There is an old joke about two explorers who are captured by cannibals. One is a Californian and the other is a New Yorker.

The explorers sit at the bottom of a large vat filled with water. Natives run around collecting firewood and depositing it at the base. It is going to be a big fire. It is going to be a big feast.

The chief of the cannibals stands over the two explorers and admires their pale skins. 

“You will be our guests of honor tonight,” says the chief. “Or should I say, the main course? What a great stew you will make! But first, we will boil your skins off and turn them into beautiful lampshades.

“The lampshades made from our dinner guests are central to our culture. We have a whole museum dedicated to them. They go back centuries. You might say we worship our lampshades as the trophies of war.

“You two will make stunning additions to our collection.”

He pauses. Wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.

“Do you have any final words to share with our tribe?”

I’ll be honest with you. I heard this joke so long ago, I don’t recall what the Californian said.

Probably something about gratitude for being able to live his best life and so happy that no part of his body will go to waste. He did ask about the carbon footprint left by the fire and wonders if the tribe has a way to offset it. He also encourages the chief to seek a vegetarian option to add to the menu, in the spirit of being inclusive.

And finally, the Californian thanks the chief for enabling him to become part of the legacy of the community.

The chief does not know what the Californian is talking about. But he compliments the man on his civility, maturity, and generous spirit. “At night, when the soft light glows through the lampshade made from your translucent skin, I will think fondly of this exchange,” adds the chief.

It was as close to a compliment as his feeble imagination would allow him. 

The New Yorker – from the Bronx I think – sat silent.

The chief turns to the New Yorker. “How about you, pale boy? Any last words?”

“I would like a fork, please,” says the New Yorker.

Strange request, thinks the chief, but he sends a servant to get a large metal salad fork from the kitchen.

He compliments the New Yorker on the impressive collection of tattoos that cover his body. “I shall take special care in making a lampshade out of your skin. Those tattoos ought to be given only the best display.”

“Sure. Sure,” says the New Yorker, as the servant returns with a large metal fork. “Gimmie the fucking fork.”

Before anyone can react, the man begins stabbing himself wildly with the fork. Jab after jab. Flesh tears. Blood spurts. Tattoos are shredded.

The chief and his men shrink back in horror. Never have they seen such savagery, such barbarism.

“My god, man! Are you crazy? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

The New Yorker looks the chief in the eyes, a maniacal rage pouring from his face and venom dripping with blood from his mouth.

With a final raspy breath, he roars, “Try and make a lampshade out of this, you mother fucker!”

Well, there you go.

I used to think the story was about the difference between Californians and New Yorkers. It was told to me by a friend who grew up in New York and moved to California, so I embraced his perspective.

No more.

These days, I’m thinking it has something to say about Democrats and Republicans. Or morality and immorality. Or rational and irrational behavior. 

Maybe it is just about two very different guys who respond to the same situation in dramatically different ways. Maybe there needs to be a third person in the pot, perhaps a woman’s perspective?

Maybe the moral is that there are many ways to rationalize the irrational.

Maybe there is no moral. Maybe it is just a really bad joke.

Part of the problem with losing faith in half of your country is feeling that maybe everything you were taught about morality, compassion, faith, community, rules, education, honesty, respect, equality, freedom, and love was all a sham.

If half the country can live without these things, how are the rest of us to survive?

I’m still working it out. Not yet ready to draw conclusions or think any of this is ironic, funny, or meta.

Care to take a swing at it?