Minding the Chickens

Tweedledem and Tweedleree were hired to manage the chicken yard. And the first thing that happened was the pigs. They were just moaning and bellyaching about how expensive the chickens were.

"We're spending way too much on chickenfeed!" bawled the pigs. "You've got to cut that! And them fancy chicken coops! They've gotta go, too! Whatta you think this is? A country club for chickens? And we can quadruple your salaries, by the way."

"Well, chickens eat corn," noted Tweedledem, "and so do pigs. But the pigs eat about a kajillion times more corn than the chickens. So if we want to cut corn costs, we start with the pigs."

"NOOOOOO!!!" screeched Tweedleree. "The poor put-upon pigs have given far too much already! Like that generous deposit to my account, for instance." And he squeezed out a real tear. "No, it's got to be chickenfeed and chicken coops! What's the matter with you? Real public servants have to squeeze the public nickel until the public chokes. Don't you know that?"

"We-e-ell, I suppose so," agreed Tweedledem. "But I think we should make the savings somewhere else. The chickens need food and shelter. We could manage with fewer dogs. And the fences don't have to be electrified. A plain old fence ought to do."

"No way!" objected Tweedleree. "The pigs are in the dog breeding and electric fence businesses. That is, we must never sacrifice the security of the chickens to politics! Just starve them to death."

"I still think the pigs need to pull their weight in this cost-cutting business," said Tweedledem.

"You seem to have a pig fetish," snarked Tweedleree. "Get over it! The pigs are off limits."

So Tweedledem and Tweedleree argued and harangued, and harangued and argued until the cows came home, but they could not come to a resolution.

"Look!" said Tweedledem. "Cows! I didn't know there were cows!"

"Well, they're too expensive, too!" snapped Tweedleree, improvising. "And they stay out too late! Look, we were hired to fix the deficit, so we jolly well better do it!"

"I thought we were hired to manage the chicken yard," said Tweedledem.

"Same damn thing!" insisted Tweedleree. "You can't manage a chicken yard without fixing the deficit, and I intend to do that, even if I have to kill every bloody chicken in the process!"

And they harangued and argued some more.

Finally, they agreed on the perfect compromise. They decided to play a game of ... chicken. Tweedledem and Tweedleree got on their motorcycles and raced full tilt toward the edge of the cliff. First one to turn off had to agree to the other one's cuts. Obviously, they weren't going to go over the cliff, right?

And the pigs lived happily ever after, saying things like, "This tastes like ... chicken, wouldn't you say?"