The parable of the fuzzy scroll

There was a man who was blessed by God with a wonderful family; one day the Lord prompted the man and his family to move to a far country, full of elephants and tigers and blazers (although having a school nickname inspired by Chevy doesn't make much sense, personally--but I digress).

As this family pitched its tent by an emerald lake, the man and his wife began to do the things which would allow them to abide in this new land lawfully. One of the most important rules of the new land was the Rule of the Tag. Each wagon in the land must carry the Tag--but not the Tag of their former land, no; even though driving with a Tag from the former land caused other wagon drivers to cut them slack when veering suddenly to get to the right exit and generally elicited a friendly, you-ain't-from-around-here wave from the natives, the family's wagons must now be identified with the new land.

So, it fell to the man to journey into the Land of the Bureaucrats, where the precious Tags are found. He had carefully assembled the parchments and scrolls which would prove him worthy to receive a Tag and allay the instinctive suspicions of the Bureaucrats. In doing so, the man had gotten a copy of the most valuable of scrolls--the parchment kept by his Banker in a land thousands of miles away, the scroll that declared to all that the man would one day own his wagon outright.

With great satisfaction, the man waited to speak to one of the Bureaucrats; when it was his time, he carefully laid out all his scrolls and parchments before the Bureaucrat's squinting eyes. After a long, contemplative silence, the Bureaucrat peered up at the man and declared "This one is fuzzy--begone!"

Yet the man did not move. The scroll his Banker had sent him was a copy of the real scroll, and the journey over the thousands of miles had caused it to blur. Yet the man could read the important parts of the scroll, so he beseeched the Bureaucrat to reconsider. "Your Banker has failed you, and you cannot have the Tag of our land until all your scrolls please my eye. Now, many others wish to make their entreaties of me, so please step aside if you must cry out to your Banker. So let it be written, so let it be done."

As the steam rolled from the man's ears, he raised a loud cry to his Banker; over the long distance, the calm, restful voice of his Banker filled his ear, dissipating the steam. "My friend, we knew you were moving to that new land, and we knew the trials you would face, so we are sending the original scroll to your tent by the emerald lake. Even the most impassive Bureaucrat cannot help but be moved by its beauty and clarity; just be patient, and your wagon will have its Tag."

The man was frustrated that he could not have another copy, until he realized that he would enjoy a few days longer the courtesy extended to those who drive a wagon with a foreign Tag, and then be able to stride boldly before the Bureaucrat after his crisp, original scroll arrived. As he left the Land of the Bureaucrats, the man took each wave from the natives as more precious, and hoped the waves would continue after his new Tag made him blend in more closely with them.

--Mike