The Wise Man

The wisest man in the world comes to my door. He has a very long white beard and wears a series of richly textured and flowing robes. He, more or less, lets himself in. I know he’s the wisest man in the world and I plan on having him answer some questions.

He strolls to the middle of the living room and reaches down, trying to push my heavy wooden coffee table up against the couch. He labors for nearly a minute.

He looks at me. “Some help?” he asks.

“Oh, of course,” I say and help struggle with the coffee table.

By the time we finish, both of us have worked up a pretty good sweat.

The wisest man in the world stands in the middle of my luxurious white carpet. He looks at me and raises a finger of proclamation.

“These are the days,” he says, “when everything has value.”

Then he squats down a little, grunts, and defecates on my carpet.

“Ah,” he says, “that’s done with.”

Instead of staying in the room to ask him my series of important questions, I quickly go to the hallway closet and retrieve an abundance of cleaning supplies.

I return to the living room. The wise man is gone. He has accidentally stepped into his mess and tracked it all the way to the door.