The Rules of Paintball

Professor Freud spotted them at once. He walked towards them, pushing up his goggles.

How nice to see you, he said shaking each of them by the hand. But what are you doing here?

We are on holiday, said Wittgenstein. But we are not sure of what we're doing here.

Saint Nicholas and Herr Wittgenstein, said Professor Freud, since you are here, may I invite you to join us in a game of Paintball ?

I know a lot of games, said Saint Nicholas, due to my profession, but I do not know the rules of Paintball.

Nor do I, said Wittgenstein, because I know no games.

Language-games, said Saint Nicholas. You know a few of them.

Paintball is a simple game, gentlemen, said Professor Freud. You put on overalls and goggles, you choose a team, and you try to capture the flag of the other team. In order to do this each player has a gun that fires paintballs. If you are hit by a paintball it will explode and you will then have paint all over your overalls. When this happens, you are eliminated from the game.

That sounds easy said Wittgenstein, I am good at dodging.

No you aren't, said Saint Nicholas. You never pay attention.

And you are rather slow, said Wittgenstein. Because you are so fat.

I shall put you on different teams, said Professor Freud. By the way Saint Nicholas, I hope you will not be tempted to cheat. There are serious penalties for cheating.

Why are you picking on me? asked Saint Nicholas. Wittgenstein is just as likely to cheat as I am.

No he isn't, said Professor Freud. You said yourself he doesn't pay attention. It is you I am worried about, because I know that you can do miracles.

Oh, don't worry about him, said Wittgenstein. He has just done one. And can't do another for quite some time.

Professor Freud looked somewhat disappointed.

The Miracle

So Mr Wittgenstein, said Belle at Bonne, you study language-games?

A dog may expect his master, said Wittgenstein. But a dog cannot expect it's master next Wednesday.

I see, said Belle et Bonne sagely. It is because the dog does not have language.

But the dog may expect his master when it is next Wednesday, said Saint Nicholas.

Certainly, said Wittgenstein, but today, he cannot expect his master next Wednesday.

I think we all agree on that, said Belle et Bonne. I do hope Uncle David gets here soon. We need to talk about the bumper Christmas edition. Saint Nicholas has agreed to write something for us, haven't you Saint Nicholas?

I have indeed, said Saint Nicholas. I am looking forward to it.

We thought that since it was to be a Christmas edition, the topic ought to have something to do with Christmas, as well as the requisite philosophy and bicycles, said Belle et Bonne.

My story does not actually include a bicycle, said Saint Nicholas. And it doesn't really have to do with Christmas, except that I am in it. I suppose however that it could be regarded as philosophical as it involves a miracle, performed by me.

That is highly unsatisfactory, said Wittgenstein.

No no, said Belle et Bonne. He is right that if he is in it, it is by definition Christmassy. As to the bicycle, it it always possible to fit one in the story somewhere.

I meant the miracle, said Wittgenstein.

A Hundred and Thousand

I still don't hear it, said Saint Nicholas.

Ha ha! said Wittgenstein. It was a joke.

A joke, said Saint Nicholas. I don't get it.

Run, run, as fast as you can, said Wittgenstein. I thought everyone knew that rhyme.

It's not a rhyme, said Saint Nicholas.

It is when you complete it, said Wittgenstein scornfully. You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man.

Donner and Blitzen! exclaimed Saint Nicholas. I though you were a philosopher, not a comedian.

I was merely attempting to return our attention to the gingerbread, said Wittgenstein. If we don't begin eating it soon, someone will come in, then we will start talking and it will be too late.

A good point, said Saint Nicholas. Shall we?

They each took a gingerbread man and began to chew. Just then Belle et Bonne arrived.

Good afternoon, gentlemen, she said brightly. I see you have helped yourselves to the gingerbread. Do please continue eating.

Saint Nicholas continued chewing at a steady pace. Wittgenstein swallowed his gingerbread man quickly.

Mr Wittgenstein, said Belle et Bonne. I'm sure you won't be offended if I tell you there is a red hundred and thousand stuck to your top lip.

A hundred and thousand? said Wittgenstein. What is a hundred and thousand?

The little coloured balls sprinkled on the icing, said Belle et Bonne. They're called hundreds and thousands.

That may be, said Wittgenstein. But that a single one of them should be called a hundred and thousand. That is remarkable.

I hadn't thought of that, said Belle et Bonne, but I suppose it is.

Language-games are my particular field of study, said Wittgenstein.

Run run, said Saint Nicholas, finishing his gingerbread.

Oh, Saint Nicholas, said Belle et Bonne. You've made a joke. How funny you are.