The Parrot

District Attorney:       For the court record, your name, sir?

Witness, Parrot:        Polly.

D.A.                            Is that your full name? Don’t you bear a longer appellation?

Parrot:                        If you’re suggesting Wannacracker, no.

Judge (to Parrot):     Answer the question directly, please.

Parrot:                        I am Polly Z. Psitlaciformes, according to the book.

D.A.:                          What’s the Z stand for?

Parrot:                       Zygodactyl, meaning pair-toed, unlike, say, the stork or the rook.

D.A.:                          That is a mouthful, if I may say so.

Parrot:                        I don’t see why: you’re here to ask a series of predictable dumb questions,                                             not to say anything in particular.

D.A.:                          Your Honor—

Parrot:                       Withdrawn.

D.A. (to Parrot):        You have been accused, among other things, of complete, off-the-wall                                                     smart-ass remarks that frequently deviate into sense.

Parrot:                       That may be. It depends.

The Bat

The question they ask about the bat is, how did he get from this to that? Between the time he was still on ground and finally flew in air, how did he stay hale and sound, how did he evolve from here to there, being such an easy prey? How did he last more than a day?

            

The answer is, he became an awkward sort of dancer. He began to run with a fanciful skip that was neither a waft nor a gait, skip-hopping along at a furious clip, an intermediate but distracting, off-putting trait. No longer treading, still not flying, he pushed his pinions, bobbing and weaving, rhythmically swaying and heaving, until one day, with the wind just right, all of a sudden— separation! genuine lift—flight—the climax of continuous hesitant application.

            

Moral: Being in-between in life may mean simply—or not so simply—that you’re on your way.