I speak in parables:

There was a man who built for himself a large, fine house. It sat upon a high hilltop overlooking the town. How handsome and splendid the house appeared, way up on that hill, shining in the sun and casting its long shadow over the rooftops below!

Little did the village folk know, that this man had acquired half the foundation stones, 3/4 of the structural timber, most of the roof tiles, most of the sheetrock, and a whole lot of other material, by a Series of Fraudulent Transactions.

Some of the house was rightfully his, perhaps, but most of it wasn't.

One day, a team of unmerciful investigators uncovered evidence of the man's shady dealings. So they filed all the legal papers and went through all the necessary routines.

Then one cold and windy day, some sheriff's deputies arrived, along with the Reposession Crew -- who quickly got busy with their picks and shovels and crowbars. By the time they finished their work, the house was a curious kind of shambles and nothing great to gaze upon. The reposessed material was loaded onto trucks, and down the road it went!

In similar fashion, the man lost most of his acres -- which, like the building material, he'd gotten by a swindle.

I don't recall if the man did jail time or not, or if he copped a plea bargain, or settled things out of court, or what-have-you. That part of the story isn't clear. At any rate, I do know that the man was able to rebuild on a smaller scale with the remaining material..

But his new house....alas! It was but a mean cottage, almost a hovel -- a paltry affair indeed!

And it sat, as the original house in its glory had sat, high upon the hilltop overlooking all the town.

But now, the man's reputation was as paltry as his house. He had the name of being a shifty, crooked fellow, and respectable people shunned him. And nobody would extend him credit any more -- neither money credit, nor the kind of credit that is given to words.

And he lived out his shabby life in his shabby cottage on the high hill in view of all the town. And the village folk, in their sly, folksy, crafty way gave the man a crafty nickname behind his back.

And occasionally, when strangers were visiting the town, the people would point toward the hill and say:

"Up yonder lives THE FEMINIST."



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