness of the key-strokes determine the kind of instruction that will be sent. The pattern of key-strokes determine the specifics of the instructions.

Mr. Fogen was a blond, green-eyed baby with only three teeth and an appreciation for animal crackers. He mashed several keys on his key-board, smiled at Henricks and said "Eee-nahh!"
Henricks smiled uncertainly. A digital display on the front of Mr. Fogen's desk scrolled the words: "Research... faster... chips..."

"But Sir, we have the fastes chips on the market, why would we want to beat our own product? Wouldn't it make more sense to wait until another company tries to improve their chips? I mean, we'd just be competing with ourselves."

Mr. Fogen ran his hands across the keyboard. More words scrolled across the display.

"Market... good... invest... now..."

"Invest in what sir? Our company doesn't deal in stocks?"

"Red... robots..."

"Red robots? That doesn't make any sense. The only company that makes robots is Bot Corp and they're practically going bankrupt. You want us to invest in them?"

"Dissolving... cups..."

"Disolving cups?" Henericks became furiously frustrated. "Sir I'm going to be honest with you. This doesn't make a lick of sense. And I'm pretty certain that you're not making real decisions at all! I think it's entierly random and that if I were to stick a chimpanzee behind that desk there we'd be getting the same kinds of results!"

Mr. Fogen krinkled up his nose, furrowed his brow, and began to cry.

"No, no, no. Don't cry Mr. Fogen. I'm sorry. I've just been under a lot of stress lately. That's all. I'll get right on that new assignment right away."

Henericks backed quickly out of the office. Mr. Fogen sniffed and ran his hand over a few keys causing an employee in marketing to lose his job.

Two months later Fogen Co. released a new line of extremely fast chips just in time to meet the demand created by a new line of extremely advanced red robots designed by Bot Corp. This product sold amazingly well, making Bot Corp and its investors quite wealthy. In other news dissolving cups are selling well. People seem to consider it a fun challenge to drink their beverage before their cup dissolves.

As you can see, baby bosses were entierly successful as long as you don't work in marketing. Of course everything is entierly based on random mashings of keys and the fickle feelings of infants. But... stupider things have worked.

Job Therapy

*Dr. Frinkle, your three'o'clock is here.*

"Thank you Ethel, send him in."

A moment later the door opens and a figure enters.

"Hello, hello. Come in. May I take your jacket?"

"It's a cloak."

"Yes, of course. Sorry, I'm not current with all the latest fashions I'm afraid. May I take your cloak for you?"

"No. I never take it off."

"Alright, well come and sit down. Cold as death outside today isn't it?"

The figure sits down stiffly on the comfortable chair opposite the good doctor.

"Doctor, you have no idea."

"He he, yes I suppose I have been up here in my office for most of the day but I can hear the wind whipping past the building. Sounds horribly cold."

An awkward silence follows before the doctor again speaks.

"Well, let us get down to it, shall we? Over the phone you mentioned that you don't particularly like your job."

"I hate my job."

"Right, you hate your job. Well, how long have you been at it?"

"Forever."

"He he. Yes at times it can seem as though the things that we do not enjoy can take up an unseemly amount of time in our lives."

"No, I mean that I've been doing it forever."

"Yes, of course."

The good doctor scribbles down some notes on his note-pad before continuing.

"Well, how long has it been since you enjoyed your job?"

"It was back in '02. I just suddenly got fed up with it all. Couldn't handle the stress and the demands of it all."

"Which areas of your job are causing you the most stress?"

"I guess it's my interactions with others. I wouldn't mind the rest if people didn't hate me every time I did a job."

"So you're easily affected by the opinions of others?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"And sometimes the requirements of your job cause you to have to be the bad guy, correct?"

"Yes, quite frequently."

"Often times when you bare unpleasant messages and information to other employees from management they sometimes take out their anger at the information on the person who brought it to them. It's what I like to call Shooting the Messenger Syndrome, or SMS. It's not your fault, but you have to deliver the bad news and so they become angry at you when their anger is really directed at the information or at the management."

"Hmmm, I think you have a point there. SMS you say. Interesting. So what can I do about it?"

"Well, there are two possibilities that we will have to take a look at over the next few sessions. Either you need to seek out a new occupation if you do not like the damage that your current job does to your interpersonal relationships, or you need to overcome your dependency on the opinions of others."

"That sounds wonderful. Thank you Dr. Frinkle. You've been a life-saver."

"No problem at all. It's what I do. Oh, uh just for the sake of my records, what exactly is it that you do for a living?"

"Death."

"Really? I've never worked with someone who was employed in a morgue before. How interesting."

"I'm not a mortition, I'm death."

"Ha ha ha."

The shadowy figure does not laugh, or even smile. In fact, it is impossible to see his face at all in the darkness of the cloak's hood. More awkward silence. Then the figure speaks.

"No really, doctor. I am death."

"Oh my."

"Perfect, now you hate me too. My own psychologist. This day couldn't get any worse."

"No, no, no. I don't hate you. You just caught me off guard. That's all. I never thought I'd ever meet death... well other than when my time comes I suppose, ha ha ha."

"Doctor do you laugh at all your clients' problems?"

"Sorry. Not very professional of me I suppose. Just a little unnerved. I tend to become facetious when I get nervous."

"You don't know what it's like being death. Everyone hates you and is terrified of you. The only people who are comfortable around me aren't the sort of people I'd want to spend time with. All deranged or evil. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a date? Any decent girl is too frightened to flirt with death. My life's no bowl of petunias, let me tell you that!"

"And how does that make you feel?"

"It makes me feel bad! How do you think it makes me feel? Aren't you supposed to have a doctorate or something? Honestly!"

"Now you just calm down. I will not stand for verbal abuse in my office. If you can't behave respectfully then I'll have to ask you to leave."

"Ask me to leave? I'm Death! You want to play rough with me? How'd you like a stroke, huh?"

"Mr. Death, this is exactly your problem. You desire relationship with others but when they try to get close you push them away. You put on this elaborate speech but you're little more than a glorified school-yard bully!"

There is a long moment of silence. Then a faint *sniff* eminates from within the darkness of the hood. Death begins to cry.

"I'm sorry doctor. You're right. It's my own fault I can't make friends or keep a steady girlfriend. I act all tough but inside I'm just a frightened little spirit. I don't want it to be like this any more. I want to change. Will you help me?"

"Of course. But it won't be easy... or cheap. How about I pencil you in for another session next week?"

"Sure doctor, that sounds great. Thanks again. How much do I owe you?"

The good doctor writes out a bill and hands it to death.

"You can pay Ethel on your way out."

"Thanks doc, you've saved my life."

Death rose and left the office. Dr. Frinkle shivered and then smiled. He had made the bill out for twice the usual rate. And that, dear reader, is how Dr. Frinkle cheated death.