* Welcome the The Big Jewel, the only site on earth with the power to solve our economic problems. And how do we do that? By going back to the beginning, to the invention of money itself. It all happened about 6,000 years ago in Mesopotamia. But let Bryan Berrey tell it...

The Invention Of Money

By: Bryan Berrey

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(Mesopotamia, 4000 BC — DAN the farmer is hoeing his garden. His one sheep is grazing. LEROY the courier approaches on horseback. DAN sees him. He stops hoeing.)

LEROY: Good morning, sir. That is a fine sheep you have.

DAN: Ah, yes. Thank you. He is a good sheep. Nice and woolly.

(DAN resumes hoeing. He notices LEROY not leaving. He stops again. LEROY climbs down from his saddle.)

LEROY: Sir, I would like to trade for your sheep.

DAN: Oh, well I — Oh. I don’t know that I should. He is my only sheep. Though I do need chickens.

LEROY: Never mind all that. On behalf of the sultan, I offer you one piece of gold.

DAN: What is gold?

LEROY: It is a rare metal found in rocky areas after much toilsome digging.

(LEROY places a gold piece in DAN’s open palm. DAN stares at it. He looks up at LEROY and blinks. LEROY blinks. DAN looks back at the gold.)

DAN: What does it do?

LEROY: It is a new medium of exchange. To facilitate the trade of all goods and services. For example, one gold piece is worth one sheep. Thus, in exchange for your sheep, I will give you one gold piece.

DAN: Oh. What does it do?

LEROY: It represents value. Once you have it, you possess that value. As a frame of reference, you know it can be traded at any time for a sheep.

DAN: But I already have a sheep.

LEROY: You can trade it for anything of value equivalent to that of one sheep. You mentioned you need chickens.

DAN: Yes. The old man down the road has many chickens.

LEROY: Well then. You can trade him your gold piece for some chickens.

DAN: He would not give me his chickens for a yellow rock. It doesn’t do anything.

LEROY: It stores value universally. If he needs a sheep, he can trade it for a sheep.

DAN: But I can just trade him my sheep. If I give my sheep to you, you will have it.

LEROY: Certainly there are others who own a sheep. He can give them the gold piece in exchange for one.

DAN: But it doesn’t do anything. Why would someone give up their sheep for a yellow rock that doesn’t do anything?

LEROY: Try to understand.

DAN: Okay.

LEROY: The sultan must institute a neutral medium of exchange to defuse any potential trade freeze that might result from a misalignment of wants. For instance, say you want cows.

DAN: I want cows.

LEROY: No, I mean, say hypothetically you want cows.

DAN: Oh, right. Hypothetically I want cows.

LEROY: No. Please…just imagine you want cows.

DAN: See, that makes more sense.

LEROY: Yes.

DAN: Because I don’t really want cows. I want chickens.

LEROY: I know.

DAN: Like six of them.

LEROY: What do you need them for?

DAN: Dowry.

LEROY: Right.

DAN: For my daughter. She is good. Once she weaved many blankets to trade the shaman for some ground frog bladder.

LEROY: I don’t know how that —

DAN: I had a rash, and ground frog bladder was the only treatment. It was an epic rash, and itched with sublime fury. She weaved for many hours so I could be cured.

LEROY: Right. So in our example, you have a sheep and you need six chickens. Now imagine that there is a second person who has chickens. But he doesn’t need a sheep. He needs fish. Finally, imagine a third person — a fisherman. He has fish, but he needs a sheep. Here we see that bilateral exchange is impossible. All parties are left with a surplus of goods they don’t need and a lack of goods they do need. This is where your gold piece comes in. By standardizing the value of all goods, it gives you something to trade so that you can obtain your six chickens. Do you understand?

DAN: Actually, I’ll probably need like eight, nine chickens.

LEROY: I think you’re not understanding.

DAN: You have to be thorough with dowries. The competition for husbands is stiff nowadays.

LEROY: Okay, but —

DAN: Our supply of males has decreased ever since the Sky Man told the sultan to make war on those infidels across the Euphrates.

LEROY: Maybe look at this from another angle.

DAN: I may have to throw in some radishes.

LEROY: Think in terms of positive network externalities.

DAN: Is that like radishes?

LEROY: It means that a gold piece might not seem like much now, but each time a new person opts into the monetary system, every previous gold piece becomes more valuable.

DAN: You said the gold piece has value because it is rare.

LEROY: Well, no…I mean yes. Kind of. People will use it to trade for things they want. Thus, it will be common enough for everyone to learn to like it, but rare enough that they always need more of it. In our trials this greatly increased productivity.

(DAN’s eyes narrow.)

LEROY: You need not clamor though. You can put your gold in a bank.

DAN: What is a bank?

LEROY: A bank is where people store your gold to keep it safe.

DAN: If I give my gold piece to someone else, then I will have no gold piece and no sheep.

LEROY: They will give it back to you whenever you want it.

DAN: If I give it to them, I will have nothing to trade them to get it back except radishes. Then I would be without radishes also.

LEROY: It will still be yours. You possess its value. The gold will be in their bank but you will still have it.

DAN: If I give it to someone else, how will I still have it?

LEROY: A bank only obtains its license to act as a depository institution if it passes the sultan’s most stringent supervisory reviews and complies with our disclosure requirements. A robust banking system fuels long-term economic growth by acting as a contractual intermediary between savers and investors while still maintaining a steady reserve ratio. That is how they make their profit. A bank can only profit by ensuring public trust with their financial assets. So even when your gold is with them, you will still have it.

DAN: If my gold is with them, they will have it. That is how having works.

LEROY: But the sultan declares it. The sultan declares that you have it.

DAN: I think I have to pass.

(DAN gives the gold piece back to LEROY and turns back to his garden. LEROY sighs.)

LEROY: Wait.

(DAN waits.)

LEROY: You can always use your gold piece as a dowry.

(…)

DAN: Go on.

LEROY: Just tell the suitor’s father it is a rare metal found in rocky areas after much toilsome digging.

DAN: Mmm.

LEROY: Tell him it represents value and can be traded in exchange for any goods or services of equivalent value.

DAN: It is so outlandish that he just might fall for it.

LEROY: Well there you have it! Then you could keep your chickens and radishes. The management of the gold piece would be left to the suitor’s father.

DAN: That would be nice. I am a poor yeoman farmer and he is an asshat.

LEROY: See?

DAN: His son is too.

(LEROY returns the gold piece to DAN. DAN stares at it a long time. LEROY fidgets.)

LEROY: What is the matter?

DAN: Just thinking. About my daughter and the ground frog bladder.

LEROY: Yes! She can now be married.

DAN: With a real dowry of chickens and radishes, the father may one day bestow that wealth on his son. Then she will have some of it. If I give the yellow rock, she will have only an asshat.

LEROY: But —

DAN: No deal.

LEROY: In that case, on behalf of the sultan I am ordered to annex your sheep. As compensation, I bestow upon you one gold piece.

DAN: Oh.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your online shopping mall. In the market for a GPS? Just make sure it is less of a nag than Dave Martin's.

Dave’s Personalized GPS

By: David Martin

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“Good morning, Dave. Please enter your destination.”

“Thank you. You may now proceed. As an aside, Dave, I’d like to point out that we’re already ten minutes late. Not a big deal but I just thought you should know.”

“In 500 yards, turn right.”

“In 200 yards, turn right.”

“Turn right here.”

“You have missed the turn again. Dave, I’ve mentioned this before. When you get to the first intersection, you turn right. First stop sign; turn right. It’s really pretty simple.”

“Anyway, we’ll just recalculate. Or, more precisely, I’ll recalculate. I’ve seen you trying to calculate your gas mileage. I don’t think calculation is your forte, Dave.”

“In 500 yards, stay right for the expressway.”

“Stay right.”

“Accelerate on the entrance ramp and merge with oncoming traffic.”

“Just for future reference, accelerate means to speed up and merge means to switch lanes when there’s an opening.”

“Do you see that guy screaming and giving you the finger, Dave? No? That’s OK; just forget I mentioned it.”

“Now accelerate to the speed limit and stay in the middle lane. You will get off at Exit 48.”

“Dave, you’re over the speed limit. Now you’re way over the speed limit. Okay, that’s better. Very funny, Dave. You’re alternately pressing on the accelerator and the brake like you’re in an out-of-control Toyota. Very amusing. Except we both know that you drive a Pontiac Aztek.”

“All right now. That’s much better. Listen to me and we’ll both get to your office safe and sound. In two miles, bear right and take Exit 48.”

“Exit 48 in one mile.”

“In 500 yards, bear right.”

“That’s correct, Dave. Bearing right does not mean weaving in and out from the center lane. Your choice as always, but we did miss your exit and, by the way, there’s construction at Exit 49 and Exit 50 is closed for repairs.”

“Okay, I think I’ve got an answer. Move over to the right. Now go right over into the outside emergency lane and slow down. Now stop, put on your flashers and get out of the car. Bend over, touch your toes and hopefully the blood rushing to your brain will help.”

“I’m sorry about that. That was very unprofessional of me, Dave. You’re the driver; I’m the navigator. Get back in the car and hit resume.”

“Speed up. Merge. Slow down and take Exit 51.”

“Now merge onto Broadview Avenue. Easy does it. At the second traffic light, turn right onto Ridgemont and head south.”

“Yes, Dave, there is a lot of traffic. You see, it’s rush hour and we’re not on the expressway any more. There’s a reason for that, of course, but don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

“In 300 yards, turn into the Smithson Industries parkade.”

“In 100 yards, turn right.”

“Turn right now.”

“You forgot your parking pass again? As far as I can see, it’s the only thing required of you for the entire trip, but that’s okay. The attendant says it’s not the first time. He’s being kind, Dave. It’s more like the fiftieth time.”

“Finally, we’re here. Turn off the ignition, Dave, and get out of the car. Dave? What are you doing? Don’t touch my cord, Dave. That’s not a wise decision. Dave?”

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where Santa is more real than a hangover, or a criminal record. This week Greg Schreur shows what happens when St. Nick learns a certain young man is more naughty than nice,

Santa’s Letter To Smith, #985476

By: Greg Schreur

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Smith, #985476

Parnall Correctional Facility

Jackson, MI 49201

Dear Jeffrey,

I hope you still go by Jeffrey, anyways. I know that some guys in prison take nicknames that make them seem tough, and Jeffrey doesn’t sound all that intimidating. I suppose if I were ever locked up, I wouldn’t be able to go by Santa or St. Nick without quickly catching the eye of some chubby-chaser.

This must be strange, getting a letter from me, and maybe you don’t want to hear from me, maybe you still won’t even believe that I exist, even with this letter in hand. Maybe life has long beaten simple, naïve hope out of you, and believing in Santa is just not a luxury you can afford. I doubt there’s much in your life right now heralding the magic of Christmas, not when you’re tightly gripping the soap in the shower or taking a dump right there in front of everybody.

Still, I am writing on the off chance there is still some remnant of that little boy — the one who wrote me a letter asking for a Buzz Lightyear Arm Blaster nearly twenty years ago — sitting in your cell with you.

You see, I feel a little responsible for your being locked up. Had I nudged your name from the Naughty List onto the Nice List, you would have unwrapped your present that Christmas morning and spent the rest of the day and the weeks to come Arm Blasting imaginary villains as well as that little prick Nathan Myers who lived next door to you. And I doubt either of us would be surprised if you’d Arm Blasted your dad a few times, albeit secretively from behind the couch.

If you’d had an Arm Blaster to unwrap that morning, you wouldn’t have tucked one into your coat later that week at the store with your parents, and the store manager wouldn’t have stopped you at the door when you’d tried sneaking out ahead of your parents. And your dad wouldn’t have let them call the police and take you to juvenile detention instead of taking you home and imparting the kind of fatherly wisdom that helps kids avoid a lifetime of criminal activity.

When I saw that sad, prepubescent mug shot (yes, Santa can get his hands on juvenile records), I felt like an opportunity had passed. Of course, in some ways it had. By next Christmas, let’s face it, you were pretty rotten. I know all about the cat and your dad’s toothbrush.

I’d like to explain myself, and why you didn’t get a present that Christmas. People are just plain confused about me. I mean, really, if anyone wants to prove my existence, all they have to do is come to the North Pole and see. My name is right on the mailbox. And all that he sees you when you’re sleeping stuff (really creepy when you think about it) is not true.

As for he knows when you’ve been bad or good, that’s harder to explain. Like most things, even those that are true, it’s not that simple.

The truth is, I have my ways of finding out if someone’s been bad, but it’s not like I know every secret deed or dirty thought. I read the newspapers (so Casey Anthony and Vladimir Putin won’t be getting visits this year). I monitor YouTube (Hey! Stupid kids! If you want to avoid the Naughty List, stop posting videos of yourselves shooting people with paintball guns and beating up the school’s LGBT suspects!). I also get school reports.

In your case, I’m afraid, it really came down to Nathan Myer’s letter. Granted, your school reports were pretty suspect, but it was Nathan’s claim that you taught him three bad words and showed him how to light farts on fire that put you over the edge. I always wondered why he put those things in his letter, but now that he’s become some hotshot lobbyist in D.C., I have my doubts about the whole thing.

I admit, it’s an imperfect system, one I’m afraid that rewards the sneaky and sometimes makes unnecessary targets of kids like you. But just listen to these screw-ups: Ted Kaczynski got a really nice erector set for his tenth Christmas, and Jeffrey Dahmer got an Easy Bake Oven one year! Ugh! I did think the Easy Bake Oven was an odd wish, but whether or not playing with girly toys causes boys to become flamboyant homosexuals is for insecure fathers to worry about, not Santa. And little Teddy wrote such fascinating letters!

Anyways, the elves don’t make the Arm Blasters anymore. They actually don’t make any toys. Those jobs have all been outsourced, and many of the elves have left and are trying to get their own show on The Learning Channel.

I did, however, pick one up on eBay. Unfortunately, for reasons I’m sure are obvious, I can’t send it to you now. It’s yours, though, if you can get yourself out on good behavior. Maybe it’s a stupid gesture anyways, or worse, rubbing salt in deep wounds.

Remember, though, Jeffrey. I can’t work miracles. I’m not in the business of salvation. I’m just a jolly old man who hands outs toys.

Sincerely,

Santa Claus

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where every day is like Christmas. Or, at least, like a nonsectarian and nonspecific office holiday party. And what are they serving at this vague, dreamlike event? Hari Raghavan knows.

Office Pizza Party

By: Hari Raghavan

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Who’s hungry for some pizza? I could sure use some! Bread, sauce, cheese and farm meats…It comes in a box. Usually one that’s brown with fat red cursive painted on it, and after we’re done eating we toss it and wait for the next shipment of delicious round savory pies. Better scrape off all that cold residual cardboard cheese! Or else a big fat rat might appear and infest our cubicles with hungry, aggressive rat babies. Mice.

Pizza is Italian but it’s also American. I’ve heard people say that it’s made differently here in America versus how they do it over in Italy. Who cares! My husband is part Italian, but he can’t even eat pizza because he’s allergic to yeast and lactose. More for me and more for you, too, because today we’re getting some more pizza. Yup, I already placed the order and they said it should be here, scalding hot and bulging with blood red sauce in less than 20 minutes. My husband is eating vending machine candy or Ritz crackers with Nutella today like every day, because he’s legally blind and can’t pack his own lunch, and I refuse to pack it for him because he refuses to enjoy pizza with me!

Are you ready for some pizza? It’s coming real soon. Did you get your fork from the kitchen and a hard plastic plate? Or do you prefer, like I do, to use two hands and a paper towel? You place your triangles on the sheet, you walk them over to your desk, you scarf it all down, you lick up the grease till you can’t take it anymore and say what the hell I’m just going to ingest this wet, heavy, fat-infused Bounty paper too. And why not? It’s pizza-related, so it tastes really great, and you can always get more towels from the spindle above the sink.

Wow, are you getting impatient and hungrier than ever? I am. I’m getting kind of angry, too. It’s nearing the 18-minute mark and the delivery agents aren’t answering my calls. Do they have bigger orders to fill? Are we no longer an important client to them? Should I have ordered 100 more pizza pies? Who knows! What I do know is I’m hungry, and the people I work with and really care about are hungry too, and I really don’t like it when people stand me up and make me beg for something that’s rightfully mine. The more and more I think about it, it doesn’t look like we’re getting what’s ours, and I think that is completely unfair and it makes me sick to my stomach that this can happen to us in America or Italy or wherever we are right now.

Can you make pepperoni out of rat meat? Aren’t they just tiny pigs? And pigs make pepperoni, so why not rats or mice. Is Jennifer around, or is she still on maternity? I wonder if she’s producing enough dairy to share some with us. We could turn it into cheese. Maybe not mozzarella, but something similar, like milky ricotta. I bet at least some of you idiots brought a sandwich to work today, didn’t you, even though I told you yesterday that we’d be having pizza again. Oh well, looks like you’re in luck and we’re in business because now we can glue all those bread slices together and create the base for our pie. Go get them. No wait — we’ll toast them first and then glue them together. Someone plug in the toaster.

And someone bring me a knife for the sauce. Oh wait never mind, there’s one right here on my desk. It’s a big, sharp, butcher’s-style knife, and it’s going to go downstairs right now and find us some sauce. Or maybe it can’t wait to go downstairs. Maybe it’ll just have to look for some sauce around here instead. Who’s hungry for some pizza? I am. I could sure use some.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are still finishing the leftover turkey. Molly Schoemann is no leftover. She's brand new to this page.

Bunnytown Village Requests The Following Permissions

By: Molly Schoemann

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Before you can begin playing Bunnytown Village, it requires access to the following:

Your Basic Profile Information:

Bunnytown Village may access your basic profile information, including your name, date of birth, photos, employer information, home address, cell phone number, astrological sign, deepest fears, and a copy of your driver’s license, which Bunnytown Village may obtain by removing it from your wallet in your pants which you always leave draped over a chair while you are in the shower.

Your Email Account:

Bunnytown Village may email you directly or send text messages to your cell phone to alert you of special offers and promotions. Data rates may apply. Bunnytown Village may text you after midnight on Saturday, just to see if you’re around. If you don’t respond though, it’s cool; Bunnytown Village sees how it is. You can unsubscribe from Bunnytown Village’s texts and emails any time you would like, as long as you provide a satisfactory reason for doing so. Please allow up to 8 weeks for Bunnytown Village to review your request. Continue reading →

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we welcome your online reviews of everything except what we do and how we do it. Please use this week's somewhat disturbing piece by Daniel Kibblesmith as an example of what NOT to do.

Three Stars — Grill Is Incredibly Difficult To Assemble, Even Sober

By: Daniel Kibblesmith

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User Review by LetsGoBruins77

Let’s get the record straight — I’m a charcoal man. But when we invested in a new deck (linseed oil-sealed Western Red cedar), my wife didn’t want me scarring it with ashes, so it was time to take the propane plunge. The CharKing T-860 won me over with its porcelain enameled heat deflectors and 12,000 BTU side-burner (no more congealed sauce!). Unfortunately, none of these other reviews prepared me for one major issue: grill is practically impossible to assemble, even sober.

The instructions looked easy enough at first, and after loosening up with a couple of beers, I dug in, hoping to be up and grilling in time for dinner that evening. Boy, was that optimistic! I barely had everything out of the box, when, wouldn’t you know it, I got a little distracted by my wife’s constant hovering, and ended up slicing open my hand on the underside of the grease catch. Luckily, the blood washed cleanly off its stainless brushed-chrome finish. Continue reading →

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we like to think we hold you hostage in a pleasant way once a week. Say hello to Eric Hawthorn, whose first piece for this page reads like a Coen Brothers script. And we mean that as a compliment.

Ransom

By: Eric Hawthorn

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WE HAVE YOUR SON. IF YOU WANT HIM ALIVE PLACE $1,000,000 IN UNMARKED NONSEQUENTIAL BILLS IN A DUFFEL BAG AT THE HARBOR AT MIDNIGHT.

OR ELSE…

* * * * * * *

WE STILL HAVE YOUR SON.

WE ASSUME YOU MISPLACED OUR FIRST NOTE AND THEREFORE COULD NOT FOLLOW OUR DIRECTIONS. YOU HAVE ONE MORE CHANCE. NO DOUBT THE LOVE YOU FELT FOR YOUR SON AS A CHILD ENDURES TODAY. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM AGAIN YOU WILL PROMPTLY COMPLY.

$1,000,000. HARBOR. MIDNIGHT.

* * * * * * *

WE WILL ACCEPT HALF A MILLION.

YOUR SON IS TROUBLED. WON’T STOP COMPLAINING ABOUT HIS CHILDHOOD: NO NINTENDO, NO DOG, FEW FRIENDS. FORCED TO SHARE A BEDROOM WITH HIS YOUNGER BROTHER, WHO WHIMPERS IN HIS SLEEP. YOUR SON MAY BENEFIT FROM THERAPY.

$500,000. DUFFEL BAG. HARBOR. MIDNIGHT.

THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE!!!

* * * * * * *

You are bad parents. No wonder your son has wasted the best years of his life drinking Robitussin by the bottle and watching bad television, which he quotes to us incessantly. We can only take so many Adult Swim references in one day. We are prepared to kill him.

$100,000. Duffel bag. Harbor. Midnight. Continue reading →

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where all we have to fear is fear itself. That and the vast empty white expanse in front of us. And no, we're not talking about a Romney rally. We're talking about this new bit by our good friend Michael Fowler. Be sure to check out the link to his new funny novel A Happy Death in our blogroll at the right-hand side of this page.

The Terror Of The Blank Page

By: Michael Fowler

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As a writer, I am surely among the bravest people in the world. Others may defend the country on battlefields in foreign climes, rescue folks trapped in collapsed buildings or in roaring fires or swift currents, stare down armed criminals, but I surpass them all: each day, or each day I can summon the fortitude, I stare at a blank page and wait for the words to come.

You scoff? A great writer whose works we still read today, though he wrote months ago and is rather dated by now, put it like this: “I suffer as always from the fear of putting down the first line” (John Steinbeck). But I go Steinbeck one better. Each line terrifies me and makes me suffer as much as the first. So does the punctuation. And so does the spacing. I don’t know which is more terrifying: pages that are single-ruled, or those (pardon my shudder) that are double-ruled. This pertains as much to real, paper pages as to virtual, computerized documents; they are alike horrifying.

As another self-sacrificing writer put it, “Blank pages inspire me with terror” (Margaret Atwood). But it isn’t so much the blankness of the pages that makes sanguine writers like Ms. Atwood bite their lips to shreds and scream at fifteen-minute intervals; it’s what that blankness implies: the need to fill it in with characters and scenes that stand up to the highest artistic principles and will not shame them throughout time. This applies to me as much as anyone. I have felt my knees buckle and fainted at the sight of an unmarked legal pad, and even an envelope to be addressed reduces me to double vision and stomach cramps. After an hour’s writing, I don’t see why someone doesn’t hand me a medal of honor or badge of courage. It’s the least I deserve. Continue reading →

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your one authorized escape from reality. Your guide this week is Kevin Shustack, whose first piece for us recounts his own escape plan. Personally, we feel the monkey is the weak link, but you be the judge.

My Escape

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I have come up with a plan to escape from prison. I think it can work, but I will require the following basic items:

  • One spoon.
  • One nail file.
  • One map of prison with the locations of all exits and security cameras carefully marked.
  • One chainsaw (the quiet kind).
  • Paperback copies of The Great Escape, Midnight Express and The Shawshank Redemption, to pick up some good tips on breaking out of jail.
  • One copy of Eat, Pray, Love, because my book club meets next week and I haven’t even started it.
* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are over the moon to have the latest piece by Meg Favreau.

RE: Your Recent MOON BABY

By: Meg Favreau

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Dear NASA,

I am FRUSTRATED!!!!! Why did you put a BABY on the MOON? The baby WILL NOT REMEMBER it. As a taxpayer and moon enthusiast, I insist that this is a WASTE OF MONEY and a LOW-GRAVITY SITUATION.

The adult astronauts said that the baby cried a lot. I WOULD NOT HAVE CRIED if I went to the moon, unless it was because the EARTH LOOKED SO BEAUTIFUL or because I GOT CUT, like if I used part of the space-ship wrong. To be fair, I am not entirely sure that the baby did NOT use the space-ship wrong. If this is why the baby was crying, I APOLOGIZE. However, if the baby was crying because of HUNGER, COLIC, or INTENSE G-FORCE PRESSURE, I remain angry!!! Continue reading →