Black White Black White

Don't worry, Daddy, says Mummy Bin Penguin. Children say hurtful things all the time. Baby, say sorry to Daddy.

Sorry, Daddy, says Baby Bin Penguin. Daddy, what's a grandpa?

Terence narrows his eyes.

Well, says Daddy Bin Penguin, in fact there can be no such thing.

See, says Baby Bin Penguin to Terence.

Terence can't let this go by. He marches straight up to the painted-on feet of Daddy Bin Penguin.

Who's YOUR daddy? says Terence.

Ha ha, says Daddy Bin Penguin. I am manufactured.

Wait till I tell Grandpa, says Terence. He'll have questions.

What sort of questions? asks Mummy. Daddy hasn't got time for questions. Its nearly dinner time.

Everyone has to answer Grandpa's questions, says Terence.

Why? asks Baby Bin Penguin.

So he knows everything, says Terence.

Is that a joke? asks Baby Bin Penguin.

It wasn't. But Terence has remembered how jokes once cemented their friendship.

Yes, says Terence.

I've got one says Baby Bin Penguin. What goes black white black white black white?

I don't know, says Terence.

A penguin rolling downhill, says Baby Bin Penguin.

Is that funny? asks Terence.

I don't know, says Baby Bin Penguin. I've never done it. Here's a better one. Where do penguins go swimming?

I don't know, says Terence.

At the South pool, says Baby Bin Penguin.

Ha ha ha ha! roars Marx heartily, looming up with his double espresso. Very funny!

Terence and Baby Bin Penguin look up at him expectantly.

Grandpa, says Terence, Baby Bin Penguin's daddy says he's manufactured.

Manufactured indeed, says Karl Marx. Yes, he would be. Perhaps I might ask him some questions.

He's too busy, says Baby Bin Penguin. It's dinner time.

Just one or two questions, says Marx, loudly.

Daddy Bin Penguin looks round.

Fire away, says Daddy Bin Penguin. I warn you though, I have my dignity.

Of course, says Marx. Blame the factory owner, not the product. May I ask, what is your function?

I am a bin sir, and proud of it, says Daddy Bin Penguin.

Why then are you formed like a penguin? asks Marx.

For tourism purposes, says Daddy.

And you get paid extra for that? asks Marx.

I receive more scraps, says Daddy. I get emptied more often.

You realise you are exploited, says Marx.

Do you have any literature I could read on the subject? asks Daddy Bin Penguin.

Yes, says Marx. But I don't have it with me. I shall post you a copy.

Make sure you address it properly, says Daddy Bin Penguin. A lot of mail goes astray here in Penguin.

Ha ha, laughs Marx, swallowing the rest of his coffee. May I?

Certainly, says Daddy Bin Penguin.

Marx tosses the empty coffee cup into the mouth of Daddy Bin Penguin, and starts walking away.

Nice chap, says Daddy Bin Penguin.

My grandpa, says Terence.

There's no such thing as a grandpa, says Baby Bin Penguin.

Listen up son, says Daddy Bin Penguin. We all have our different beliefs. One person's grandpa is another person's exploitative factory owner. We have to accept it.

Mummy Bin Penguin is relieved. So much for Marxist-style consciousness raising. Daddy Bin Penguin has missed the gentleman's point entirely.