What’s in the Box?

So anyway there’s like this island, way off in the middle of the Pacific, and this was way back in the old days before the white man came along. And of course the people living there were what they used to call savages, and later on they called them primitives, and now we call them indigenous persons because it’s a value-neutral term and we don’t wanna have any values.

But yeah so any time somebody’s born on this island they’re given this box, and it’s like a sacred magic box that’s supposed to contain the spiritual essence of the person who owns it. So when you’re born the shaman gives you your box, and you keep the box with you and do sacred rituals with it every day. Then when you finally die you’re buried with the box and it’s supposed to like be your vessel to the afterlife, ya see?

But here’s the catch, ya see, is that there’s like this taboo against looking inside anybody else’s box or letting anyone look into yours. So of course ya have a buncha so-called ethnographers saying it’s obviously a symbolic re-representation of sexual morality because of course it couldn’t be anything higher than that I mean these scientists, they call em indigenous persons but they still treat em like savages. And so the only person who gets to look in all the boxes is the shaman, ya see, because he’s the one who gives you the box when you’re born and prepares em, ya see. Which really breaks down any analogy you could make with sexual morality, if there’s somebody who looks in all the boxes, but these sociologists I mean you’re a damn fool if ya try talking common sense to em…

And of course there’s real strict punishments for breaking the taboo or even telling anybody what’s in your box, because of course everybody wonders if the box they got was a good one or if they got the shaft or if you might be able to predict the future if you knew what was in everybody’s box. But only the shaman’s allowed to know, and he’s not allowed to tell, and if anybody breaks the taboo they lose their soul and don’t get to go to the afterlife, which they believe consists entirely of fellatio and cunnilingus. So ya don’t wanna miss out on that, is what I’m saying here.

But wouldn’t you know it there’s one little boy who gets horribly obsessed with figuring out the meaning of what’s in his box. And I don’t remember exactly what his name was, but in English it translates to Shits-His-Pants. And Shits-His-Pants is like, disturbed by the contents of his box, so he goes to his father and mother to like, discourse on what’s contained in all the boxes in general and his box in particular.

And his father says, “If you think I’m gonna give up eternal blowjobs just to help you solve the riddle of your existence you’ve got another thing coming, sonny boy.”

And his mother — who, by the way, prolly hasn’t had her pussy licked just right in her entire life — just shrugs and says, “Listen to your father.”

So Shits-His-Pants is feeling, like, disillusioned, cuz he thought his parents would always be able to answer his questions in a way that, y’know, satisfied his craving to comprehend the nature of his existence. And he goes to the tribal elder, who isn’t the shaman but is like the holder of temporal as opposed to spiritual power in this society. Which really takes some doing, by the way, because the tribal elder is an important hombre and Shits-His-Pants is just a young cub.

But after a few months of petitioning and practicing his oral skills, Shits-His-Pants finally gains admittance to the tribal elder’s hut.

And before Shits-His-Pants can even open his mouth, the tribal elder raises his hands up high and in a booming voice says, “Behold! Two laws do govern this universe of change and constancy, my son. Do you know those two great laws that form the bedrock of all that is?”

And Shits-His-Pants wants to ask what this has to do with the box question that’s really, ya see, tormenting the very fabric of his soul. But the elder’s the elder, so he just nods and sez, “The Law of the Mountain and the Law of the Valley, mister tribal elder, sir.”

“Good! Now what is the Law of the Mountain?”

“Lots of tongue, no teeth, mister tribal elder, sir.”

“Splendid! And what is the Law of the Valley?”

“Do the alphabet with your tongue, vary the pressure and speed, and try not to get lost in the bush.”

“Excellent!” the tribal elder says with flashing eyes. “Now begone, for you have attained all human knowledge.”

“But I — ”

“I said begone, for you have attained all human knowledge.”

So Shits-His-Pants leaves the tribal elder’s hut, eyes downward, box in tow. And like if you thought he was disillusioned before, now he’s starting to, ya know, doubt the value and validity of existence and human life as such, which is kinda a bummer for the little dude, lemme tell ya.

Because lemme just remind you that what he saw when he opened his box so disturbed him that he’d waited months just to talk to the tribal elder about it. And now it turns out that, ya know, the whole sum of his concerns lie beyond the bounds of his culture’s secular knowledge and authority.

So Shits-His-Pants figures the only thing to do is to ask the shaman. And he goes to the shaman’s hut, walks in, and says, “Mister shaman sir, I have a question about my box — ”

But the shaman darts out the door with his hands over his ears. Shits-His-Pants tries chasing him, but the shaman’s quick even though he’s old, plus he knows magic and speaks with the ancestors.

And anyway, Shits-His-Pants spends weeks and weeks trying to corner the shaman. Remember now, if anybody in the world can help Shits-His-Pants it’s the shaman, because the shaman knows the contents of all the boxes. But now he runs away as soon as he sees Shits-His-Pants — at mealtimes, during sacred rituals, and out on the street, too.

But by now Shits-His-Pants is getting desperate. He just has to figure out the meaning of what’s in his box, and he can only think of one way to do it — although he doesn’t like it. Because if the shaman runs away from him, he figures he’ll have time to shout one thing at him before he gets out of earshot.

And Shits-His-Pants knows what he has to do, but he’s not sure he can do it. I mean, sure, he’s always wanted to know what what’s in his box means, but can he really do… that?

He hates even thinking about it!

So for almost a week, Shits-His-Pants hesitates. But on the sixth day he decides he’s just gotta know.

And so he goes to the shaman’s hut one last time. Sweaty, shaky, his breath uneven. And just like the first time, the shaman bolts.

But Shits-His-Pants is ready. He shouts: “Why is my box empty, mister shaman sir? Why?”

Which totally breaks the taboo, remember, so no sweet sweet afterlife for Shits-His-Pants, no sir.

But the shaman stops running and comes back to face little Shits-His-Pants. There’s a smile in his eyes as he says, “Ya did it, kid. Good on ya.”

“But what does it mean? Why is my box empty? Why’s everybody else have great stuff in their boxes that means stuff, but mine’s empty?”

“All of the boxes are empty, kiddo.”

The boy’s mouth hung open. “But… but why?”

“Think about it and you’ll figure it out. For now, the point is that you needed to know. Needed to know bad enough that you’d give up infinite fellatio in the afterlife for it. Only one living person in this whole tribe has done that before you.”

“Who’s that, mister shaman, sir?”

The shaman raised a finger and pointed it squarely at his own chest. “Me.”

And that’s how the shaman found his new apprentice: Shits-His-Pants.