Not an Option

Long ago and far away, there was a goose that laid fabulous, 24-karat golden eggs. Hearing of this, the king in the kingdom next door realized that it was his duty to liberate that poor, oppressed goose from its evil, goose-hating overlords.

A war ensued. Not all of the king's subjects were eager to fight and die for goose liberation, and some people even suggested that the king's motives were not entirely altruistic, but they were all ignored. Anyway, the king had a viceroy whose job it was to call everyone who disagreed with the king a traitor, and that helped to shut people up. He also had an officious little twit of a lacky called Lord Puffery, who parroted and rationalized everything he said.

So the war went off on schedule, and the goose was accordingly liberated, purloined, or otherwise procured, depending on your point of view.

"Hey, I bet all you critic-guys feel pretty stupid now, huh?" crowed the king. "You said I couldn't liberate this goose, and here it is."

"Yeah, pretty stupid!" echoed Lord Puffery.

"What we actually said," said the opposition, "was that invading another country in order to steal a goose was vicious, dastardly, illegal, and stupid thing to do."

"You're a bunch of traitors," said the viceroy.

"Yeah, traitors!" said Lord Puffery.

Having liberated the goose, for its own good, of course, the king was in a hurry to liberate its eggs, and he didn't see any point in waiting around for the daily lay. So he slaughtered the goose, also for its own good, and proceeded to look for the eggs. Not surprisingly, he found nothing but goose guts.

The king, who was not a person to be easily discouraged, called the Royal EMS and gave orders to resuscitate the goose.

"Yes, resuscitate!" said Lord Puffery.

"But it's stone dead, Sire," said the EMS Tech. "Before we resuscitate someone, or, as it may be, something, we have to have a little something to work with. Namely, life. Failing that, we recommend that the subject not have his (or its) throat and belly slit or have guts lying all over the floor."

"It is not dead," insisted the king. "It's resting."

"Resting!" repeated Lord Puffery.

"Ah, I see," said the EMS Tech. "All shagged out after a prolonged ... honk kind of thing. Is that it?"

"Precisely," said the king.

"Look, I'm not touching this," objected the EMS Tech. "The bird is dead, and I'm not taking the rap for it."

"You're a traitor," said the viceroy.

By that time, the people had gotten wind of the dead goose. Literally, since some hours had passed since the unfortunate fowl's demise. They began to gather in front of the palace.

"So you went and croaked the bird, eh?" shouted one critic.

"Stay the course!" bawled the king. "We are resuscitating the goose!"

"Resuscitating!" cried Lord Puffery.

"You're a traitor," added the viceroy dutifully.

"How're you going to resuscitate it?" replied the traitor. "It's dead, gone, and diced! You know what? We've had about enough of you! If you don't quit this nonsense, we're going to find us another king!"

"I admit that it's time for a new course on the goose," said the king placatingly.

"Oh, really?" called another traitor from the crowd. "That sounds promising. What's your new course?"

"I'm going to put twice as many men on goose resuscitation," said the king.

"Twice as many!" offered Lord Puffery.

"Goose failure will only embolden our enemies!" cried the king.

"Goose failure is not an option!" intoned Lord Puffery.

"Not an option?" asked the first traitor incredulously. "Well, of course, it's not an option. An option is something you can choose. The bloody goose is not only dead, but maggoty and rotting. You guys could have chosen not to fail by not stealing the goose. Maybe even later, by not killing the goose. Now, it's too late. Your failure is a real, palpable, stinking mess. The best you can do is bury the poor thing now."