Fred Dooley and 2+2=4

"Good morning class. Today we are going to delve into the mysteries of 2+2 and what the end result of that union of these two numbers equals. As you should all know by now, the answer is 4. The answer ... yes, Fred? Do you have a question?"

A large, balding boy in the front row struggles to get out of his desk. Finally shedding the furniture, he addresses the teacher. “Miss Smith. This process is fraudulent and the real problem is you don't care. The answer is not 4. You know it and you like it.”

“Well, Fred. First please sit down.” Fred struggles back into his desk.

“Now. I'm not quite sure what you are talking about. It has been fairly settled that adding the whole number 2 to the whole number 2 equals the whole number 4.”

“Ma'am. You are a complete ass.” Jumping to his feet again, with the desk dangling from his waist, Fred waddles forward toward Miss Smith.

“I can show you to example after example of 2+2 equaling 5. You just ignore that."

Backing up behind her desk, Miss Smith says, “Excuse me, Fred? What are you talking about?”

“Clue in Miss Smith. WEAC has created an environment that has caused this activity time after time after time in location after location after location. And here we are again.”

“Fred. I'm not sure what the teachers' union has do do with this, but please stop hyperventilating before you hurt yourself -- and do you need help taking off your desk?”

Struggling vainly to remove the desk from his waist, Fred sits down in a huff.

“Now listen, Fred. I want to do a little experiment with you. Please hold up two fingers on your left hand and raise your hand in the air.

Fred raises his right hand with two fingers upright.

“Er, Fred. Your other left hand. Good. Now Fred, hold up two fingers on your other hand and raise that hand in the air. Good. How many fingers total are upright?”

“Five.”

Becoming a bit exasperated, Miss Smith asks, “Fred. How many fingers are you holding upright on that hand?” Miss Smith points to Fred's left hand.

“Two.”

“And now, Fred. How many fingers are upright on your other hand?”

“Two.”

“Very good, Fred. Now, starting with your left hand – yes, that one, Fred. Now, let's count each upright finger. One, two – now the right hand – three, four.”

So Fred, how much is 2+2?”

“Five.”

Miss Smith walks to Fred's desk. She looks down at him and asks, “Please explain how you come up with that answer.”

“Well.” Fred wriggles uncomfortably in his desk. “You know, Miss Smith, that WEAC has a history of creating problems because of how they do what they do. And because they're a libbie group you just don't care.”

“Huh?”

“And you might ask yourself, what else has WEAC been up to? They're not such an innocent little group. You know your side needs to cheat to win.”

Hand to forehead, Miss Smith attempts to clear her throat. She sits on the edge of her desk, looks at Fred askance. “Fred,” she asks. “What are you talking about? I asked you a simple question. I asked what the answer was to the equation 2+2. The correct answer, as nearly every sentient being on this planet knows is 4. You insist it's 5 and then tell me it's the teachers' union that is at fault for god knows what.”

“This damn desk.” With one mighty effort, Fred attempts to dislodge his waist from the tiny school desk – to no avail. Panting from the exertion, Fred gasps, “Face it, Miss Smith. You want to cheat. Nothing has changed except that I've called you on this. Just about everywhere you look across the country where the answer to this question is 4, there is WEAC, and some skinny teacher like you. “

“Fred, that's enough.”

“You have a micro focus, I have a macro focus.”

Laughing, Miss Smith says, “That's the most absurd thing I have ever heard. What sort of focus does one need to add 2+2 other than to stay focused on the problem?”

“You like vote fraud, I hate it.”

“What?”

“Why don't you quit making excuses?”

“Fred, I'd ask you to go to the blackboard and write 100 times, 'I shall not talk back in class.' But with that desk wrapped around your abdomen, it would be difficult.” The class giggles.

Glaring at Miss Smith, Fred sits back, crosses his arms and pouts. "I'll get you someday, he whispers. And your little dog too."

More satire. A source tells me he is reasonably assured that Fred knows the answer to the equation.