Generalization X

Civilization was progressing nicely until somebody (not named Mark Twain, by the way, notwithstanding the common misattribution) announced, “All generalizations are false.”

This was a mistake.

Not merely because it launched several thousand undergraduate philosophy papers, although history will judge that harshly, but because the statement immediately turned on itself like a Roomba encountering a mirror or a Trump encountering a fact.

If all generalizations are false, then that statement is false.

Which means at least one generalization is true.

Which means the original statement is not completely false.

Which means it is partially true.

Which means it is partially false.

Which means it has entered a state of quantum philosophy in which the sentence is simultaneously correct and incorrect until observed by someone wearing tweed. Or smoking weed. Or smoking weed while wearing tweed. Indeed.

Scientists have attempted to study this phenomenon. Their experiments were promising until they accidentally placed the sentence inside a vacuum chamber, where, setting an unsavoury example for the feral AI platforms of the future, it escaped by becoming a footnote.

While Dief was distracted by plans to ditch the unimaginably dull Canadian Red Ensign, Lester B. briefly established a Department of Generalizations to regulate the situation. Unfortunately, the agency immediately issued the rule, “No generalizations are permitted.”

The regulation applied to itself.

The department disappeared before lunch, much to the dismay of Judy LaMarsh, a thoroughly famished trailblazer.

This left enforcement to philosophers, who are uniquely qualified because they can spend three hours defining the word “is” without requiring food or direct sunlight. A committee was formed. The committee concluded that before determining whether all generalizations are false, they first needed a universally acceptable definition of “all.”

Then they broke for biscuits and fruit cake in the Common rooms, employing an honesty-box system for ongoing hot drink supplies as Judy LaMarsh looked on enviously.

The committee has now entered its 18th year.

Meanwhile, ordinary citizens continue making dangerous statements.

“All dogs are friendly.”

Within minutes a yappy Chihuahua with bad teeth appears. It weighs six pounds, contains approximately 14 pounds of unresolved rage and has somehow learned your home address.

“Everybody loves babies.”

Immediately there emerges one exhausted airline passenger seated next to Seat 14B, where an infant has just demonstrated that the human respiratory system can apparently be powered entirely by outrage.

“Nothing is impossible.”

This is usually said by motivational speakers, who have never yet been able to demonstrate the veracity of the claim by lassoing the moon.

The sentence “All generalizations are false” is especially hazardous because it attracts logicians.

Logicians can detect a contradiction from distances exceeding several astronomical units. Their ears actually perk up, especially after a hot drink or two in the Common rooms.

Some researchers believe this is an evolutionary adaptation.

Imagine prehistoric times.

A cave philosopher (Og) says, “Every mammoth is dangerous.”

Another philosopher (Carl) replies, “Actually, the one over there appears to be dead.”

While they debate the implications, the mammoth proves both positions correct by detonating under the hot sun like an overripe tomato. Neither Og nor Carl shows up on your ancestral tree.

The point is, this is known as peer review.

Mathematicians approached the paradox by replacing every ordinary English word with Greek letters.

This solved the problem because nobody else could understand what they were talking about.

Lawyers proposed adding exceptions.

“All generalizations are false, except those deemed provisionally accurate under applicable statutes, regulations, customary practice, acts of God, unusually persuasive parrots or Tuesday.”

The bill passed unanimously because nobody reached the end.

Children remain unfazed.

If you tell a child, “You always leave your socks on the floor,” the child instantly replies, “Not always.”

The child then points to one sock that is technically on the staircase.

The Supreme Court has not yet ruled on whether a staircase is a floor.

Cats are indifferent to the entire discussion.

This is because every philosophical paradox eventually reaches the same conclusion from the cat’s perspective: Someone should be opening tuna. Now.

Artificial intelligence has not escaped the problem either.

If asked whether all generalizations are false, an AI must first consider the nature of language, logic, truth, semantics, epistemology, self-reference and whether the user would prefer a numbered or a bulleted summary.

The toaster, meanwhile, has somehow burned only one side of the bread.

This is a separate paradox.

Nobody knows why.

Eventually, the universe itself grew tired of the argument.

One evening it gathered together Logic, Language, Mathematics, Three Ducks, a forklift operator named Dennis and what appeared to be an emotionally conflicted zucchini.

After lengthy deliberation, they unanimously adopted a replacement maxim:

“Most sweeping statements are useful until somebody in the back raises a finger.”

This worked beautifully for almost six minutes.

Then Dennis asked whether that was a sweeping statement.

The ducks voted yes.

The zucchini abstained.

Reality sighed, packed its bags and left through a side door that physicists had previously believed was load-bearing.

Ever since then, we have lived in a universe held together primarily by duct tape, probability and people’s willingness to nod thoughtfully whenever someone says, “Well, generally speaking …”

Which, as everyone knows, is almost always true.

Except when it isn’t.

Especially on Tuesdays.

The ducks insist on Tuesdays.

Generally speaking.

Except on alternate holiday Mondays.