A story for our time…and our survival


Because of its increasing relevance, I am re-posting this story which I wrote last year. If it seems familiar, it is, but I invite you to read it again, making sure you connect the dots. I learned that many people didn’t my point when I posted it the first time, so here’s a clue. It has something to do with Islam.

Once upon a time and, well, not all that far away (with all the advances in transportation and technology), there lived a tribe of peace-loving (and not very smart) people known as the Moronites. None of them understood how they got that name, but they kept it since they thought it had a nice ring to it. For years, the Moronite city of Moronopolis had been systematically attacked and its residents slaughtered.

Not far away lived a very distinctive tribe whose men were all seven feet tall, bald, left handed albinos. Because they drove around in big bright blue busses, they became known as the Blubusites. For some reason, the Blubusites never got attacked. They remained safe in their castles, living easy lives.

Then one day in the public square, one of the children of Moronopolis asked a question that added to the trouble. He asked, “Hey, has anyone else noticed that every time we get attacked, the attackers look just like the Blubusites? All the men are seven feet tall, bald, left-handed albinos.”

Immediately, pandemonium broke out. Some were yelling, “The boy is right” while the town elders yelled back, “He’s just a boy. What does he know?” Others were running around looking for the boy’s parents to hold them responsible for the commotion their son had caused.

Eventually, they found the parents, who said that the boy was known for claiming to see things nobody else saw. After much discussion, the parents admitted that the boy had been adopted, and thus, they weren’t responsible for the boy’s pattern of strange and disruptive behavior.

All of a sudden, a small group of adults, (or a group of small adults, either works), those who had yelled, “The boy is right,” stood in the town square expressing their agreement with the boy’s findings. “I’ve noticed that too,” one man shouted. “Every attacker looked just like a Blubusite, and they always came and left in a big bright blue bus.

By now all the elders of Moronopolis had converged to take control of the escalating confusion. The chief elder walked to the center of the square and raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “People of Moronopolis,” he began. “I am appalled at what has been suggested. We have been living beside the Blubusites for years, and we know them to be a peace-loving people. After all, they have painted WE LOVE PEACE on the side of their busses, right under the bank of machine guns.

“We also know that the Statement of Purpose section of their Constitution reads PEACE, OR ELSE. What more evidence do I need to provide? We must take them at their word. We must not offend these great men. If we do, we could be on the receiving end of their machine guns, and none of us wants that. We have enough trouble already.”

“But we’ve seen them as they have attacked,” pleaded one of the peasants. They look just like the Blubusites.”

“Wait a minute,” countered the chief elder. “That’s what they look like, but looks can be deceiving. They may actually be short, long haired, right handed black men. In fact, since you were so wrong about their peace-loving character, they probably are short, long haired, right handed black men. In fact, I am making an official unalterable proclamation. Blubusites are short, long haired, right handed black men. Long live the Blubusites!”

The proclamation was sent out to the far reaches of Moronopolis. Soon members of the Blubusites were being invited to help in the defense of Moronopolis and to serve in key positions. Despite the proclamation that they were short, long haired, right handed black men, they were utilized to look over the top of their defensive walls and to retrieve items from the top shelves of the armory.

Their shiny bald heads were also used as weapons to reflect the laser beams of the enemy back to their big bright blue buses. These short, long haired, right handed black men also replaced all the regulars on the Moronopolis basketball team and were given roles as snow-covered fir trees in the school’s winter pageant. They were called upon whenever the situation called for a southpaw, such as confusing the oppositions batters in the baseball finals.

For some reason, the more Blubusites they utilized, the more Moronopolis was attacked. In response, the elders of Moronopolis called for even more Blubusites to help them. Surely, the more help they received, the safer they would be.

The boy who had started everything with his question was still asking the same question, but by now he had grown old enough to be jailed as an adult for disturbing the peace, inciting a riot, and saying hateful things about the peaceful neighbors.

The small group of adults (or group of small adults) who had agreed with the boy left Moronopolis when they saw the handwriting on the wall. (It was on the top of the wall so they knew it was written by a Blubusite.) While the message of the writing was unclear to the other residents of Moronopolis, this small group of adults (or group of small adults) understood what was really meant by:


Over time, the residents of Moronopolis heard reports of other peace-loving lands being attacked. Every report stated that the perpetrators were all seven feet tall, bald, left handed albinos. They were doing even worse things than had been done to the residents of Moronopolis.

By now, enough Blubusites had become residents of Moronopolis that they had enough votes to elect one of their own to every office-civil, political, and military. Once in office, they shut down the legal system of Moronopolis and replaced it with what became known as The Blue Laws, which were enforced by an elite council known as the Blue Man Group.

While the people of Moronopolis had to give up their former way of life including their religion and all their freedoms, they didn’t care because finally, there was peace in the land.


The moral of this story is this: If you live in Moronopolis, it won’t matter what the moral is. You won’t get it.