It's not like life at all

I recently read an allegory by Johanna Stoberock called "Pigs," about a group of children on an island that is the world's receptacle for all its trash. The kids gather the garbage and feed it to the pigs, who eat anything.

There are grown-ups on the island and a disadvantaged man named Amos. And a boy named Eddie. A few other interesting things and symbols you'd recognize.

The interesting part of the allegory, not unlike the fabled "Animal Farm" by Orwell, a thoughtful foresoother, is that it is one of those 'it's just like life' premises. Everything means something.

Like baseball, which somebody tried once to tell me was a lot like life. I wondered how that was and his answer was that, like life, some things are the product of luck.

Baseball, as a chameleon for life, is a horrible example. Unlike life, it's on a field with the parameters established. The rules are clear. The participants have been selected.
If you chose 18 people off the street and found enough to play a game, those who didn't decline because they don't know the rules, you'd start with the rules.

Inside that, you could project luck to some degree if you didn't factor in skill.

Skill is always better than luck.

Creative ways of describing the life experience are what makes literature enduring. All the way back to "Pilgrim's Progress" or "Alice," writers have found interesting ways of exploring the politics of their time, both social and economic. The Yellow Brick Road is not just a song.

But the pigs that eat everything also leave something behind, and the author of that book didn't mention it.

You can't leave out the parts that don't fit the narrative.