There are three men on the Amtrak Acela Express at 10AM. One of them is an political analyst and one of them is a Senator and one of them is a lobbyist.
They have just left Washington DC and crossed into the border of Maryland and they look out the window to see a liberal hippie with a sign that reads “Down with this sort of thing.”
The political analyst says, “Look, the hippies in Maryland are unemployed.” And the Senator says, “No. There are hippies in Maryland of which at least one is unemployed.” And the lobbyist says, “No. There is at least one hippie in Maryland, of which one side of the sign appears to be promoting the unemployed, which supposes that he has not been affected by government final consumption expenditures.”
And this is funny because political analysts are not real scientists and because Senators think more clearly, but lobbyists are best.
[Re-imagination of Mark Haddon's "Three Men See a Cow"]
Greg Tully realized he really should’ve read more of the report. He’d only skimmed, beer in hand, Stewart on the TV. Only perused. Actually, he didn’t peruse, because of course peruse means the opposite of what most people think it does; it means to delve into something, it means to read it carefully. It means to do what he should’ve done. Now, he’d left himself with no idea what’s on the report, and way too much of an idea about what peruse means. Worthless, worthless, worthless.
“Go ahead, Greg,” said Craiger, sitting on the couch, relaxed in the eyes yet leaning forward intensely. “Show us. On the board there.”
Greg was standing with the marker. He’d hope his shaking was masked by the cloying, oversized blazer he made himself wear for this one meeting. Did he even hear the question right. Holy shit, what was the question? He was going to have to ask.
“…What would you like me to show?” Craiger sighed. “A chart. A diagram. Whatever it is you guys do.” Greg waited a few moments, hoping for more. When nothing came he dazedly turned back to the board. Did someone just punch him in the gut? It felt like someone just punched him in the gut.
He brought the market to the paper. First step: draw something. Draw something, draw something, draw something. His hand moved. It bent downwards, paused for a second, and wrapped around. It was a circle. He thought hard for a moment, holding the marker back, at his side.
“Excellent!” The outburst came from Craiger. “Genius!” The other men in the room looked at him, confused, but intrigued. “I knew I could count on you.” Greg stammered, “Thanks.” Craiger stood up. “All right, everyone, let’s clear out and get to work. A lot of things to do now, a lot of things to plan.” He ushered the other men on with his hands and everybody cleared out of the room. Greg wanted to follow but felt no strength in his legs. So he stood in the now peaceful room, and he gazed at his drawing alone. His circle, his solution. What was it?