#97 - Is the Sphinx to Blame?

Is the Sphinx to Blame for This?

9/24/06 (#97)

I'm going to take a controversial stand, despite the knowledge that some of you will be offended by my position. This nation's success was fueled by bold people who made bold statements, and I am obligated to speak up now because I care about the world that our children are going to inherit. It is a message that America---no, the world---needs to hear, so I will say what has to be said without regard to consequences:

The time has come to retire the riddle.

I'm sure I'm not the only one to think this, though it's a topic I rarely hear discussed. The riddle exists in that rarefied air shared with the pun, types of wordplay that could never withstand a popular election, yet continue to appear in conversations at every strata of American life with an inexplicable immunity from prosecution. The riddle is a pathogen too innocuous to concern cultural health care officials, so it goes untreated, often existing as a latent strain until you get a few beers into a salesman and suddenly the pub is faced with an outbreak.

What do you call a boomerang that doesn't work? A stick.

You might be surprised to hear about my distaste for these little puzzlers---I enjoy word problems, and I like jokes, so it would seem logical that I would enjoy the combination of the two. Except a riddle combines the worst aspects of both: painstaking amounts of deduction, and bad punchlines. In fact, there is nothing "logical" when it comes to the consideration of the riddle.

The riddle offends because the ratio between work required to figure it out and satisfaction when the answer is revealed is horribly skewed toward the tedious. I know that the answer will be a trick, that all of my amassed knowledge will not be sufficient to deduce an answer, and yet the teller of the riddle stands there grinning, waiting to see how I will respond. Had my parents not raised me well, I might respond appropriately---with a punch in the riddler's nose. (In fact, that I hesitate in such situations to do just that makes me wonder if my parents might have failed in that one aspect of the nurture process. I'm sure even Gandhi wanted to pop someone when they nudged him with an elbow and said, "Hey, how many Hindus does it take to screw in a light bulb?") Instead, I smile politely while mentally removing that person from my Christmas card list.

Where do you get virgin wool from? Ugly sheep.

One cannot intuit the answer to a riddle because the riddle does not WANT to be answered. It is smug and arrogant, self-satisfied that it possesses a knowledge that you lack, even if that knowledge is of the urban traveling plans of a nameless poultry item---hardly information that makes you invaluable to your employer. Riddles too often involve some sort of play on words, or an overly cute punchline that makes me feel that the effort spent in figuring it out (or failing to) was more than a mere waste of time, but a palpable diminishing of my will to live. The riddle makes life feel futile: so much effort, and the payoff is at best a minor chuckle or feigned guffaw. (Or more likely, pained groans or threats to end the friendship if another supposed "funny one" is contributed to the conversation.) The riddle is a social faux-pas that has managed to escape the notice of etiquette books, the bratty child who thinks dangling french fries from his nostrils is the height of hilarity, oblivious to the fact (as are his parents) that everyone else in the restaurant wants to see the little moppet gag on his so-called comedic props.

What did the fish say when he hit a concrete wall? "Dam".

The riddle is a hollow, dirt-flavored truffle. It plays the role in humor that a fortune cookie plays in literature; it is to cleverness what the underwear section of the Sears catalog is to pornography. If there is a hell, they tell a lot of riddles there, and none of them are funny. (In that way, hell is just like here.) The riddle is that person who enthusiastically accosts you in the restaurant----"Hey, remember me?!" Well fella, does the fact that I'm recoiling wide-eyed without a hint of recognition on my face provide any clue of the likely answer to that query? Likewise, the punchline of a riddle is the metaphoric equivalent of that person saying, "Sure you do---you passed me the Sports Illustrated at the barbershop. Great to see you again! Mind if I sit with you?" The enthusiasm I have for that guy is the same regard I have for the riddle.

Why are there so many Smiths in the phone book? They all have phones.

Immediate cause for suspicion about the value of the riddle: it can be made up on the spot. The punchlines are so impertinent and (usually) mediocre that new variations of the jokes mutate like the influenza virus, much too quickly to maintain a safe immunization. I recall being 13 years old and hearing a crowd of kids exchanging "what do you get when you cross..." riddles, and my neighbor Greg contributed, "What do you get when you cross a freeway with a skateboard?" The answer? "Hospitalized." Most amazing, this dumb joke made up on the spot by a 12-year old C-student is better than most of the riddles heard that day. Or any day. That's how low the riddle bar has been set---rank amateurs can be riddle champions. (Of course, that's a medal you don't want to be flaunting in public. In the history of the cocktail party, no one has ever uttered the phrase, "Damn, that riddle guy gets all the babes." Women might be able to get laid on the apparent strength of a riddle, but let's face it, if that's their goal, women can get laid by reading a Thai food take-out menu aloud. The man, more than likely, is simply enduring the particulars as he patiently waits for nudity.)

Did you hear about the dyslexic Satanist? He sold his soul to Santa.

Finally, I......well, okay, I admit, that one is kinda funny. But I still hate riddles.

©2006 wpreagan