Stories of the Fool by Tony Wons These stories come from Tony's Scrap Book: 1937-38 edition by Anthony

Wons (Tony) 1) He wouldn't admit that his head was made of wood, even though everybody told him so. College graduates said that nature had indeed performed a miracle in placing a wooden knot on the shoulders of a man. Everybody knew he was a fool, for out of his mouth, at frequent intervals, there would fall such stupid words as these, "Most foods are good to eat. It is the wrong combination of these foods that poisons us." And the people laughed. "Combinations, indeed," they shouted. "What an asinine remark even for a wooden head to utter. The stomach was given us by mother nature to keep full, and the palate tells us what we should eat and how much. Pickles, goulash, mustard, sauerkraut, herring, crab apples, turnips, polished rice, white bread, beef stew -- our ancestors ate them in great quantities and the worst that ever befell them was gout, rheumatics, floating kidney, and a thousand or so other things which everybody is heir to." Then spoke the one of the wooden head and said to the people, "Our ancestors dug their graves with table silverware." The people laughed and called him fool. But he waxed enthusiastic and spouted these words, "The human feed bag is to your body what a carburetor is to an engine. You cannot put into it muddy water and expect to get efficiency. It won't run. You can't feed into the human carburetor a mixture of fermentable stuff and expect anything but a brewery for your inwards. I once knew a man who won a championship in a belching contest. His wife should really get credit for that, because she supplied him at meal times with the ingredients to start a gas house. Another man started a little cider mill in his stuffing box. He ate anything and everything -- and it worked. It worked splendidly. But he's dead now, poor soul. Fermented to death." "A pox on your nonsense," shouted the people to the man of the wooden head. "We admit we are constantly hounded by tonsillitis, appendicitis, meningitis, laryngitis, but we won't have you fling at us your bunkitis." And thereupon they entered an eating house known as Ye Olde Ptomaine Joint, and proceeded to gorge themselves on cheese and fish, macaroni and ketchup, tomatoes, pickles, hot tamales, chile con carne, sausage, pancakes and wienerwurst! ___________________________________________________________ 2) The Fool once sat on a park bench and fed peanuts to the birds. It was Sunday morning, and people were strolling idly about the park enjoying the bright sunshine. A prosperous looking gentleman sat beside the Fool on the bench. He must have been prosperous because he wore the most uncomfortable clothes and a high silk hat that shone in the sun like a freshly painted smoke stack. "I see you are a philanthropist," quoth the Prosperous Gentleman. "No," remarked the Fool to the P.G. "I am an enemy of these birds." "Come, come, my friend," said

the P.G. "You jest. Your modesty will not let you advertise your kindheartedness. That is very commendable." Then spoke the Fool, saying, as he threw a double jointed peanut to a fat waddling pigeon who swept the ground with his round belly: "I speak the truth. My seeming charity is but a pastime which I enjoy at the expense of my dumb friends here. You, sir, are a man of means, as anyone can see from your selfsatisfied attitude." "Ah, yes, yes," broke in the P.G. "I am a successful business man - a Rotarian. And as you in your generosity give succor to these birds, so I in a larger sense of course am charitable, for I give of the crumbs of my table to feed poor Human creatures, which, alas, we shall always have with us." The Fool spat and said, "And so, in a larger sense, you do more damage, my friend. Those hungry birds, shut off from their natural feeding grounds by those huge concrete buildings, are made dependent upon my charity. They have become servile and lazy. They are irresponsible. They forget how to work for their food. They are demoralized. They are rank beggars. I who feed them perpetuate their miserable condition. So do you too, by throwing a few crumbs to the poor, help to promote their miserable condition and reduce what Shakespeare called 'the paragon of animals' to the level of a groveling beggar. Man wants freedom, the opportunity to develop his talents, the chance to earn an honest living, and a fair share of the world's gifts. You deny him these rights and throw him a few crumbs from your groaning table in the sweet name of charity, soothing at once your guilty conscience and degrading your fellow brother." Just then the church bell rang and the P.G. hurried on his way to worship, saying to himself as he went, "The world is full of radicals and most of them are fools!" ___________________________________________________________ 3) Somebody once told the Fool that the kind and timid taxpayers shelled out hard-earned ducats to support certain public institutions called libraries. "Here in the library," he explained to the Fool, "it is possible to find books on almost every subject. The genius of the ages is there. One can get the fruit of thought of the greatest masters --past and present. Here the poets hold out their gifts of rhyme and song. Here are the treasures of the scientist who devotes his life to a search for truth. Here the philosophers, the preachers, the orators commune with you. Here is a great intellectual banquet for any who care to feast." Ah," sighed the Fool. "That must indeed be a most interesting place. Would I were financially fixed to partake of these wonders, but alas, I am not a man of means, but just a poor scribbler, trying to speak the truth as I see it, and therefore poor. Some call me Fool." Then spoke the informer to this effect, "You need not be a person of means to enjoy the treasures in that institution. In fact, most of the people who go there are as you --poor seekers for truth. The library is paid for -- all by the taxes of the inhabitants of the community, and it is all free to you." So early the next day the Fool put on his best Sunday suit, for he had much

reverence for books, and innocently imagined they had souls, the souls of the immortals, and he wanted to look his best in their presence. Then he started for this wonderful house. He tried to be there early, for he felt sure that at such a place, where everyone could freely partake of the knowledge of the masters, crowds would swarm as he had seen them swarm to the movies, and he didn't want to be left out in the cold. Soon he stood in front of the imposing marble building called the Library. But he saw no one --no crowd. For a moment he thought his informer friend had played a joke on him. Then he considered that it might be a holiday, and was about to turn and go back to his rooming house, when he saw a little homely man with a book under his arm making for the entrance. The man wore a shabby suit, and looked as if he needed a hair cut. He reminded the Fool of those cartoons the artists draw of a Bolshevik. He followed the hairy man and soon found himself in the most wonderful house he had ever seen. All about him, as high as the ceiling, as low as the floor, rows upon rows, were the bound riches of the thinkers. He could almost hear them talking. He wanted to pray. He was indeed amazed. But his amazement at finding himself in such company of famous men and women, great as it was, was less than his surprise in seeing so few taxpayers taking advantage of their opportunities. For, besides the little man with the long hair, he saw only three others who seemed to realize that they could have all these things for nothing. So, turning to his long-haired companion he whispered, "Yesterday I went past a hall where there were two men with leather gloves fighting each other. A great multitude of people pushed and struggled to get in there to see which one of the fighters would be knocked senseless. Yet here are the heralds of knowledge trying to awaken the senses, and I see only you and these three students. How come?" And the hairy man answered, "Fools." And the Fool, having this title so often applied to himself and thinking the man was referring to him, blushed and turned and buried his head in a huge volume titled, "Man and His Cousin, the Monkey." ___________________________________________________________ 4) All day long, the Fool had lain on his couch trying to figure out what a philosopher gink by the name of Schopenhauer was talking about. But he became weary, and throwing the book on a heap of dusty newspapers in a corner, he put on his threadbare coat and sauntered into the street. He came upon a multitude of people standing in front of a theatre. A crowd always fascinated the Fool. Always he thought something important was going on where there was a crowd, and always he discovered he was mistaken, for the crowds did not gather where important things happened. But the Fool stopped to look, and he beheld a huge poster, and on the poster were these words, THE TRAGEDY OF ALEX THE BRAVE. Being in need of diversion, he stepped into the long waiting line and became part of the mob. Soon from his gallery seat he saw the curtain rise, and the sad life of Alex was portrayed on the stage. Pathetic, indeed, was the story of Alex, who, after devoting much of his life as king to the people, was compelled in his coming old age to abdicate with only a

mere fifty thousand ducats a year income the rest of his life. And many a spectator who sat beside the Fool wept bitterly and in his heart felt a keen compassion for the poor crownless king. When at last the curtain fell on the heart-rending scene of the king leaving his sumptuous palace, with only a few fair-weather friends to help him spend his yearly allowance, hot tears streamed down the cheeks of those whose hearts had not yet turned to rock. And many a man blew his nose or surreptitiously rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. But the Fool was bewildered, and seeking enlightenment, he accosted his nearest neighbor, saying: "How come that here, witnessing this make-believe life, people will shed scalding tears of sorrow for this king who never lived, who never worried about bread, or poverty, and who now, perhaps, is discarding the trappings of his false career and thinking about beefsteak and onions, while all about us in this city, young children living in cellars cry for the sunlight, for love and food; and old men sit shivering in rags, awaiting the end; and women weep for their wayward sons; and in filthy attics talented artists starve; and laboring men beg for living wages; and young girls sell their bodies for a few dollars, and no tears are shed for them as for this puppet king?" But the neighbor only grinned and in that grin was a tinge of pity for the ignorant Fool. And the Fool went home thinking what a cockeyed world it is where people will not see real tragedy everywhere before their very eyes, but will go out of their way to behold the sorrows of a fake king, sympathize with his miseries, and pay money for the privilege of weeping over them!