Plato and a Platypus Walk Into a Bar

by Thomas Cathcart

  One of the strengths of capitalism, according to Smith, is that it promotes economic creativity. It seems that self-interest, like the prospect of a hanging, concentrates the mind.

  A man walks into a bank and says he wants to borrow $200 for six months. The loan officer asks him what kind of collateral he has. The man says, “I have a Rolls Royce. Here are the keys. Keep it until the loan is paid off.”

  Six months later the man returns to the bank, repays the $200 plus $10 interest and takes back his Rolls. The loan officer says, “Sir, if I may ask, why would a man who drives a Rolls Royce need to borrow $200?”

  The man replies, “I had to go to Europe for six months, and where else could I store a Rolls that long for $10?”

  In capitalist theory, the “discipline of the market” regulates the economy. Good inventory control, for example, can provide a competitive advantage to a business.

  Interviewer: Sir, you have amassed a considerable fortune over your lifetime. How did you make your money?

  Millionaire: I made it all in the carrier pigeon business.

  Interviewer: Carrier pigeons! That’s fascinating! How many did you sell?

  Millionaire: I only sold one, but he kept coming back.

  As capitalism has evolved, economic philosophy has had to play catch-up. Innovations in the marketplace have introduced complexities not imagined by Adam Smith and the classical economics philosophers. Health insurance, for example, has created a context in which it is in the buyer’s best interest to not to get his money’s worth. Buying pork-belly futures is clearly a different animal, so to speak, than buying a hog. One such innovation, in which the classical laws of the marketplace do not quite seem to apply, is the raffle.

  Jean Paul, a Cajun, moved to Texas and bought a donkey from an old farmer for $100. The farmer agreed to deliver the donkey the next day.

  The next day the farmer drove up and said, “Sorry, but I got some bad news. The donkey died.”

  “Well then, just give me my money back.”

  “Can’t do that. I went and spent it already.”

  “OK then, just unload the donkey.”

  “What are you gonna do with him?”

  “I’m gonna raffle him off.”

  “You can’t raffle off a dead donkey!”

  “Sure, I can. Watch me. I just won’t tell anyone he’s dead.”

  A month later the farmer met up with the Cajun and asked, “What happened with the dead donkey?”

  “I raffled him off. I sold 500 tickets at $2 apiece and made a profit of $898.”

  “Didn’t anyone complain?”

  “Just the guy who won. So I gave him his $2 back.”

  The classical economists also didn’t pay much attention to what we now call “hidden value”—for example, the uncompensated labor provided by stay-at-home moms. This story illustrates the concept of hidden value:

  A famous art collector is walking through the city when he notices a mangy cat lapping milk from a saucer in the doorway of a store. He does a double-take. He knows that the saucer is extremely old and very valuable, so he walks casually into the store and offers to buy the cat for two dollars.

  The storeowner replies, “I’m sorry, but the cat isn’t for sale.”

  The collector says, “Please, I need a hungry cat around the house to catch mice. I’ll pay you twenty dollars for that cat.”

  The owner says, “Sold,” and hands over the cat.

  The collector continues, “Hey, for the twenty bucks I wonder if you could throw in that old saucer. The cat’s used to it and it’ll save me from having to get a dish.”

  The owner says, “Sorry, buddy, but that’s my lucky saucer. So far this week I’ve sold thirty-eight cats.”

  To his credit, Adam Smith foresaw some of the pitfalls in unrestrained capitalism, like the growth of monopolies. But it took Karl Marx in the nineteenth century to construct an economics philosophy that attacked the inevitable unequal distribution of goods inherent in the very structure of capitalism. Come the revolution, the government of the common man, Marx said, will eliminate the disparity between rich and poor—a disparity that touches everything from ownership to credit.

  We were down in Cuba to buy some embargoed stogies recently when we stopped in a Havana comedy club and heard this routine:

  José: What a crazy world! The rich, who could pay cash, buy on credit. The poor, who have no money, must pay cash. Wouldn’t Marx say it should be the other way around? The poor should be allowed to buy on credit, and the rich should pay cash.

  Manuel: But the storeowners who gave credit to the poor would soon become poor themselves!

  José: All the better! Then they could buy on credit too!

  According to Marx, the dictatorship of the common man that follows the revolution is itself followed by the “withering away of the state.” Still, we think Karl Marx has gotten a bad rap as a radical anarchist.

  QUIZ

  Which of the Marxes is more of an anarchist? Karl, who said, “It is inevitable that the oppressed classes will rise up and throw off their chains.” Or Groucho, who said, “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside a dog, it’s too dark to read.”

  Perhaps you’re asking yourself, “What exactly is the difference between capitalism and communism?” Perhaps not. In any case, it’s really quite simple. Under capitalism, man exploits his fellow man. Under communism, the opposite is true.

  This conundrum led to the compromise between capitalism and socialism known as social democracy, where benefits are provided for people unable to work and laws protect collective bargaining. But the compromise forced some lefties to make strange bedfellows.

  A shop steward is at a convention in Paris and decides to visit a brothel. He asks the madam, “Is this a union house?”

  “No, it’s not,” she replies.

  “So how much do the girls earn?” the union man asks.

  “You pay me $100, the house gets $80 and the girl gets $20.”

  “That’s crass exploitation!” the man says and stomps out.

  Eventually, he finds a brothel where the madam says it’s a union house. “If I pay you $100, how much does the girl get?” he asks.

  “She gets $80.”

  “That’s great!” he says. “I’d like Collette.”

  “I’m sure you would,” says the madam, “but Thérèse here has seniority.”

  Economics theory is especially prone to the fallacy of “drawing a distinction where there is no difference.” For ex ample, is there actually a difference in principle between welfare for the poor and tax cuts for the rich?

  In this joke, Mr. Fenwood is employing a strategy that makes an economic distinction without a difference:

  Mr. Fenwood had a cow but no place to pasture her. So he went to see his neighbor, Mr. Potter, and offered to pay Potter twenty dollars a month to keep the cow in Potter’s pasture. Potter agreed. Several months went by. The cow was pastured at Mr. Potter’s, but Mr. Fenwood had never given Mr. Potter any money. Finally, Mr. Potter went to see Mr. Fenwood and said, “I know you’ve been struggling financially, so how about if we strike a deal? I’ve had your cow now for ten months, so you owe me $200. I figure that’s about what the cow is worth. How about if I just keep the cow and we’ll call it square?”

  Fenwood thought for a minute and said, “Keep her one more month and you’ve got a deal!”

  PHILOSOPHY OF LAW

  The philosophy of law, or jurisprudence, studies basic questions like “What is the purpose of laws?”

  There are several basic theories. “Virtue jurisprudence,” derived from Aristotle’s ethics, is the view that laws should promote the development of virtuous character. Proponents of virtue jurisprudence might argue that the purpose of the Public Decency Law (no peeing in the public square) is to promote the development of higher moral standards in all groups, especially public pee-ers. (However, a jury of his pee-ers might disagree.)

  Deontology is the view, held by Im
manuel Kant, that the purpose of laws is to codify moral duties. For the deontologists, the Anti-Peepee Law supports the duty of all citizens to respect the sensibilities of others.

  The nineteenth-century utilitarian Jeremy Bentham said the purpose of laws is to produce the best consequences for the greatest number of people. The utilitarians might argue that the A.P.L. produces more good consequences for more people (the townsfolk), than it does negative consequences for the few public piddlers, who will have to change their long-standing social habits.

  But as is usual in philosophy, the first question posed to these theorists by regular folks might be, “Is there any practical difference—say, in Judge Judy’s court—among your cute theories?” Any of the three theories could be used to justify not only the Public Decency Law, but also many well-established legal principles, such as the notion that imposing a penalty for a crime returns the scales of justice to equilibrium. You could justify punishment from a virtue development perspective (rehabilitation), a deontological perspective (penalizing violations of civic duty), or a utilitarian perspective (deterring future bad consequences).

  Nonphilosophers might ask, “If you all agree on the outcome, what difference does it make why we impose penalties?” The only down-to-earth issue is how to establish a match between an illegal act—say, insulting an officer of the court—and a penalty—say, a twenty dollar fine. How’s this for a match?

  A man waits all day in traffic court for his case to be heard. At long last it’s his turn to stand before the judge, but the judge only tells him that he will have to come back tomorrow, as court is being adjourned for the day. In exasperation, the man snaps, “What the hell for?”

  The judge snaps back, “Twenty dollars for contempt of court!”

  The man pulls out his wallet. The judge says, “You don’t have to pay today.”

  The man says, “I’m just checking to see if I have enough for two more words.”

  Another well-known legal principle is the unreliability of circumstantial evidence. Again, all three of the abstract theorists could support it. A theorist of virtue jurisprudence might argue that a high standard of fairness in the courtroom provides a model of virtue for the citizenry. To the deontologist, circumstantial evidence might violate a universal duty to be scrupulously fair to others. To the utilitarian, the use of circumstantial evidence might bring about the undesirable consequence of imprisoning an innocent person.

  Again, the more practical among us might ask, “Who the heck cares why we treat circumstantial evidence cautiously?” As a practical matter, we need only make the case for its unreliability, as the woman in the following story does. (Note her deft use of reductio ad absurdum.)

  A couple goes on vacation to a fishing resort. While he’s napping, she decides to take his boat out on the lake and read. While she’s soaking up the sun, the local sheriff comes by in a boat, and says, “There’s no fishing allowed here, ma’am. I’m going to have to arrest you.”

  The woman says, “But, sheriff, I’m not fishing.”

  The sheriff says, “Ma’am, you have all the necessary equipment. I’m going to have to run you in.”

  The woman says, “If you do that, sheriff, I’m going to have to charge you with rape.”

  “But I haven’t even touched you,” says the sheriff.

  “I know,” she says, “but you have all the necessary equipment.”

  But it turns out there are legal principles where it makes a great deal of difference which basic theory we adopt, as this story shows.

  A judge calls the opposing lawyers into his chambers, and says, “The reason we’re here is that both of you have given me a bribe.” Both lawyers squirm in their seats. “You, Alan, have given me $15,000. Phil, you gave me $10,000.”

  The judge hands Alan a check for $5,000 and says, “Now you’re even, and I’m going to decide this case solely on its merits.”

  If the purpose of prohibiting bribes is only to outlaw violations of the duty to deal equitably with all, we might agree with the judge that taking equal bribes has the same result as taking no bribe. Ditto if the purpose of prohibiting bribes is to ensure even-handedness in the utilitarian production of good consequences. But it would be much more difficult to argue that taking equal bribes promotes virtue in either the judge or the attorneys.

  Pretty neat how we got this far without telling a lawyer joke, right? But, hey, we’re only human.

  A lawyer sends a note to a client:

  “Dear Frank: I thought I saw you downtown yesterday. I crossed the street to say hello, but it wasn’t you. One-tenth of an hour: $50.”

  DIMITRI: You’ve inspired me, Tasso. I’ve decided to run for Public Decency Officer. Can I count on your vote?

  TASSO: Of course, my friend. As long as the election is by secret ballot.

  {IX}

  Relativity

  What can we say? This term means different things

  to different people.

  DIMITRI: The trouble with you, my friend, is you live too much in your head.

  TASSO: Compared to whom?

  DIMITRI: Well, compared to Achilles, the athlete.

  TASSO: How about compared to Socrates?

  DIMITRI: Okay, you win again. Compared to Socrates, you’re a bozo.

  RELATIVE TRUTH

  Is truth relative or absolute?

  The ancient Taoist philosopher Chuang Tzu awoke from a dream in which he was a butterfly, or, he wondered, was he really a butterfly who was now dreaming he was Chuang Tzu?

  In the modern Western world, philosophers have been obsessed by the relativity of knowledge to the knower. As we’ve seen, George Berkeley went so far as to say that “physical objects” only exist relative to the mind.

  In the twentieth century, a Harvard professor experimented with psychedelic drugs and was fascinated by the relativity of his insights. No, we’re not talking about Timothy Leary. Way before that—it was William James. When he inhaled laughing gas, James thought he saw the ultimate unity of all things, but, after the drug wore off, he couldn’t remember his cosmic insights. So, the story goes, the next time he sniffed laughing gas, he tied a pen to his hand and left his lab book open in front of him. Sure enough, a brilliant idea came to him, and this time he managed to get it down on paper. Hours later, in his unaltered state, he read the philosophical breakthrough he had recorded: “Everything has a petroleumlike smell!”

  Disappointed at first, Professor James soon came to his philosophical senses. The real question, he realized, was whether a) ideas that appeared brilliant to him under the influence of laughing gas were actually banal; or b) the brilliance of “Everything has a petroleumlike smell” could not be properly appreciated unless one was under the influence of laughing gas.

  There’s something in James’s analysis that has a certain jokelike smell.

  RELATIVITY OF TIME

  Lots of jokes illustrate the relativity of the perception of time. For example:

  A snail was mugged by two turtles. When the police asked him what happened, he said, “I don’t know. It all happened so fast.”

  And here comes that snail again:

  There’s a knock on the door, but when the woman answers it, there’s only a snail. She picks it up and throws it across the yard. Two weeks later, there’s another knock on the door. The woman answers the door, and there’s the snail again. The snail says, “What was that all about?”

  The relativity between finite time and eternity has been a staple of philosophical thought, and so, naturally, a staple for jokesters.

  A man is praying to God. “Lord,” he prays, “I would like to ask you a question.”

  The Lord responds, “No problem. Go ahead.”

  “Lord, is it true that a million years to you is but a second?’

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “Well, then, what is a million dollars to you?”

  “A million dollars to me is but a penny.”

  “Ah, then, Lord,” says the man, “m
ay I have a penny?”

  “Sure,” says the Lord. “Just a second.”

  RELATIVITY OF WORLDVIEWS

  There is a whole shelf full of jokes that illustrate the relativity of different points of view.

  A Frenchman walks into a bar. There’s a parrot wearing a tuxedo perched on his shoulder. The bartender says, “Wow, that’s cute. Where did you get that?”

  The parrot says, “In France. They’ve got millions of guys like this over there.”

  The twentieth-century American philosopher W.V.O. Quine wrote that our worldview is relative to our native language, a framework we are unable to climb out of for a different perspective. We cannot know for certain how to translate a term in an unrelated language into our own language. We can see that the speaker of another language points to the same object when he says “gavagai” as the one we point to when we say “rabbit,” but we cannot be sure whether he means “the fusion of rabbit parts” or “the succession of rabbit stages” or something else rabbitty.

  Two Jewish guys have dinner in a kosher Chinese restaurant. The Chinese waiter makes small talk with them in Yiddish as they look over the menu and then takes their order in Yiddish. On the way out, the men tell the Jewish owner what a pleasant surprise it was to be able to converse in Yiddish with the waiter.

  “Shh,” says the owner. “He thinks he’s learning English.”

  This provides a dead-on analogy to Quine’s notion of the problem of radical translation. The Chinese waiter can relate all Yiddish words to each other in the same way as the Jewish diners. His whole knowledge of Yiddish however, is off track in one important, systematic way: He thinks it’s English!

  Even the very idea of what counts as a foreign language may be relative to the speaker. Consider the following story from the world of international commerce: