Claude and Fraud sat at a table. The table was high, the top nearly at chest level, and the chairs on which they sat were actually wooden stools, the kind you would typically see in a bar. But if you were looking for a bar and wanted to order a drink, you would not have been satisfied with the place where Claude and Fraud were sitting, because this was not a bar but rather a coffee shop called The Nervous Dog. Unless the drink you wanted to order was coffee or tea, because those were the types of drinks they served at The Nervous Dog, because it was a coffee shop. And not a bar.
Claude raised a coffee cup to his lips, and drank. He was not wearing his beige jacket with the hood that didn’t fit his head properly, because he was inside The Nervous Dog. Fraud was sitting next to Claude, reading (Fraud was, not Claude) his (Fraud’s, not Claude’s) newspaper.
Claude turned to Fraud, and asked, “Is the news any different than what you read in our apartment?” Earlier that evening, Fraud had been reading his newspaper (which technically belonged to Claude since he, Claude, paid for the subscription, but he, Claude, let him, Fraud, read it whenever he, Fraud, liked) while sitting in his green corduroy recliner with matching ottoman.
Fraud turned to Claude. “This is a different newspaper,” Fraud said.
“But the events described in this newspaper — aren’t they the same as the events in the newspaper you read earlier?”
“Yes,” replied Fraud.
“So why are you reading this newspaper?” asked Claude. “If the information is the same, why do you bother reading this newspaper?”
“The stories are written by different people,” replied Fraud. “And different people use different words to describe the same thing.” Fraud pointed to the baseball cap on his head. “What color is my hat?”
“Blue,” said Claude.
A short woman walked up to the table where Claude and Fraud were sitting. She was wearing a green apron, and she worked at The Nervous Dog, despite the fact that she was not a canine and did not appear anxious. “Can I get you guys anything?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” replied Fraud, pointing to his hat. “You can tell me what color my hat is.”
The woman who wasn’t a nervous dog looked at the hat, and replied, “Denim.” Fraud turned to Claude and grinned triumphantly.