Three-Legged Stool

Once upon a time, there was a Master Thronemaker who catered to all the Crowned Heads of Europe and beyond. His thrones were the perfect marriage of art and functionality. All of them were constructed from only the finest materials and topped with soft, luxurious cushions stuffed exclusively with the down of thronebirds, a species endowed by its Creator with feathers ideal for this specific purpose. So perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the Master Thronemaker catered to the Pampered Bottoms that were connected to all the Crowned Heads of Europe and ... so forth.

The Master Thronemaker's name was Ers, but since he had a son of the same name, he was known as Ers da First. Ers da First had the Exclusive Throne Contract for the Eurasian land mass, and he made a lot of kings and emperors very happy. Or satisfied, at least. He was a brilliant craftsman and also a shrewd businessman. His was a life of fulfillment, contentment, and opulence, and he had the satisfaction of passing the coveted ETC on to his son. Ers da Second. Never let is be said that Ers da First did not know when to die.

Ers da Second was also a Thronemaker, if not quite a Master. He was also not as good a businessman as his father. In addition, along with the Exclusive Throne Contract, he inherited an unforeseen liability that no one could have foreseen. The thronebirds were on the brink of extinction. So the lovely, lush throne cushions were becoming from prohibitively expensive to impossible to produce. And so the decline of the throne business began. Nevertheless, Ers da Second was not completely without resources. He hired lawyers to scrutinize the ETC, and they discovered that the cushions were not actually contractual obligations. They were just something that old Ers da First did to make his customers happy. So Ers da Second explained this to the Pampered Bottoms he served, and although they grumbled, they learned to live with the new circumstances. The thrones were less comfortable and perhaps not as well made, but ... ok. In the meantime, Ers da Second managed to crank out an Ers da T'ird, who duly inherited the ETC upon the death of his sire.

Now, Ers da T'ird was a very different person from either his father or his grandfather. Some might say that he was an argument for a Theory of Diminishing Returns in Evolution. Ers da T'ird was neither a good thronemaker nor a good businessman. However, it is only fair to remember that he inherited the coveted contract during difficult economic times. For one thing, the Pampered Bottoms discovered that their Crowned Heads had developed a pronounced tendency to roll away.

In desperation, Ers da T'ird remembered how his father had hired a raft of lawyers to get himself out of a business difficulty. Ers daT'ird couldn't afford lawyers, so he hired himself a couple of weasels and something called "actuaries." The actuaries earned their keep by doing a lot of sums, shaking their heads, and muttering, "Actuarially unsound." But the weasels turned out to be a god-send.

"What's a throne, really?" asked one of the weasels, rhetorically. "It's just something you sit on. It don't have to have no legs, right? All you're obligated to deliver is a little, butt-sized piece of wood."

"What about the clients' responsibility?" wheedled a second. "They can't expect us to do everything for them. Their throne, their responsibility, right?"

"I don't know about that," worried Ers da T'ird. "There's the Exclusive Throne Contract to consider."

"Exclusive, shmexclusive," said the first weasel.

"Throne, shm... shmrone," said the second, not without difficulty.

"But I have to deliver a throne," insisted Ers da T'ird, but without conviction.

"And you will," said Weasel One. "It's that butt-sized piece of wood. That's all you're responsible for. You just have to explain it to them."

"Yeah," said Weasel Two. "And the rest is their responsibility."

"Because ...," continued Weasel One, "because ... a throne is ... like a three-legged stool! Yeah, that's it! You've fulfilled your part of the contract by providing the seat, but if they want it to stand, too, ... they have to ... hire some other thronemakers to make the legs! Another one for each leg!"

"Because ...," chimed in Weasel Two, "these days, you just can't expect one manufacturer to make a whole throne! That's unreasonable! And ... how about this? You're such a good guy, you'll even give them one of the legs! They really can't expect more than that, huh?"

"And how about this for a new motto?" suggested Weasel One. "'Want a throne? Don't look at me. I'm just a thronemaker.'"

"Wow! I think you've got it!" cried Ers da T'ird. "I'm just not sure ... How do I sell that?"

"Easy," said Weasel One. "Just keep repeating it."

"Over and over," said Weasel Two. "Over and over."