Once there was a table, and on the surface of the table there was a ball. For a long time they both just sat there, but one day the ball—who had been taking some philosophy classes at the local community college—spoke to the table.
“I don’t know why you think you’re so important,” said the ball, somewhat belligerently.
“Excuse me?” said the table.
“Throughout the course of my whole life I have picked up this idea that you think you support me.”
“But,” said the table, reasonably enough, “I do.”
“Ha!” said the ball. “That’s just what my instructor said you would say.”
“Certainly, that would be a reasonable guess—since it is true.”
At this the ball beamed (which was quite a sight I can tell you), and acted as though the table had walked into a trap. He mustered up his first proof, and said, “Watch this.” And he rolled six inches.
“Did you see that?” he said.
“I felt it,” said the table.
“What this illustrates,” said the ball, “is the scientific fact that less than one percent of my surface area comes in contact with you at any given moment. I am almost entirely autonomous. And I should be treated with the respect I deserve.”
“You have confused two things which ought never to be confused,” said the table.
“What’s that?” said the ball.
“You have confused a proof with a story. You have told a story, and certain selective facts that fit with that story. And the story makes sense to you for no other reason than that you want to believe it. And you want to believe it because you want to spend time rolling around in the grimy part of town.”
“That’s a . . .” At this the ball looked at his notes. “That’s an ad hominem argument. My instructor said that you would do that too.”
But the table was undeterred. “And as far as your proof of autonomy is concerned, I just have this question.”
“Ask away,” said the ball.
“As long as less than one percent of your surface area is on my surface, how much of you is not on the floor?”
“All of me,” said the ball.
“Ah,” said the table.