A wise old farmer had lived long enough to recognize a bad deal when he saw one, but even wisdom has its limits when necessity steps in. One morning, after years of coaxing life out of stubborn soil and worn machinery, he drove into town to buy a new pickup truck. The local paper had advertised a specific model at a specific price, and the farmer, practical to the bone, expected that price to mean exactly what it said.
At the dealership, he pointed to the truck he wanted. No haggling. No wandering around the lot. Just business. The salesman smiled, nodded, and ushered him inside to complete the paperwork. Pens were uncapped, forms were slid across the desk, and everything seemed routine—until the farmer glanced at the final bill.
He frowned, adjusted his glasses, and looked again. Then he slid the paper back. “This isn’t the price I saw,” he said calmly.
The salesman launched into a polished explanation. Power steering. Power brakes. Power windows. Heavy-duty tires. A package of extras the farmer hadn’t asked for but was apparently receiving anyway. Each feature nudged the price higher. The salesman spoke quickly, confidently, as if the matter were settled before it began.
The farmer listened without interruption. He needed the truck. His old one had given up the ghost months ago, and borrowing neighbors’ vehicles was wearing thin. With a quiet sigh, he signed the papers, paid the inflated price, and drove home in his shiny new pickup, saying little but remembering everything.
Months passed. Crops grew. Seasons shifted. Then one afternoon, the phone rang. It was the same salesman, cheerful and friendly. He explained that his son was in 4-H and needed a cow for a project. Did the farmer have any for sale?
The farmer paused, then answered simply. “Yes. I’ve got a few. Five hundred dollars a head. Come on out and take your pick.”
The salesman arrived with his son, and together they spent hours walking the fields. They examined cows, discussed temperament, health, and size. Finally, they settled on one. Satisfied, the salesman pulled out his checkbook and wrote a check for $500.
The farmer glanced at it, then shook his head. “That’s not the final price,” he said.
The salesman blinked. “What do you mean? You said five hundred.”
“That’s the base price,” the farmer replied. “This cow comes with extras.”
Confused, the salesman asked what extras could possibly apply to a cow. The farmer reached into his pocket and produced a neatly written list.
Basic cow: $500
Two-tone exterior: $45
Extra stomach: $75
Product storage equipment: $60
Straw compartment: $120
Four spigots at $10 each: $40
Leather upholstery: $125
Dual horns: $45
Automatic fly swatter: $38
Fertilizer attachment: $185
Grand total: $1,233.
The salesman stared at the list, then at the cow, then back at the farmer. The lesson landed without a word needing to be spoken. The farmer smiled politely, just the way the salesman had months earlier.
Wisdom, after all, has a long memory.
The second tale begins far from green fields and pickup trucks, in a scorching desert where a modern-day old cowboy had pushed his luck too far. He had wandered for days without water, sun baking his skin, sand filling his mouth. Crawling on hands and knees, convinced his end was near, he spotted something half-buried in the distance.
Summoning the last of his strength, he dragged himself toward it and pulled it free. It was an old briefcase, battered and dusty. With trembling hands, he opened it.
Out popped a genie—but not the kind from fairy tales. She wore a dull gray dress, an Australian Taxation Office badge pinned to her chest. A calculator peeked from her purse, and a pencil was tucked behind her ear. Her expression was tired, unimpressed, and official.
“Well,” she said, “you know how this works. Three wishes.”
The cowboy squinted. “I don’t trust this,” he muttered. “A tax auditor genie? No chance.”
She shrugged. “You’ve got no water, no transport, and about ten minutes left. What do you have to lose?”
He thought about it. She had a point.
With a reluctant nod, he made his first wish. He wanted to be in a lush oasis, surrounded by food and drink. Shazam. Instantly, he was reclining beneath palm trees, surrounded by cool water, wine, and platters of food.
His second wish came quickly. He wanted wealth beyond imagination. Shazam. Treasure chests appeared, overflowing with gold coins and precious gems.
“One wish left,” the genie said. “Make it count.”
The cowboy thought hard. Finally, he said, “I wish that no matter where I go, beautiful women will want and need me.”
Shazam.
He was instantly transformed into a tampon.
The moral was clear and merciless. If the government offers you anything, there’s always a string attached.
Both stories survive because they strike the same nerve. Cleverness without awareness invites consequences. Deals that sound too good deserve scrutiny. And sometimes the punchline arrives long after the paperwork is signed—or the wish is granted.
Laughter, like wisdom, tends to come from experience. And experience, more often than not, comes with a price tag.
