FICTION IS STRANGER THAN TRUTH
Fiction is stranger than truth. Consider the following:
Mary had a little lamb,
His fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb was sure to go.
Really? The lamb went everywhere Mary went? Grocery stores? Shopping malls? Restaurants? The Women’s Washroom? No zealous security guards, or anyone else, tried to stop her?
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
So the king’s horses and the king’s men worked together trying to restore Humpty Dumpty. How did they communicate? Did the horses speak English? Were they telepathic? Were the king’s men telepathic? Did the king’s men speak Horsesh?
By the way, how long did they work at trying to put Humpty Dumpty together? Five minutes? Five hours? Five days? In fiction and in truth, union rules would allow only a certain time to restore a broken giant egg. There’s no mention of a union in the rhyme, but I’m sure it existed.
“Sorry Humpty,” says a horse, “we’d like to keep working on you, but the Union says our restoring-giant-egg time is up.”
Regarding Superman, they want us to believe that black-frame glasses are good enough as a disguise to prevent people from seeing that Clark Kent is Superman.
I got a pair of black glasses when I was a kid, and put them on as a disguise. But everyone, including my parents, always knew it was me.
Once upon a time . . .
I know my past three blogs said that truth was stranger than fiction. Now I am saying that fiction is stranger than truth. I am consistently inconsistent, and that’s the truth.