A few days ago I posted the parable of the injured bird. Recounting that allegory brought a torrent of momentous, much loved, timeless Infinitian fables flooding into my mind. Unfortunately, most of them were God 69’s parables, all of which involve explicit oral sex. I won’t repeat them here lest this blog get a triple-X rating, preventing me from preaching the gospel of Infinitiaty to children and, thereby, recklessly abandoning them on their path to one God or another’s hell. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?
Fortunately, one respectable fable poked its head above the prurient parable morass that swamped my mind. This parable, which comes from God 28, generally goes by the name of The Parable of the Mitt. It speaks poignantly of beloved mitts and what happens when one gets stolen.
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In biblical times, a boy named Tryggvard lived in the holy land of what is now called Norway, but was then known as Solvild. Tryggvard’s father was a quite justifiably humble shepherd who enjoyed nothing more than tending and being intimate with his sheep in the privacy of his own barn or pasture. Tryggvard’s mother, who rarely went outside, particularly during the winter, was almost always barefoot and pregnant.
Tryggvard’s mother’s near-constant pregnancy made the sheep jealous, without much reason as it turns out. It also made the women in Solvild suspicious of their husbands’ activities because the townsfolk knew that Tryggvard’s father rarely laid down with anyone but his sheep.
For the benefit of their neighbors, Tryggvard’s parents often pretended to love Tryggvard. Winters in the town in Solvild where Tryggvard and his family lived were frigid; damned frigid. Thus, to show their feigned love for Tryggvard, Tryggvard’s father forfeited some of his precious wool, which his mother knitted into the warmest mittens imaginable. His parents gave the mitts to Tryggvard as a birthday present that was intended to suffice for at least his next ten birthdays.
Beloved Mitts, Minus One
One day, a young girl, Heidborg, who was three grades behind Tryggvard in his school, stole one of his beloved mitts. She threw it down the pit that served as the school’s latrine. (It was biblical times and none of the Gods had yet told God One’s creations how to build flush toilets). Heidborg then took a crap and a piss on the mitt and encouraged all of her schoolmates to do the same, thereby banishing Tryggvard’s thought of recovering his mitten.
When Tryggvard returned home after school his parents saw that he was short a mitt. They demanded to know what happened to it. Embarrassed to admit that he had been bullied by a little girl three years his junior, not to mention by all of his other defecating and urinating schoolmates as well, Tryggvard told his parents that an indigent orphan had passed through town with inadequate winter garments. Tryggvart claimed that, taking pity on the orphan, he had shared his wealth by giving the orphan one of his mittens.
Tryggvart’s mother said, “Well isn’t that just freaking wonderful! It took me a whole day to knit both of your mittens. I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend a half a day knitting you another one. You can just suffer the consequences of your actions, young man.”
His father added, “You gave a complete stranger something made from my precious wool, one of your beloved mitts, without charging anything for it? What an effing ungrateful wretch you turned out to be! Your mother is right, you deserve whatever you get in this frozen, god-forsaken wasteland!”
Tryggvart replied, “Don’t worry, mommy and daddy. All of the girls at school said that if my hand gets cold while we’re playing together outside I can warm it by sticking it up under their parka or down their snow-pants.”
These were obvious lies. Strangers, orphaned or otherwise, never came anywhere close to Solvild if they could possibly avoid it; and they could always avoid it. And none of the girls in Tryggvart’s school would allow Tryggvart to play with them, let alone cop a feel. Nonetheless, Tryggvart’s parents were sufficiently dimwitted to believe their son.
That very night, as he often did, Tryggvart snuck out of the house after midnight and crept cautiously to the barn. Standing outside on what was the coldest night in Solvild’s history, he positioned his eye in front of a hole in the barn wall so he could spy on his father cavorting with his sheep.
Tryggvart was so engrossed that he didn’t notice that, without one of his beloved mitts, his exposed hand had frozen and fallen off. The flash-freezing numbed the pain until he returned home and thawed out. Then the agony was so great that he shrieked ungodly shrieks for hours on end. The pain eventually subsided, but it never vanished. Normally just a dull throbbing, it would occasionally flare up to remind him excruciatingly of his folly.
Tryggvard lived the remainder of his one-handed days in utter misery.
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The moral of this story is that no God—not a single one of the infinite number of Them—will lift a finger to save your hand if you bear false witness to your mother and your father. You might have a shot if you lie to only one of them, but forget about it if you lie to both of them simultaneously.