The Birth Of The Blues [FICTOID]

The philosopher's child popped out -- not from her head, much to the philosopher's disappointment, but in the old fashioned manner -- fully formed.

Not fully grown (that would be ridiculous and exceptionally painful) but fully formed, capable of expressing a complex yet well reasoned theory of knowledge.

“How,’ the infant epistemology said, patting its sides for pockets on a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches it wasn't wearing, looking for a pack of Gauloises that all Francophile philosophers (Phrancofile filosofers?) smoke, “do we know what we know?  How do we even know we know what we know unless we know we know what we know we know, but how can we know we know what we know we know we know we know?”

“I think you threw in one ‘you know’ too many,” the philosopher said.  “Y’know?”

The obstetrician held his hands up in the timeout signal.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa!  Before we delve into any of that, how in the hell did this fucking baby come out like this?”

“The first thing in any philosophical discussion is the definition of terms,” the epistemology said.  “I am no ‘fucking baby’ but rather a fully formed set of precepts and conditions.”

“Bullshit!” said the increasingly profane obstetrician.  “You're just a mouthy little brat.”

The infant epistemology took a long imaginary draw on its nonexistent French cigarette.  “You don't know that.”

”Like hell I don't know that!” shouted the obstetrician.  He was wearing skin diving flippers for no other reason than the writer thought it would be funny.  “You're standing there right in front of me, covered in afterbirth, pretending to puff away on a cigarette.  That's the gawddam definition of a mouthy little brat.”

The infant epistemology blew out a perfect imaginary smoke ring.  “How do you know you know I'm a mouthy little brat?  For all you know, I could be a figment of your imagination.” 

“Hey!” the philosopher's anus shouted,  “I'm in charge of phenomenology around here!”

© Buzz Dixon