Last week, an Australian tourist asked me to pose for a photograph wearing a pair of joke breasts. I grinned and picked my teeth before answering.“My respect for the human female prevents me from colluding in the mockery of her milk dumplings,” I said. “If you require a humorous memento, I will take a picture of you being groomed by lady gorillas.”
He declined my offer, and the incident would have merited no further concern had I not heard news of a mysterious theft. It seems that 130,000 inflatable bosoms, ordered by an Australian men’s magazine, have disappeared en route from Beijing to Sydney. Let us put to one side the question of whether producing comedy boobs on an industrial scale is an appropriate use of resources in the current economic climate. Property is property, and if our Australian visitor has been handling stolen goods – or even buying them opportunistically on the black market – he is certainly guilty of a serious offence.
Should I report him to the Australian authorities? I think not. Joke breasts notwithstanding, the man is our guest. He has eaten our salt, sniffed our pepper and contributed a generous sum to the economy of the Congo Basin. Admittedly, a considerable portion of that sum might have been earned from the illegal bosom trade, but is that our fault? Economic activity cannot grind to a halt because a handful of customers have acquired their wherewithal from shady dealings.
Human jurisprudence is a tricky business, make no mistake. Back in my circus days, I remember the case of a clown’s stolen breakfast kipper. The guilty party turned out to be a cat, who had entered the clown’s trailer through an open window and departed hastily with the fish in its mouth. The clown was caught off guard while doing his stretching exercises, but was able to identify the culprit as one of our camp followers. After apprehending the feline bandit, he took the highly unusual step of putting it on trial. The clown himself took on the roles of judge, prosecutor, defence counsel and jury.
I interrupted the proceedings near the end. As the cat fidgeted restlessly inside a cage, the clown put on a judge’s wig and readied himself to pass sentence. The vengeful buffoon would have hanged the animal had I not intervened on its behalf. Fortunately, my powers of persuasion impelled the judge to announce a brief recess. I then made the following points in the laconic style of Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men:
(1) the cat had only been following its instincts;
(2) the clown had left the window open;
(3) the trial would be invalid without an independent defence counsel and jury.
We eventually settled on a plea bargain: the cat would be drenched with a bucket of cold water before being set free. It was the best I could do for it in the circumstances and it suffered no serious harm from its chastisement. No physical harm, that is, I cannot speak for its psychological condition. I also extracted a solemn pledge from the clown not to seek further vengeance or harass the animal in any way.
That episode taught me a lot about humans. They love to express liberal sentiments about justice and compassion until they’ve been mugged – then they become hanging judges.
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