LJ Idol: Week 7: No True Scotsman
Jamie Peterson woke up in Salem, Massachusetts, year 1692. Of course, she didn't know this at the time. She spent the first five minutes of her newly imposed conundrum rubbing her head and regretting the second bottle of cherry vodka she'd opened the night before. (Though she still couldn't help deeming it necessary in order to make it through the most socially awkward house party she'd ever held. Never again would she make the mistake of inviting both her Women's Studies friends and her floor hockey team to the same event. Never again.)
Finally, by will power alone, she propped herself up into what might pass as a standing position. Though we should probably give the old wooden barrel credit where it's due; it helped as well. Leaning against the side of the aforementioned barrel, Jamie investigated her surroundings.
The women were all wearing white bonnets over their pinned back hair. Keeping their noses pointed obstinately towards the dusty ground, they hobbled about their business with a collective disposition of practicality. Of course, this wasn't an attitude that Jamie had ever identified with. For her, it was beyond even being able to properly appreciate. The only thought that Jamie had towards these women was pity. Pity for their having to wear such ugly bonnets and for their oppressed lives and for their sensible, heavy lidded faces. “Damn it all to hell,” she muttered. “My friends must have dropped me at a heritage park of some sort.” She gazed around. No, these people looked too serious about their work. An Amish community, then.
“Excuse me,” a dawdling voice came from behind her. “I couldn't help noticing you there, hunched over and murmuring to yourself. Do you happen to be a witch?”
Jamie started. “A witch? No. Do I look like a witch to you?”
Her observer took a long look at her. Jamie took a long look at her observer. Hair pinned back under a ruddy white cap, dark lashes and a cracked and weathered face. This woman was the very picture of the humdrum. She gazed up into Jamie's eyes. “Yes, you do look very much like a witch. I've never seen shoes like those before,” the woman pointed to the Nike sneakers on her accused's feet. “Not to mention, you're running around half naked. And is that a demonic symbol on your arm?”
Jamie grimaced. The Chinese character for luck on her forearm had seemed like a good idea at the time. However, she'd hardly consider a tank top and jeans as being 'half naked' as the woman defined it.
“So what if it is,” she mustered, still leaning on the barrel and willing herself not to throw up cherry vodka.
“Spoken like a true witch,” the stranger nodded. “Only a true witch would answer a question with a question. You're using Satan's powers of deceit to try to divert me. I know what you're on about. I bet that is a demonic symbol.”
“You have no idea what anything is on about,” Jamie gawked. “Living up here in isolation in your little Amish wasteland and praying to God for something exciting to happen just once in your lifetime. How are you in any position to judge?”
The supposed-Amish woman blinked twice, trying to think of an appropriate response. When nothing came to her, she belted out, “Wiii-iitch!” and pointed a finger at Jamie's tired and bedraggled self. “Witch!”
The townspeople stopped in their tracks. A few imposing looking carpenter-types started coming towards her. Or perhaps they were blacksmiths. They were burly, at any rate. And they all had very impressive, potent looking beards. They were not well tended, those beards.
She clung to her barrel for dear life and suddenly wished she was a witch. She'd teleport somewhere far, far away from.. well, wherever she was.
No true witch would ever need to wish for her witchy powers. She wondered if this would make for a good argument in her defense.
Definition for the No True Scotsman fallacy.
Finally, by will power alone, she propped herself up into what might pass as a standing position. Though we should probably give the old wooden barrel credit where it's due; it helped as well. Leaning against the side of the aforementioned barrel, Jamie investigated her surroundings.
The women were all wearing white bonnets over their pinned back hair. Keeping their noses pointed obstinately towards the dusty ground, they hobbled about their business with a collective disposition of practicality. Of course, this wasn't an attitude that Jamie had ever identified with. For her, it was beyond even being able to properly appreciate. The only thought that Jamie had towards these women was pity. Pity for their having to wear such ugly bonnets and for their oppressed lives and for their sensible, heavy lidded faces. “Damn it all to hell,” she muttered. “My friends must have dropped me at a heritage park of some sort.” She gazed around. No, these people looked too serious about their work. An Amish community, then.
“Excuse me,” a dawdling voice came from behind her. “I couldn't help noticing you there, hunched over and murmuring to yourself. Do you happen to be a witch?”
Jamie started. “A witch? No. Do I look like a witch to you?”
Her observer took a long look at her. Jamie took a long look at her observer. Hair pinned back under a ruddy white cap, dark lashes and a cracked and weathered face. This woman was the very picture of the humdrum. She gazed up into Jamie's eyes. “Yes, you do look very much like a witch. I've never seen shoes like those before,” the woman pointed to the Nike sneakers on her accused's feet. “Not to mention, you're running around half naked. And is that a demonic symbol on your arm?”
Jamie grimaced. The Chinese character for luck on her forearm had seemed like a good idea at the time. However, she'd hardly consider a tank top and jeans as being 'half naked' as the woman defined it.
“So what if it is,” she mustered, still leaning on the barrel and willing herself not to throw up cherry vodka.
“Spoken like a true witch,” the stranger nodded. “Only a true witch would answer a question with a question. You're using Satan's powers of deceit to try to divert me. I know what you're on about. I bet that is a demonic symbol.”
“You have no idea what anything is on about,” Jamie gawked. “Living up here in isolation in your little Amish wasteland and praying to God for something exciting to happen just once in your lifetime. How are you in any position to judge?”
The supposed-Amish woman blinked twice, trying to think of an appropriate response. When nothing came to her, she belted out, “Wiii-iitch!” and pointed a finger at Jamie's tired and bedraggled self. “Witch!”
The townspeople stopped in their tracks. A few imposing looking carpenter-types started coming towards her. Or perhaps they were blacksmiths. They were burly, at any rate. And they all had very impressive, potent looking beards. They were not well tended, those beards.
She clung to her barrel for dear life and suddenly wished she was a witch. She'd teleport somewhere far, far away from.. well, wherever she was.
No true witch would ever need to wish for her witchy powers. She wondered if this would make for a good argument in her defense.
Definition for the No True Scotsman fallacy.