Idiomocracy

You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Thanks to the miraculous evolutionary process of neotony, yes you can! But only for a limited time.

For 50,000 years dogs have been trapped in the pre-maturity stages of wolfdom. Much like a child, they’ve retained mental flexibility. Despite what you’ve heard, dogs are smarter, more adaptable, and more able to learn throughout their lives than is the wolf from which they’ve diverged. My money would still be on the wolf in a fight, or to survive in the habitat for which the wolf is uniquely suited. But for math, interspecies communication, and the ability to learn tricks, bet on the dog every time.

But wait, there’s more. So, too, can your dog teach you new tricks, you old dog. And do you know why? Yes, that’s right! Neotony. You’ve got it too. You, my friend, are a primate, albeit a very smart one. Some millions of years ago, even the smartest of us don’t know more precisely than that, your ancestors diverged from the other great apes, some of whom died out, others not. Look in the mirror. Quick, what do you see? Not very hairy. Not at all. And what would in any other ape be considered childlike features and build. Hairlessness is a sign of youth in primates. Remember that, next time you see a bald man: myself, for example.

To teach an old dog new tricks, you must act now. Why, you may ask, after all I’ve explained of the miracles of neotony. You may have come away with the impression you’ve got all the time in the world, but you don’t. You’re competing against a deadline, I’m afraid, and a rather inflexible one, at that. Mortality trumps neotony. At least for now.

You can't tell a book by its cover

This was true until 2179, when truth in advertising laws with teeth were finally passed. Denise--one of many dozens who still read, maintaining an industry of tens of thousands of writers--went into her local bookstore emporium one evening. It was a rather large walk-in closet in the basement of the mall complex. Formerly a janitor’s quarters, the shop still somehow managed the old world charm of Victorian England.
Whether this violated truth in interior decorating is left as an exercise for the reader.

Denise wasn’t worried about the legalities. She just wanted a good read. “Bookdealer,” she announced, “I’m looking to be entertained. Surprise me.”

The man raised an eyebrow, put down his book, and removed the cotton from his ears. Upon the assault of the holeo arcade next door, he hastened to restuff them. His customer, the first customer this week, would have to communicate nonverbally. Or else she could kiss off. He was just getting to the climax scene of his book.

Denise was used to dealing with retailers of all stripes, especially bookdealers. She knew all three in the state of California. Here she was in Washington on vacation, and she needed a good read.

She thoughtprogged her shirt to flash the words, “I want a book. Pick one for me.”

Fortunately, you could also tell a person by their skin in this age of enlightenment and transparency. The bookdealer hastened to connect wires, scan scanners, blip bleepers, and otherwise learn exactly what sort of book Denise might want.

He brought forth a handful of books from the back of his cavernous store.

“I’ve already read this, and this and that. But not this one.”

Denise lifted a cotton-candy-pink volume from his hands. Wagging its tail in its excitement at being selected, It started to tell her all about the story contained within.

“No. I want to be surprised. Shut it up.” She gestured frantically to the stuff-eared clerk.

Finally deciphering her gestures, the dealer wrapped the tail around the book, muffling it's audio, and made the sale.
Denise was arrested on her way out of the mall, of course. As the law clearly states, you can’t cover a book by its tail.

Too many cooks spoil the broth

Rukof, the exile of Aldebaron Prime, rubbed his fingers together, sending a pinch of sage fluttering into the large copper pot. “That should do it,” he cackled. “Allspice would be nice, but failing that, a bit more sage will save the stew. What kind of cooking school has no allspice?” He had only taken the school cave as his shelter that day. The poorly stocked larder he would rectify in time. But first he must eat.

He brought down the largest spoon—more a paddle really—from its hook on the stone wall and began to stir. Chunks of meat larger than his hand swirled past whole carrots, potatoes, long strands of parsley, and Nimitz Butterbeans, a native plant that resembled neither butter nor bean.

Muttering to himself, he dragged his bad leg across the vast cavern, nearly tripping on white aprons and hats, to check the clock on the far wall. Several generations in, all the people of Aldebaron were extremely nearsighted.

The green bubble had risen fully in its tube, the purple halfway, but the blue and yellow were at their low marks. Third hour. His presence would soon be detected. He must have food ready for their arrival. Surely, then they’d see he’d learned the lesson of exile, and permit him to stay.

Rukof returned to his pot. This time he seized a ladle from its hook. After dipping it in the broth, he took a sip. “Paah,” he made a face as he chewed a bit of nose cartilage. "Too many cooks.”

A Word to the Wise is Sufficient

Which is why the wise set up a website. It was called "Informthewise.com," and contained a form to fill out, letting them know what was going on and where. Presumably, that would allow the wise to spin their web of wisdom, thereby righting wrongs, salvaging lost causes, healing sick babies, and the like. The charge was only $5.00 a word, a bargain for the service, really.

At first, there were some honest-to-goodness miracles. A woman informed the wise that her home was about to be taken away, and as if from nowhere a payment was made that stayed the wolves' hand. An anonymous tipster revealed a large company was dumping pollutants, and the dumping miraculously ceased. The wise had arrived on the scene, as the press was thrilled to report. Several million words later, a better day was dawning.

Roger Torney, a rookie with the department of justice, wasn't so sure. If the wise were so potent, he wondered, why did they need notification at all? Shouldn't they be sufficiently savvy to know what was going on? After all, this wasn't the pre-industrial world wherefrom the saying originated. Internet research and twenty-four hour surveillance enabled the prurient a facsimile of omniscience. Surely, the wise could manage at least as well.

So he investigated The Wise, Inc. Turned out it was a dummy corporation of a shadow entity of a phantom being. He wiggled down the twisted trail, jumped over the discontinuities, and finally found himself back at the company that had been doing the illegal dumping. They had ceased dumping, as well as all manufacture. Running a website was far more lucrative than making widgets.

Torney sent word to the wise. "Cease operations immediately, or you will find yourself facing a fraud investigation." True to expectations, it was sufficient.