copyright © 2003 by Robert L. Blau

    Once upon a time, in the tiny town of Pooba, there lived a poor old woman and her nine year old daughter, henceforward to be known as "the little girl."  Just how an old woman came to have a nine year old daughter is never explained.  Let's just say that the trials of poverty made the woman old before her time, and leave it at that.  As for their poverty, I should explain that being poor in Pooba was the rule rather than the exception, and that there was a very good reason for this.  You see, the economy of Pooba was in the hands of a few wealthy porridge merchants known as the Porridge Purveyors of Pooba, or the PPP.  The reason that the PPP exercised so much influence in Pooba is that porridge was the staple of the town, and since they held a virtual monopoly on porridge, they could and did charge extortionate rates for their goods.
    One day, as the little girl was foraging through the town dump, looking for anything of value that might be exchanged for the merest smidgen of porridge, she was hailed by a woman even older than her mother.  The woman was carrying a little pot.  In those days, that was not a felony.
    "Hey, little girl!" called the old woman. "Have I got something for you!  This here little pot is magical.  All  you have to do is say, 'Little pot, boil,' and it will boil you up as much porridge as you like."
    (Stop me, if you've heard this one.)
    At the old woman's words, the pot began to spew porridge.
    "What's the catch?" asked the little girl, who hadn't lived her entire life in the land of the PPP for nothing. "Oh, I know.  You can't stop it, once it's started, right?"
    "Oh, no," said the old woman. "All  you have to do is say, 'Little pot, stop.'"
    The little pot stopped spewing.
    The little girl looked skeptical.
    "Oh, there is one thing I forgot to mention," said the old woman.
    "Ah, here it comes," said the little girl.
    "You must share the porridge with anyone who wants it," said the old woman. "If you refuse to share, the pot will cease to work."
    "Well, that sounds easy enough," said the little girl.  And she took the pot home to her mother.
    Now, the inevitable of course occurred.  The mother, who was a bit senile to go along with her premature aging, cranked the pot up and then forgot how to shut it off.  The town was flooded with porridge, and everyone was fed.
    But this story doesn't end here.  (See?  It wasn't what you thought, after all.)  The true significance of the Great Porridge Flood of Pooba was that the PPP found out about the little pot.  That's when they started passing the laws against sale and possession.  But the people of Pooba were not impressed.  They were more impressed by the prospect of unlimited free porridge.  The PPP complained that the little pot encouraged belief in the occult.  The people of Pooba said, "And ...?"
    At length, the PPP lost the battle.  The monopoly was broken, and the people of Pooba enjoyed plenty for many years.  The PPP knew when they were licked.  (So to speak ...)  They changed their tune and began to praise the pot and the little girl who had brought it to Pooba.  They were nothing, if not flexible.  And they hung around by selling specialty porridges, little souvenir pots, and the like.
    The years rolled by.  Everyone who had been present at the coming of the pot eventually passed on.  And died, too.  But their descendants continued to benefit from the bounty of the little pot.  As did the heirs of the PPP, whom we shall refer to as the PPP from here on, because honestly, these guys are the same in all times and places.  (And they are nothing, if not patient.)
    One day, the PPP began a big publicity campaign.  The purpose of the campaign was to restrict access to the produce of the little pot.
    "Not everyone deserves the porridge of the Little Pot," said the PPP. "Of course, you patriotic, hard-working, salt-of-the-earth citizens do.  But there are those other people.  The ones who are too lazy to work or who don't respect the Little Pot.  If we let just anyone have porridge from the Little Pot, it will run out of porridge!  The Little Girl, of sainted memory, never intended for the fruits of her good works to go to lazy, good-for-nothings with bad attitudes."
    A lot of the people thought this sounded reasonable.  "Yeah," they said, "we don't want the wrong sort to be depleting our porridge supplies."
    But some people objected.  "If we remember correctly," they said, "the one thing that makes the little pot work is that the porridge is shared by everyone who wants some.  If you deny porridge to the least of us, none of us will have any."
    "You dishonor the memory of the Little Girl," riposted the PPP. "And you aren't showing proper respect to the Little Pot.  People like you need to be watched."
    So the people agreed to deny access to the little pot to the unworthy.  Of course, the little pot ceased to function forthwith.
    "See?" said the PPP. "We told you it would run out of porridge.  Now let's pass a law requiring everyone to swear an oath of allegiance to the Little Pot.  That will make things right.  In the meantime, I guess you'll just have to buy your porridge from us."
    "What poppycock!" someone objected. "First, you take the magic out of it, then you expect us to pay obeisance to it.  That's nothing but a pot now."
    "Nothing but a pot?" cried the PPP. "That is the Little Pot!  Every patriotic Pooban (which you obviously are not) pays respect to the Little Pot!"
    And so this story has a rousing, patriotic, happy ending.  For the PPP. 
    Maybe you have heard this before.