all flockbinkers are treadknicious… and other salient observations

Forays into Logic, Whimsy, Meaning, Hilarity, and Nonsense.

Tag: Kung Fu Tzu

A Philosophy Joke: Confucius, Buddha, and Bertie Wooster Have Dinner at Chili’s

 

Abstract:  In which P.G. Wodehouse’s classic creation Mr. Bertram Wooster dines at Chili’s with two classical Asian philosophers–Mr. Confucius and Mr. Buddha–and finds himself, oh, a bit out of his depth. Eh what?


 

If you’ve ever dipped into the fiction of British author P.G. Wodehouse, you are doubtless familiar with the character of Bertie Wooster.  You know, the somewhat sub-brainful scion of one of the English ruling families of about a hundred years ago.  And if you’ve ever dipped into the literature of the Ancient East, you are probably familiar with the characters of Kung Fu Tzu (Confucius) and Shakyamuni (the Buddha).

But…ha! And i shall say it again: Ha! Has it ever occurred to you to imagine the conversation that might arise should Young Bertram find himself in the presence of these two ancient worthies, at Chili’s Restaurant? No! Of course it hasn’t. That’s why i’m the one doing all the heavy lifting about the place. I mean: SOMEBODY’s got to.

Wodehouse would’ve done it, if only he’d thought of it.

At any rate, what you are about to read represents one possible dialogue that might arise if persons #1, #2, and #3 were to find themselves at the same table at Chili’s on a warm Saturday afternoon….

 

Confucius:  [looking over the menu]  Hmmm. I’ve often wondered what these “Southwestern Eggrolls” are. Ordering them has never served to shed light on the matter. Though they are admittedly tasty.

Buddha:  All is vanity.

Confucius:  Well put, my man. Oh… i suppose i’ll go with the Cobb Salad again. Can’t go wrong with the classics.

Buddha:  To choose that which has endured the whirlwind, in this is wisdom.

Bertie Wooster:  [muscling his way through the crowd to their table]  I say! What a brainy sort of thing to come forth with at the dinner table.

Confucius:  Well, hello! I didn’t see you standing there.

Bertie:  Oh don’t mind me. Just casting about for a place among my fellow man. The restaurant’s a bit crowded at present. They’re working on a table for me. Chuffing waitstaff.

Buddha:  The man who is able to establish himself among his fellows without doing harm is of the….

Confucius:  Yes, yes. Please sit with us, at least until the crowd thins a bit.

Bertie:  Well, i don’t mind if i do.

Confucius:  My name is Kung fu Tzu, and my companion is Lord Shakyamuni.

Bertie:  I say! Pleased to make your acquaintance, and all that, your Lordship. Bertram Wooster here, at your service and all that.

Buddha:  The pains that result from our illusory desires may only be….

Confucius:  Yes, indeed, thank you. [to Bertie]  He can seem a bit like a broken record, until you’ve gotten to know him. After which, he continues to sound like a broken record.

Bertie:  I say!  [hesitating]  You coves wouldn’t happen to be philosophers?

Confucius:  Honored to be of service.  [extends hand in greeting]

Buddha:  To exist is to suffer.

Bertie:  Eh what!

Confucius:  Never mind him. Given the choice between social niceties and a philosophical coup, well, he’s not really familiar with social niceties.

Bertie:  I knew someone like that. Name of Spode. Suffering was his favorite theme–mine in particular.

Confucius:  Spode. Spode. You wouldn’t be referring to S.P. Oder, by any chance?

Bertie:  Nope. Fellow’s name was just plain Spode. Bit of a fascist organizer, cum white supremacist, cum uninvited attender at other people’s social occasions.

Confucius:  Ah. I’ve known the sort of person. Has a great many regrettable opinions about racial superiority, has he?

Bertie:  Precisely. Spode enjoys mowing his property, solely to hear the violets cry out in terror. His idea of a good party is one where a representative of the Master Race is putting it over on someone less masterful.

Buddha:  To master one’s cravings, this is the essence of superior spirituality.

Bertie:  Really? Oh dear. I fear i’ve not given much attention to mastering my cravings. At the Drone’s Club, we rather incline toward inventing new cravings.

Buddha:  It is no matter. You are well on the way to cultivating mindlessness, my son.

Bertie:  I say! Now you’re reminding me of my Aunt Dahlia.

Confucius:  She is a philosopher?

Bertie:  No, but this chap seems to share her view of my mind and its capacities, what?

Confucius:  We owe respect to our elders, even when their words to us are sharp, like the edge of a cultivating tool.

Bertie:  Aunt Dahlia certainly knows her cultivating tools, being something in the way of a gardener.

Confucius:  Indeed! To bring forth wealth from the soil, and to subsist by the sweat of one’s brow: such a life is not inferior to that of kings.

Bertie:   If you say so. Well, i mean to say, Aunt Dahlia doesn’t do much sweating about the brow, except where her prize rose bushes are concerned. She subsists mainly by the sweat of other people’s brows, including my Uncle Tom.

Confucius:  Ah.

Bertie:  Now, if this fellow [indicating the Buddha] had called me a blot, a rodent, a germ and an insect, he would rather have reminded me of my Aunt Agatha.

Confucius:  A woman of high spirits! I should like to meet her.

Bertie:  Enjoy leaping into vats of boiling oil in your leisure hours, eh what?

Confucius:  I beg your pardon?

Bertie:  Oh, just musing. Say, what do philosophers eat when dining out?

Confucius:  [nervously eyeing menu]  Er, the usual. Cobb Salads, that sort of thing. And what do privileged young scions of the English aristocratic class eat?

Bertie:  [also looking over menu]  Hmmm. I’m looking for the roast joint of mutton with roast potatoes, mint sauce  and haricots verts. What a confusing menu! What’s a “Southwestern Eggroll”?

Confucius:  Those are actually quite good. Recommend. We’ll just ignore the deeply confused gridwork of cultural appropriations.

Buddha:  The wheel of samsara can be escaped only through self-denial.

Confucius:  See, even he admits that they’re tasty.

Bertie:  I must say i’m not often in the company of philosophers. Well, there’s Jeeves, of course.

Confucius:  Chi Tzu?

Bertie:  Jeeves. J-E-E-V-E-S. Terribly brainy sort of chap. Reads dusty old volumes for enjoyment. No accounting for tastes, what?

Confucius:  A philosopher, then?

Bertie:  Ra-THER. He knows a good bit more about Schopenhauer and, oh, some of those other brainy chaps than i do about houndstooth tweed.

Confucius:  He sounds wonderful! And you say that you have employed him as your staff philosopher?

Bertie:  Well, not precisely. He’s my valet. You know, keeps the jackets ironed and the tea warm, that sort of thing, ha ha.

Confucius:  [somewhat disapprovingly]  Are you certain that you have employed him in accordance with his gifts?

Bertie:  Well, you know, ha ha.

Confucius:  No matter. You must bring him with you the next time we adventitiously meet at Chili’s for dinner!

Bertie:  Depend on it! And i can ask Jeeves later on what ‘adventitiously’ means.

Here’s Another Philosophy Joke: Confucius, Aristotle, and a Flockbinker Go into a Bar

“So, Okay: Confucius, Aristotle, and a flockbinker go into a bar, see….”

And the bartender says, “We don’t serve your kind here.”

Confucius say,[*] “I take offense at that completely inappropriate racial slur!”

And the bartender says, “No, look, I wasn’t talking about you.  I was referring to…that.”  And he points at the flockbinker.

“Oh,” say Confucius.  “Well, alrighty then.”

All eyes in the room turn toward the flockbinker.

Aristotle says, “Let us be clear. You are saying that it is the policy of your restaurant not to serve flockbinkers?”

“What?” says the bartender.

“This,” explains Aristotle, indicating the flockbinker, “is a flockbinker.”

“I don’t care what fancy name you wanna call it,” rejoins the barkeeper. “We don’t serve it, that’s what i’m saying.”

Aristotle says, “You introduce an interesting question.  Since we are uncertain of the ontological status of flockbinkers, it’s difficult to know what you mean by its ‘kind.’  You said that you don’t serve its ‘kind’ here. In your judgment, what ‘kind’ is he?”

The bartender replies, “Everybody’s gotta be a smart aleck.  Look, all i’m saying, we don’t serve those”—and here he again indicates the flockbinker—“in this here respectable establishment.”

“And why would that be,” demands Aristotle, “if you can’t even categorize him?  How do you know whether he belongs in the category ‘things we don’t serve here’?  Does your policy apply to all entities that are treadknicious?”

“Tred—what?”

“Treadknicious.  All flockbinkers are treadknicious.  Surely everyone knows that.”

The bartender squints at Aristotle, as if looking at a particularly appalling insect that has landed in his bowl of cereal.

“Flockbinkers are treadknicious,” continues Aristotle. “All of them. It is less clear, however, whether there might be other things (besides flockbinkers) that are also treadknicious. So does your policy extend to all members of the class ‘things that are treadknicious,’ whether flockbinkers or something else…?”

The bartender stares at Aristotle, as if studying a worm that has been opened up for dissection in a high school biology class.

Confucius add, “What my distinguished colleague is getting at is this: what is it about our little friend here” — and he indicates the flockbinker — “that makes you want to ban it from the premises?”

“Frockbinger,” says the flockbinker, breaking its silence.

Confucius and Aristotle turn to stare at it. Who knew flockbinkers could talk?

The bartender is losing patience.  “Whatever it is, we don’t serve it!” he spurts.

In the meantime, the patrons of the bar have been taking a keen interest in this little exchange. One of them steps forward and, in a voice that reverberates with passion and antique Roman heroism, proclaims:  “I am a flockbinker!”

Then another customer steps forth, this one obviously an accountant, and says, in a tremulous voice, “I am a flockbinker!

One by one, just like in the famous scene from Spartacus, each of the bar’s patrons steps forth and states, “I am a flockbinker!”

Understandably, the bartender finds this turn of events perplexing. What’s he supposed to do, kick out all of his customers?

“The problem with basing policy decisions on poorly-conceived taxonomical frameworks,” explains Aristotle to the hapless bartender, “is that your categories can shift on you and ruin your plans.”

“Frockbinger,” explains the flockbinker, helpfully.

The bartender is just standing there, his hands hanging helplessly at his sides.

“You are going to meet an interesting stranger,” Confucius say.

“I beg your pardon?” says the bartender.

“I said, ‘You are going to meet an interesting stranger’,” repeat Confucius. “You know, it’s the sort of thing you might find in a fortune cookie. I suppose i ought to introduce myself. My name is Kung Fu Tzu, better known to the English-speaking world as Confucius.”

“Name’s Fred,” replies the dazed bartender, extending a hand.

“Well gee, THAT was somewhat irrelevant,” says Aristotle.

“Sorry,” say Confucius.  “I never go off duty.”

 

[Editor’s Note:  If you’ve not yet heard the one about Confucius and the Buddha meeting for dinner at Chili’s, you can find it right around here somewhere.]

[Another Editor’s Note:  If you were troubled by the grammar in the sections where Confucius is quoted as saying something, perhaps it just means you’re unfamiliar with the “Confucius say” corny joke convention.]

[Yet a Third Editor’s Note:  If, on the other hand, you were troubled by the fact that this blog has made use of the “Confucius say” corny joke convention — because you feel that it represents an inappropriate stereotyping of the speech patterns of ancient Chinese philosophers — then do by all means feel free to leave a scorching comment articulating your concerns. We love to hear from our readers.]

 

%d bloggers like this: