Love Is a Fallacy
Take, for example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the university. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Not, however, to Petey.
"Raccoon," he mumbled thickly.
"Raccoon?" "I want a raccoon coat," he wailed.
"Why do you want a raccoon coat?"
"Can you mean," I said incredulously, "that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?"
"All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. "I've got to have a raccoon coat," he said passionately. "Petey, why? Raccoon coats are unsanitary. "I'd give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!"
It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.
I had long coveted Polly Espy. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.
The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.
It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.
"Petey," I said, "are you in love with Polly Espy?"
"I think she's a keen kid," he replied, "but I don't know if you'd call it love. Why?"
Is that right?"
"I guess so. "Where are you going?" asked Petey.
"Home for the weekend." "Listen," he said, clutching my arm eagerly, "while you're home, you couldn't get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?"
"Holy
"Your girl," I said, mincing no words.
"Polly?" he asked in a horrified whisper. "You want Polly?"
"That's right."
He flung the coat from him. "Never," he said stoutly.
Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. "What's Polly to me, or me to Polly?"
"Try on the coat," said I.
I asked, extending my hand.
"It's a deal," he said and shook my hand.
I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This girl's lack of information was terrifying. "Oo, terrif," she replied. "Logic."
"Logic," I said, clearing my throat, "is the science of thinking. "Wow-dow!" she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.
"First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter."
"Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise."
"I agree," said Polly earnestly. "I mean exercise is wonderful. "Polly," I said gently, "the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. "Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can't speak French. I can't speak French. Petey Bellows can't speak French. "Really?" said Polly, amazed. "Nobody?"
"Polly, it's a fallacy. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not persistant. "A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. "Polly," I said sharply, "it's a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn't cause the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker."
"No, Polly, I'm not mad."
"All right. Let's try Contradictory Premises."
"Yes, let's," she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.
If there is an irresitible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. I consulted my watch. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.
Seated under the oak the next evening I said, "Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam."
"A man applies for a job. A tear rolled down each of Polly's pink cheeks. The man never answered the boss's question about his qualifications. Do you understand?"
"Polly," I said testily, "the argument is all wrong. "I still think it's a good idea," said Polly.
"Nuts," I muttered. "Sounds yummy," was Polly's reaction.
"True, true," said Polly, nodding her head. "If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment," I said coldly, "I would like to point out that the statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. "The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well."
"Two men are having a debate. Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?"
"Right!" I cried exultantly. "One hundred percent right. Polly, I'm proud of you."
Come now, let's review everything we have learned."
Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. "Polly," I said when we next sat beneath our oak, "tonight we will not discuss fallacies."
"Aw, gee," she said, disappointed.
"Hasty Generalization," said Polly brightly.
"Hasty Generalization," she repeated. The dear child had learned her lessons well. "My dear," I said, patting her head in a tolerant manner, "five dates is plenty. "False Analogy," said Polly promptly. I'm a girl."
The dear child had learned her lesson perhaps too well. "Polly, I love you. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk."
"Ad Misericordiam," said Polly.
"Well, Polly," I said, forcing a smile, "you certainly have learned your fallacies."
If I hadn't come along you would never have learned about fallacies."
"You can't go with him, Polly. "Poisoning the Well," said Polly, "and stop shouting. "All right," I said. How could you choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?"
"I certainly can," declared Polly. "He's got a racoon coat."
