A Small Anecdote concerning those who think they know

He was in his early thirties. He was a doctor. He was, in fact, one of the only doctors in the entire city we speak of in this fable. He had on him a strong and sturdy beard; a few lightly seasoned gray hairs and a grin that called itself a lord. On his head was a firm gentlemanly bush, again lightly sprinkled in gray. The only trinket he carried, the only knick-knack of his youth was a small silver earplug on his left ear. He had this placed when he was seventeen and never considered removing it. It was far too precious, a reminder of the youthful, spontaneity that once defined his very character, his very persona, now that persona had transformed, devolved, in a sense, to a more structured, fearful old tart. He was no longer the sweet passionate young man of the days of firecrackers. He was harsh, and often critical towards his patients who did not desire to follow exact medical procedure, he thought himself better than them. He thought himself more worthy of acceptance into the afterlife, and if one did not exist, as was certain, he would be remembered as the greatest man in the medical profession, greatest man to touch another human body with a scalpel. However none of this was warranted, he was a simple doctor, one who worked in a town more famous for being a tiny piece of Americana than anything else. The population has always been and will most likely always be, 35. Thirty-five? You ask in astonishment. Yes thirty-five, and the reason it will remain thirty-five is because of the precise measurement the town mayor Harold Gore has enforced. One month, in the entire year, is devoted to procreation, another month, in the entire year, is devoted to elimination of the inefficient. Let us call the month of sexual intercourse, February, and the month of murder, October. February equates to love, October equates to death. Naturally, being the town doctor Harold was a prime overseer of both events. He conditioned the exterminators, and made sure the procreators remained in prime condition.

            One evening, while he was in his hour rest, He was awoken by the sound of a goat bleating. He flung open his window and became a witness to three goats bitching about a pain in the groin, he knew nothing of goat testicles, but knew that diagnoses would not suffice so he send them off with some horse tranquilizers and they passed out under the bridge where the drunken troll sat with his over priced pygmy monkey. The troll was awoken by the sound of the snoring goats and began to complain to his pet.

            “Why must these humans always give us their trash!? Have they no more suitable location to dump things?… What, what is this? Goats? Goats are not trash, what have these humans done sending me goats!”

            The monkey spoke in an eloquent manner comparable to an educated British brat, of course he was one coming from the highest branch of his monkey family tree, his story is one for later discourse. “Have you no eyes? No intellect to match them? Apparently not, you have failed at grasping the simple concept!”

            “What have I failed to grasp this time?”

            “These goats have no business here, they have obviously committed some heinuious act, we should devour them immediately!”

            “I am not hungry! Besides I see only trouble in eating these goats.”

            “Trouble? I see a wonderful meal! Let us feast you buffoon, besides when are you not hungry you cow.”

            “I am a Troll, not a cow!”

            “And I am a monkey not a human, yet I speak, and more fluently than most humans. So what have we?”

The two hippopotamus grabbed the three goats, sat them by a fire, and let them cook. Of course the horse tranquilizers had done them in before they where eaten, but the slight sensation of pain did enter one of the goats, the younger one, just as the sharp metal teeth of the troll sunk into his thigh. 

            The next morning came swiftly and the two buffoons lay passed out under the bridge, their belly’s inflated, their lips sponged with blood, the troll’s beard had collected bits and pieces of goat fat. Yes, they were satisfied with their night of goat feasting, and blood drinking, and had decided to call the next day, this day, the day of relaxation.