The United Nations General Assembly Hall was a cathedral of diplomacy, a monument to international cooperation, a place where world leaders gathered to discuss matters of grave global importance. Today, it was hosting Catherine Zeta-Jones giving a PowerPoint presentation about erectile dysfunction.
The delegates sat in their assigned seats, wearing headphones through which translators furiously whispered in six official languages. Unfortunately, none of the translators had been briefed on the subject matter. None of them spoke Welsh. And none of them—as would soon become abundantly clear—had any idea what was happening.
In the front row, Lady Gaga sat resplendent in a dress constructed entirely from what appeared to be repurposed United Nations flags, stitched together with golden thread and adorned with a live sulphur-crested cockatoo named Trevor II who had developed a persistent cough. Beside her, Rihanna wore a sleek black pantsuit and held a plate of muffins—tiramisu-flavoured this time, “for diplomatic immunity.” And beside Rihanna sat Barry the plumber, wearing his one suit, clutching his hands together, and wondering if it was too late to flee the country.
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“You’ll be fine,” Cath had told him backstage. “You’re the star of the show. The living proof.”
“I’m the living proof of what?” Barry had asked.
“That men can be fixed!”
“I’m not fixed. I’m just… thinner. And confused.”
But there was no time for further discussion. Cath was now at the podium, clicking through her PowerPoint with the confidence of a woman who had absolutely no idea what she was doing.
“Distinguished delegates,” she began, her voice echoing through the hall, “I stand before you today to discuss a crisis that affects millions of men worldwide. A crisis that is shrouded in shame, in silence, in… in…” She squinted at her notes. “In mystery. I’m talking, of course, about downstairs problems.”
The delegates stared at her blankly. In their headphones, translators scrambled.
“Problems… below… the stairs?” whispered the French translator.
“She is speaking of architecture?” hissed the Spanish translator.
“I believe she refers to a basement,” offered the Russian translator.
Cath clicked to the next slide. It showed a crudely drawn diagram of what appeared to be a pipe, rendered in bright crayon colours, with arrows pointing in various directions. A childlike sun smiled in the corner. The words “THE FUNNEL” were written in wobbly letters.
“As you can see,” Cath announced, “this is a funnel. Not to be confused with fun, which it is not. Whoever put the word ‘fun’ in ‘funnel’ is literally worse than the devil and Lucille Ball put together. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again.”
The delegates leaned forward, squinting at the diagram. The Japanese translator, who had been having a particularly bad day, simply wrote: “She is discussing a kitchen implement.”
“Now,” Cath continued, clicking to the next slide, which showed a stick figure with an arrow pointing to its groin area and the word “PROSTRATE” written in red crayon, “the prostrate is a crucial part of the male anatomy. It is located… somewhere. I’m not a doctor. But I am a celebrity, and I have access to doctors. So that’s basically the same thing.”
Barry buried his face in his hands. Rihanna patted his shoulder sympathetically and offered him a muffin. He took it and held it to the light, examining its perfect dome. It helped. A little.
“The prostrate,” Cath continued, “can become… inverted. This is a serious condition. I don’t know what it means, but Barry had it, and now he doesn’t, because of the trapeze.”
She clicked to the next slide. It showed a drawing of a trapeze, rendered in purple crayon, with a stick figure hanging upside down from it. The stick figure had a smiley face. The trapeze had a smiley face. Even the sun in the corner had a smiley face. It was, objectively, the worst PowerPoint slide ever presented at the United Nations.
“The trapeze,” Cath said, her voice swelling with pride, “is the key to unlocking your inner funnel. Barry lost twenty pounds in one day using this method. Even though his prostrate was inverted. That’s the title of my presentation, by the way. ‘How Barry Lost Twenty Pounds in a Day Even Though His Prostrate Was Inverted.’ It’s a working title.”
The delegates applauded politely. They had no idea what they were applauding. The German translator, who had given up entirely, simply wrote: “She is very enthusiastic about something.”
Gaga rose from her seat, her UN flag dress rustling like a diplomatic incident. “She’s not explaining it right!” she called out. “The trapeze is a metaphor! The funnel is a symbol! The muffins are a lifestyle!”
“Sit down, Gaga,” Rihanna hissed. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m artistically helping!”
Trevor II the cockatoo let out a wet, rattling cough. Several delegates turned to look. One of them, the representative from Finland, appeared genuinely concerned.
Barry raised his hand tentatively. “Ms. Zeta-Jones? Can I… can I say something?”
Cath beamed at him. “Of course, Barry! You’re the expert! You’re the living proof!”
Barry stood up, his suit straining slightly at the shoulders. He looked out at the assembled delegates—hundreds of people from around the world, all wearing headphones, all staring at him with expressions ranging from confusion to mild alarm. He took a deep breath.
“I’m a plumber,” he said. “I fix pipes. I don’t know anything about the United Nations. I don’t know anything about diplomacy. I don’t even know what ‘prostrate’ means. I think it’s something to do with lying down.”
The translators scrambled.
“He is a… pipe repairman?” whispered the French translator.
“He does not know what ‘prostrate’ means,” confirmed the Spanish translator.
“I also do not know what ‘prostrate’ means,” admitted the Russian translator.
“But I do know,” Barry continued, “that these three women—” he gestured at Cath, Gaga, and Rihanna, “—helped me when I was at my lowest. They didn’t understand my problem. They still don’t, really. But they tried. And that’s more than most people do.”
The delegates were silent. They understood nothing. But they understood that.
“So if there’s anyone out there,” Barry said, “anywhere in the world, who’s struggling with their own… their own funnel… I just want you to know: you’re not alone. And also, apparently, trapeze helps. I still don’t know why.”
He sat down. Rihanna handed him another muffin. Gaga’s cockatoo coughed again.
Cath, apparently moved, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “That was beautiful, Barry. Truly beautiful. And now—” she clicked to her final slide, “—for my closing statement.”
The slide showed a photograph of Barry from before and after, side by side, with the caption “THE FUNNEL METHOD: RESULTS MAY VARY” written in Comic Sans.
“Distinguished delegates,” Cath announced, “I give you Barry. A man who lost twenty pounds in a day. A man whose prostrate was inverted and is now… not. A man who proves that with determination, with friendship, and with a trapeze, anything is possible.”
She paused dramatically.
“And that,” she declared, “is how Barry lost twenty pounds in a day even though his prostrate was inverted!”
The hall erupted in applause. The delegates had no idea what they were applauding. They had no idea what a funnel was, or why it was envious, or what a trapeze had to do with anything. But they applauded anyway, because Catherine Zeta-Jones was a movie star, and because Barry the plumber had spoken from the heart, and because Rihanna’s muffins looked genuinely delicious.
The French translator leaned into her microphone and said, simply: “I do not understand. But I am moved.”
The Spanish translator added: “I believe we have witnessed something important. I am not sure what.”
The Russian translator concluded: “Perhaps it is better not to know.”
And somewhere in the back of the General Assembly Hall, a kookaburra laughed. Or maybe it was Trevor II’s cough. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the universe itself, acknowledging that sometimes—just sometimes—the most absurd stories are the ones that make the most sense.
Barry looked at his muffin. He looked at the three women who had turned his life upside down. He looked at the assembled delegates of the United Nations, none of whom understood a single word that had been said.
And he smiled.
“Same time next year?” he asked.
“Same time next year,” Cath confirmed.
“With muffins,” Rihanna added.
“And birds,” Gaga said.
And Trevor II coughed in agreement.