A story from The Elephant Talks To God
The elephant was on his side in the river, where he had flopped without much ceremony beside the boulder.
He raised his left front and his left hind leg into the air, and his trunk trailed in the current like an eel. He sloshed water over the exposed parts of his body with an erratic fortissimo.
“So.” The elephant gulped water. “Explain fish to me.”
“I beg your pardon.” The boulder sputtered, for it had been caught in the back spray.
“Fish,” said the elephant. “Marine animals; sub-aquatic creatures; denizens of the deep: puffers, scuppers, suckers, guppies, herring, flounder, anchovies — ”
“An elephant,” interrupted God, “has many attributes. But very low on this mammoth list is the ability to be cute.” The boulder paused significantly. “So get to the point.”
“When you’re ponderous, it’s known as being profound,” pointed out the elephant.
“I’m the Creator, so I get to make the rules,” pointed out God. “So. What is it with the fish?”
“Well – they’re so weird. They look strange, they’re poor conversationalists, they breath in water, and they choke on air.” The elephant finally scrambled to his feet. “And they never stay still. It’s always `moving with the current’, or `moving against the current’. I mean no disrespect, and we’re all God’s creatures, but – they’re real losers.”
“I wonder,” asked the boulder, after a moment’s thought, “if you’ve heard about the group of blind men asked to describe an elephant.”
“No,” said the elephant. “I haven’t.”
“Each man touched a different part.”
As God began, he raised his voice for the benefit of the fish, who were ranged in concentric circles around the oblivious elephant. They were going to enjoy this.