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scrutney

love's passionate splendour.

puc wrote:
I read ONE Harlequin ONCE, just to see.  Wretched.  Almost as bad as Louis L'Amour.  Could dialogue get any less real or more repetitive???


we're about to find out.

bumrejects...feel free to join in our latest literary bag 'o beans (they're good for your heart)...

no rules...keep it relatively clean.
it looks like we started at chapter 17.


love's passionate splendour.

chapter 17.
put down that cucumber.

"oh manuel, i fear you have ripped the bodice of my dress", she sighed.

manuel the gardener, promptly dropped his load of potatoes, adjusted his cod-piece and fixed lady fitzwilly-smythington with a steely glance from his ice cold blue eyes.

"the garden is bounteous, milady."

"not nearly as bounteous as that cornucopia in your trousers, you lascivious latin lothario."

"carpe diem, milady"

as the swirling mists of passion encircled our turgid twosome...

The lord of the manor, Lord Fitzwilly-Smythington (who was called simply, "Willy," or more often and behind his back "Little Willy"), appeared, crawling on his hands and knees through Manuel's magnificently maintained potato patch.

"Unhand Lady Bedelia," Lord Willy roared, raising a muddied fist to the Heavens.  "You foul and treacherous beast!  You pica de flora!  You forget too soon our week of passionate splendor in Provence, Manuelito!"

Manuel's eyes never lifted to face his accuser.  Instead, he was riveted, not by milady's huge, heaving porcelain bosoms, but by the designer tag, which read, "Hecho en Paris" and sat at the cusp of her...



bums...feel free to jump right in...2 or 3 paragraphs at a time.
scrutney

Quote:
Manuel's eyes never lifted to face his accuser.  Instead, he was riveted, not by milady's huge, heaving porcelain bosoms, but by the designer tag, which read, "Hecho en Paris" and sat at the cusp of her...


"foul temptress", shouted manuel, who while not the swiftest on the uptake, knew an indonesian imitation when he saw one.
"i'm shocked. shocked. a frockoff knock...i mean a knockoff frock"...a single tear traced a path down his swarthy cheek.

"blackguard" howled her husband. "i demand satisfaction."

"i shouldn't wonder, wee willy" manuel retorted "draw your weapon and taste my steel."

"which will be a damn site easier to swallow than your vegetables."

"have at you, then"

the tableau held for mere moments, when suddenly....
coebul

NY Times book review---Fantastic.  

Says Washington post----Riveting....

Bumrejects---Edge of the seat pros............   Can't put it down.
auntmartymoo

when suddenly...

up from the meadow she strode, flushed from a bath in the hot springs...
Lady Amelia, sister of Bedelia of the Shore of Jersey.  Both Manuel and Willy were enraptured by the redheaded vision, still glistening from her steamy plunge.

Her ginger-hued mane stuck to her ripe, ample bosom as she sailed up the hill...proclaiming "I'm wont for a man who can perform on the battlefield and in the boudoir."

Manuel, dropping his sword in his fallen potatoes, tried to lunge toward the sparkling goddess...but it was Little Willie who was the first to reach her.

"Lady Amelia, it is I who can...
puc reducks

"Lady Amelia, it is I who can..."

"...free you from that rash which circumnavigates your long and lustrous legs, up your sultry, lickable thighs, and over your mound of Venus. I am the King's apothecary, after all."

Lady Amelia, who appeared as comely as Botticelli's Aphrodite emerging from a scallop shell, began to scratch, nay, claw at her rash with such abandon the threesome staggered back, toward the potato patch.

"Feminine itching?" gloated Manuel.

Lady Bedelia swung at him, "Why you impudent lout!  You ass of the horse!  How dare you speak to my sister thus?"

Her tiny pale fists missed Manuel by a meter, but in her fit of rage she managed to regroup and strike him a bounteous blow with her knee  to his still-bulging nether region, laughing wildly as Manuel crumbled to the earth, mouth gaping but emitting no sound.

Bedelia turned to her sister and said...
scrutney

Bedelia turned to her sister and said...

"a two shilling henna rinse and a silicon beef-up have done much to mask the ravages of 5 years spent as the curling team doxy, dear sister."

"upon my soul, it's back seat bedelia, sweetheart of the carriage trade" replied amelia.

manuel made as if to protest from his prone position but all he could manage was a breathy "heenh."

"if i may" interrupted lord willy "reluctant as i am to intrude upon this touching reunion, i was about to skewer yon recumbent rapscallion, for the liberties he was proceeding to undertake in the potato patch (and for the record, it is a magnificent potato patch) with my lady love."

"stay you ire, lord fitzwilly-smythington" purred amelia of the heaving bosom."manuel is but a humble gardener, among the many humble yet swarthy latin gardeners in your employ, which seems to me seems a bit silly considering your fields are but 10' x 10', if you take my meaning. but i do agree...it is a fine potato patch."

"spiffing" said bedelia, buffing her nails on her ripped bodice.

"the stuff of legends" replied lord willy.

"heeenh" said manuel.

"and so, amelia" asked her sister "what brings you to town and when are you leaving?"

puc reducks

“And so, Amelia," asked her sister, "what brings you to town and when are you leaving?”

Unabashed after her bath, Amelia again purred to Lord Willy, this time demurely requesting his coat to cover her nakedness.

“My dear girl, of course you may have it—at any time,” he said lasciviously, despite the presence of Lady Bedelia.

Once attired, the still-flushed and throbbing Amelia turned to her sister and said, “I am here, as I said, to find a husband suitable to my station.  I will stay here, at Wensleydale, as long as my good lord allows.”  She purred at Lord Willy with her eyes as she buttoned his woolen overcoat and managed a fleeting curtsy.

“Oh, will you, truly?” spat Bedelia.  “Here?  At Wensleydale? For an indeterminate period of time?  I think not.  The King’s own Lancer Brigade will be seasoning the next town over—and I am certain they will keep you busy whoring…”

“Enough!”  It was Lord Willy.  “No more, fair ladies.  We must find Amelia the husband she wishes. Now.  Before word of her indiscretions are public knowledge.”

“Too late… toooooo late,” trilled a voice, possibly a man’s voice.  Indeed, it was a man, and that man was Manuel.

He was barely sitting upright amidst his prized potatoes, his tremendous tubers, and still Manuel was sweating profusely all over his swarthy face and frame when...
puc reducks

A fine chatreuse mist lowered upon the four, encircling each from head to foot.

First there was the cough, which was followed by ungraceful stumbles and falls into the potato patch.  None could arise.

And so they died.  All of them.

The mutant potatoes eventually overgrew Wensleydale and it was never seen again.

Finis             Question  Question  Question
coebul

Finis?  Oh contrare' They need to do it in the tatter patch and move on to another venue.  

finis tah!
puc reducks

Doesn't seem to by any interest.

Hey! You add some paragraphs!!!   Very Happy        Liven this up again!!!
coebul

I was interested.  But I am not that imaginative.  So I haven't written anything.  Probably won't.  I was hoping to tap Scrutney's steel trap and get him to continue with this like he did on the other forum.
scrutney

scarcely had the town of 'stratford on the brink' put away their morning clothes, having dried their tears at the untimely passing of the fatuous foursome, when things, as things have a habit of doing, got back to a semblance of normality.

the local halfwit was leaning on a gravestone, smoking a dog end and brushing dirt off his trousers. he'd spent a good two hours tending the graves of the four star crossed lovers, cut down in their prime by (it was rumored) an irate authoress, in a fit of pique.

dusk was settling, the wind was freshening and the clouds in the west promised a dark and stormy night.

"mum always said a job worth doing well, gathers no moss, that's what mum said" mumbled the town's swarthy slow coach, as he clapped the dirt off his hands and collected his gardening implements.
"a job done well is worth two in the morning, three for the money, it's time to go."

a scrabbling noise in the sullen graveyard cut short the moron's monologue and as the dimbulb anxiously looked around in an effort to locate the source of the sound, a clutching, dirt encrusted hand broke through the freshly flowered surface of the nearest grave.

more noise and a second hand emerged from a second grave, then a third and a fourth.
four mottled, scabrous cadavers clawed their way toward the waning sunlight.

"bugger this" said the halfwit, "me mum always said; when trouble comes a knocking, it's time to start walking tall, or baby don't walk at all you need is love makes the world go...."

dim's discourse faded into the distance, as he took to his heels, mum's mundane musings totally useless in dealing with the undead.

four shambling corpses, in their moldy funeral finery, lurched in four different directions...bedelia, towards the hot springs, lord fitzwilly smythington, off to the home place, amelia in hot pursuit of the swarthy halfwit.

manuel, clutching a mutant potato to his breast, tittered mindlessly and stumbled off in the general direction of his magnificent tuber patch.

stay tuned for the next exciting episode of: zombies in love.
puc reducks

Manuel, mutant potato firmly grasped in his  hand, the hand that was, before his very eyeballs (on stems, as they were, giving him the wide-eyed and open look he had always dreamed of) decomposing, hanging shreds of swarthy yet opalescent flesh, oozing blood and other sera fluids, began to turn his head.  It was lighter than he remembered.

He walked, nay, he staggered in a fixed-legged manner, the desire to hold his arms out directly in front of him becoming too strong to ignore.

He dropped the mutant tuber to the graveyard ground. "I no longer need you," he thought vaguely. "I will now feast on flesh, faces, chubby arms, and well-muscled limbs... no longer spuds. I find myself overjoyed at this. No more mash without the bangers, no more boiled in river water in which the gentry bathe, no more roasted over cattle dung... I shall never go hungry again!"  Could Manuel have smiled in his current condition, he would have--widely.

Then Manuel began to walk, in goosestep with himself, until he saw his oft' beloved Lady Bedelia.

In immortal words, which were to come into existence in another 150 years give or take and in another place, he approached Lady B and said, it is passed down in legend:

"Senora, por favor, I di'n't know notheeng about birtheeng no zombies!"
scrutney

"Senora, por favor, I di'n't know notheeng about birtheeng no zombies!"

"oh manuel", the mold becked bedelia cooed:

"shall i compare thee to a summer's eve?
be dashed, a douche won't do.
my rotted heart is wont to weave
a winter's web for two.

oh tater boy, your spuds divine,
have roused me from my grave.
my soul is damned, my heart maligned.
my love for you, depraved.

so come with me, my yammish yob,
across the world, we'll trot.
and if dame fortune ain't a slob,
we'll have a tater tot.

a rotted tater tot he'll be.
with dessicated lung.
a mottled eye, or two or three.
and black protruding tongue"
puc reducks

[Scrut!  Superb!]

Back soon...
auntmartymoo

You two (Scrut & Puc) are amazing!!!  Please keep it going.  There is no lack of interest from me...just lack of imaginative talent.  

Sorry I've been so absent... in here & in general.  I've had very little time to play and I hate posting "drive-by" comments and then vanishing.  Seems rude.  Wouldn't be prudent   Wink
scrutney

auntmartymoo wrote:
You two (Scrut & Puc) are amazing!!!  Please keep it going.  There is no lack of interest from me...just lack of imaginative talent.  

Sorry I've been so absent... in here & in general.  I've had very little time to play and I hate posting "drive-by" comments and then vanishing.  Seems rude.  Wouldn't be prudent   Wink


puc's on hiatus until she gets her computer up and running...(i always keep a spare since the talk of the town days)...she'll be back in the next day or so.

she'll post something, i'll riff off of it and voila...literature.

and martymoo...don't be afraid to jump in.
your imaginative talent brought us a dew dappled amelia...or was it bath moistened and amply endowed?

amply endowed?
ya know, i haven't spent any time with my wife recently...i'll get back to ya.
something's come up.
puc reducks

auntmartymoo wrote:
You two (Scrut & Puc) are amazing!!!  Please keep it going.  There is no lack of interest from me...just lack of imaginative talent.  

Sorry I've been so absent... in here & in general.  I've had very little time to play and I hate posting "drive-by" comments and then vanishing.  Seems rude.  Wouldn't be prudent   Wink


Thank you, but we need to make it a threesome!!!   Twisted Evil  Shocked  Cool
Please join in when you can, AMM!
puc reducks

All dozen shower heads spat lovely steaming water on him. He was finally feeling less confused, more alert.  And clean, beautifully clean. He winced at the fading memories of his zombified body.  He looked down at himself and smiled.  "Some kinda stuff down there," he said, grinning.

"Who's there?!"  He heard the soft low of a woman's voice, a familiar woman...

"I said, 'Who's there?!'," and the stained-glass shower doors swiftly opened.

There she stood, pink charmeuse silk robe clutched closed with one hand and a fire poker in the other.

Bobby turned to look at her and smiled...

'BOBBY???  BOBBY EWING, IS THAT YOU?"

Pamela dropped the fire poker and bounded into the marble-lined shower with her husband, pink charmeuse flying everywhere..

As the water pelted them both Bobby drew Pamela to him, finding her mouth and planting a big one. In his gusto her began to lick her face, much like a Golden Retriever puppy.

"Ewww," thought Pam.  "He's licking my face!"  She tried to push him off, but evern with slippery soap hands, he held her firm.

"Shhhh, shhhh," he whispered.  

"But Bobby," sobbed Pam, "Where were you? You've been gone all summer... no word... we thought you were dead!"

"No, Pamela, not dead.  I was at a place called Wensleydale.  In the 18th century.  English countryside.  There were lords and ladies... gardens, potatoes, mutants,..."

Pamela turned down the hot water and said, "You're delusional, my precious.  You've gone missing for three months and now say you've been to Britain???"  She was confused.

Bobby decided not to tell her about the zombies. Maybe it would drive her mad to think of him in that way.

"No, Pam.  It must have been a dream, a lengthy, ribald dream... or I was lost in a past-life regression...."

"Well, whatever it was, Bobby, you must tell me all about your travels and the people you met."

"I will, Pam, I will.  Now, where are our daughters, Bedelia and Amelia?"
scrutney

Quote:
I will, Pam, I will.  Now, where are our daughters, Bedelia and Amelia?


"they've become interruptions in the space time continuum" pam replied. "i thought you knew that."

"oh...well have one of them pick me up a bottle of 'new coke' from the eighties. god i used to love that stuff."

"here's your coke, dad" said bedelia, handing bobby a can as she wiped shower sozzle out of her eyes. "and throw a towel over that thing."

"no bottles?" asked bobby, reaching for a towel.

"only deposit bottles" sighed bedelia.

"i'll risk the 2 cents."

"big spender" she said as she reached for the shower door.

"where are you going?" asked bobby.

"well i was about to trip the timeline fantastic by jumping into the chron-ambulator and jaunting back to the eighties to pick you up a bottle of coke but then i realized that there's an unaddressed time paradox in the offing"

"and that is?"

"this is the eighties."

"i'm not sure i follow you."

"look, this is simple" bedelia said as she walked over to the television and snapped it on.

pam and bobby both stared at the tv as the cheesy theme music filled the shower.


All dozen shower heads spat lovely steaming water on him. He was finally feeling less confused, more alert.  And clean, beautifully clean. He winced at the fading memories of his zombified body.  He looked down at himself and smiled.  "Some kinda stuff down there," he said, grinning.

"Who's there?!"  He heard the soft low of a woman's voice, a familiar woman...

"I said, 'Who's there?!'," and the stained-glass shower doors swiftly opened.

There she stood, pink charmeuse silk robe clutched closed with one hand and a fire poker in the other.

Bobby turned to look at her and smiled...

'BOBBY???  BOBBY EWING, IS THAT YOU?"

Pamela dropped the fire poker and bounded into the marble-lined shower with her husband, pink charmeuse flying everywhere..


bedelia turned the television off and walked back into the shower.

"you see what i mean?...time paradox"

"all i saw was this crappy tv show from thirty years ago" said pam.

"you were that crappy tv show...or should i say that you are that crappy tv show" offered bedelia.

"here's your coke, dad" said bedelia, handing bobby a can as she wiped shower sozzle out of her eyes. "and throw a towel over that thing."

both bedelias stood there, looking smug.

"could we try that again, from the point where bedelia turns on the television?" came a voice from outside the shower..."some steam got on the lens."

bobby and pam peeked out from the shower door to see a full camera crew, filming the proceedings.

standing apart from the crew, was a dark man in a dark suit, sardonically intoning:

"dark dreams and swirling mists coalesce into a shower in timespace. a long lost beverage and a sodden pink charmeuse robe are the demarcation points in a separate reality. colors collide with sounds never uttered. a cacophony of conundrums, pound the space behind your eyes. the star strewn cosmos open at your feet while twin daughters that never were, take your drink order.

yet this is no hallucinogenic hajj of hellishness. nor a whistle stop in the fabric of palpabilty. existentialism with a side of potato salad is the order of the day. there's a waitress up ahead holding a sign post, pointing the way to a concrete certainty of the speculative...in the twilight zo..."

"scotch/rocks, wasn't it?" said a grinning j.r., handing bobby a glass. he had his other arm around a blond woman in a harem outfit.

"master, bobby drinks bourbon" said jeannie.

"this shower is getting a bit crowded" offered pam.

"yeah, and there ain't room enough in this dress for the both of us" said the bedelias, in unison.
scrutney

i edited the last post to get rid of the "i'm working on it" and replace it with the sordid mess, posted above.

unfortunately it didn't throw a "new post" flag.
this will.
puc reducks

You're genius.

I feel a detour into "Sybil" coming on...
scrutney

there's a phrase in common usage among computer hackers.

when, for no apparent reason their rig fails to do their bidding, or inexplicably, does something else entirely, they blame it on the "ghost in the machine."

years ago, my grandmother used to blame similar system failures in major appliances on the nubian in the fuel supply (more or less).

but the ghost in the machine also refers to a concept that is known among twenty first century archivists as "digital rot."

no one knows why but all those little ones and zeros that make up the photos, the music, the movies of our lives are subject to deterioration as they are replicated and this defies all logic.

unlike a xerox of a xerox of a xerox, which gets fuzzier and loses definition which each succeeding generation, in theory a digital copy by it's very nature has to be a perfect copy.

and it is.

but it isn't.

at least, bobby ewing wasn't.

infused in the very fiber of his being was the ghost in the machine, the joker in the deck, the nubian in the fuel supply.

lord fitzwilly-smythington ruminated on this very concept as he digitally inspected the contents of his nasal cavities and idly stared at his hand of cards. aces and eights, the dead mans hand, which was fitting because lord willy had been dead going on two months now (or two hundred years from bobby ewing's perspective).

"and that's the thing, manuel" the rotting aristocrat opined to the zombie sitting across the table from him. "it's quite like a painting from the rembrandt school, that wasn't hatched from the master's brush. the content is similar, the lines flow, the colors are all there but it's not a rembrandt. it's all too obvious, even to the untutored eye that it's a knock-off. i'll see you and raise you three."

manuel tossed three potatoes on the table and reached for the deck...as he did, his nose fell off. decay, social or otherwise, can have that effect.

"and two more, guvner" said the man at the west end of the card table. "although why you're wasting your time talking to that undead seedsman, is a mystery to me. he hann't said anything coherent since the lady b kicked him in the fork a'coupla months past."

"heeenh" said manuel, smearing jam on his disconnected olfactory appendage and mashing it back into place.

"make no mistake, rollie" said lord fitzwilly-smythington "there's a keen intelligence behind that viscous, venerable, vacuous, visage."

"rather keen on cheap alliteration, ain'tcha, guv."

"verily" replied lord fitz.

"here's what i don't understand." said rollie. "you replima...repligate...copied manuel and sent him to the future to cavort with some moistened bit from the victoria's secret catalog, on what you called principle alone. to prove a point...what point guv?"

"to prove that a poor author will spare no plot device to pursue a bad pun" answered the lord. "two more"

a pair of spuds hit the table.

"that's as may be milord but i'm afraid i'm not catching the reason, as it were, of you tarting up the chron-ambulator and sending manuel into, as you put it, ' the vast fabric of the future. i'll see your two and raise you four."

clump, clump, clump, clump.

"all will become clear, in time" replied fitzy.

"is that one of those lame puns you was referring to, guv?"

"quite" responded lord fitzwilly-smythington as half his forehead thudded to the card table. "let me be succinct in an obscure manner...i cloned manuel and sent him off to the decadent decade of the 1980's. the decade of reagan, iran contra, miami vice and the unforgivable cinematic sins of elaine may and that god forsaken piece of crap, ishtar."

"am i supposed to understand any of this, lord fitzsmythy-willington?"

"not a word, rollie, not a word. but i should point out that, as things progress in the future, bobby/manuel will become increasingly unstuck in time, and needless to say, will start to fray around the edges."

"what'll happen then, milord?...and by the way, i have a full house." rollie said triumphantly, showing his cards.

"that's pretty much up to auntmartymoo, puc and bieramar,( should he choose to join in the fun)" said the aristocrat as he threw in his hand.

"i'm not sure that i take your meaning, milord" said rollie. "and would you mind moving that, it might attract rats?"
bieramar

I'm not hiding my lamp under a bushel, I just don't have the talents you all have (and that's not false modesty, as you gotta have a noun before you can modify it with an adjective).  

I'm greatly entertained and in awe.

My poetic metaphors and lyrics extend only to saccharine doggerel when writing courting sonnets for the current female subject of my lusts.

I love "nubian in a fuel supply."  

Anecdotedly the very first time I listened to "Talk Radio" with the phone-in format (over WHO, Des Moines IA, late 1950s when I was visiting my folks for the holidays), the topic of discussion was whether it was racist or pejorative to continue using the words "nigger toe" - the term Iowans grew up with - to describe the delectable nut in the holiday nutcracker bowl alongside the walnuts, pecans, almonds et al (PC people call 'em "Brazil nuts").  

Somehow "nubile toes" just doesn't  reflect the same image.  And "nubian nuts" is waaaay over on the other team.
coebul

puc reducks wrote:
You're genius.

I feel a detour into "Sybil" coming on...
Yeah mom fed him better then the rest of us...  She liked him the best...
scrutney

"i love you, pam"

the afterglow was ebbing but the warm feeling persisted as pam made little toy soldiers of bobby's chest hair.

"what do you know of love, bobby? you leave me here for months, without a word and then just pop up in the shower."

"what do i know of love?" bobby arched an eyebrow and continued "i remember the exact time and place that i fell in love with you."

"do tell" pam purred.

"we were on spring break, in that little czech village...what was it called? mench...menz...something like that"

"minice, bobby...it was where we met." pam cooed.

"in that tavern, the one with all the crappy dark beer."

"that's right, we met in the tavern."

"you asked the bartender to make a special drink...something to commemorate the occasion...he must have spent 10 minutes throwing ice and all those liquors into the blender...we never did find out what it was called..."

"but i did get the ingredients, bobby...and i've made that drink many times since...blender, ice, kaluha, peppermint schnapps, this, that and the other thing."

"but we never named it, pam...we always called it that drink thing."

"you were talking about when you fell in love, darling." she said, finishing another chest soldier.

"as i took my first sip of that drink. there i was in a tavern in minice, looking into your eyes and i realized that i was stone in love with you."

"and i love you too, bobby...but that doesn't answer my question...what do you know of love, my darling?"

"i know that love is a minice blendered thing." bobby replied, pulling her close.

"stop" she said " we'll ruin all my soldiers."

"war is hell."
puc reducks

Freakin' wonderful, Scrut!!!

I have to say, every single time I read "Heeenh" from Manuel I crack up.   Laughing
scrutney

"pop, what's a chronambulator?"

"wellllllll" replied scrut, "it's kind of a time machine, beezer. where exactly, did you hear about a chronambulator?"

"i dunno."

"have you been peeking in on the bumrejects site? i've told you before, that place will rot your brain."

"yeah, i know...a bunch of old coots, talking about wars and stuff, and how the president is a jerk or how he's the greatest thing since the adjustable shower rod."

"succinct....what do you think about the president?"

"oh, i think he's a jerk too, dad" beezer said, looking coy. "but i'm interested in this chronambulator thing. how did those horny zombies back in england, build those time machines?"

"machines, plural?"

"well, the two bedelia's have one each...and i'm pretty sure that bobby has one too." the boy replied.

"how do you know that they aren't the same machine?"

"ummm?"

"ummm, indeed. that's the nature of time travel and simultaneity, all those chronambulators might be the same chronambulator, sent back to a certain point in time, from differing points in time."

"yeah, right."

"i'm serious, beezer....think of time as a direct line. let's say that in the future, joe blow (proud owner of a chronambulator) goes back to, let's say 1956 and attends an elvis presley concert. after the concert he trips back to the point where he left...hangs around for twenty minutes and thinks; that was a great performance, i'd like to see it again. so he pops back to 1956, to watch it a second time.
so there they are. two joe blows and two chronambulators, at the same elvis concert."

"but doesn't that create a couple of physicians? asked beezer."

"huh?"

"a paradox."

"oh...you are your fathers son...but to answer your question, pal...it didn't."

"didn't what?"

"create a duality of mooring places."

"what?"

"a paradox." said scrut, smugly.

"oh...but what do mean that it didn't...create a paradox?"

"just what i said, the concert went off without a hitch and there were two of the same members of the audience, that were from the future."

"but that never happened." protested the boy.

"how do you know?...how do you know that i wasn't that guy from the future, that hypothetical joe blow, attending the concert. twice."

"because," responded beezer, getting into the spirit of things, "if that was what happened, how would you know? you're from the present."

"are you sure about that?"

beez looked confused for a moment, then he replied; "that would mean that you, the you that's talking to me now, are from the future."

"it could son, it could" scrutney said, standing up and fiddling with his watch.."beezer, i've got to go downtown. would you like to come? i understand that there's going to be a processional cavalcade that features a bullock."

"huh?"

"a parade-ox."

"daaaaad."

father and son hopped in the car and headed down town.

thirty seconds later, a car pulled in the driveway.

a man got out of the car, walked to the door and strolled in the house.

"honey, i'm home."

sweet baby got out of her chair and gave her husband a kiss.

"i don't know how you do it, scrutney" she said. " most people that come home from work, look like 10 miles of bad road...you look better than when you left. younger, almost."

"almost....what's for dinner? i feel like i haven't eaten in years."
bieramar

Now that you've deftly and decisively solved time travel, how about taking a stab at gravity?
coebul

"We interrupt this program to bring you this important news event unfolding NOW"

"SCRUTNEY AND BEEEZER HAVE SOLVE TIME TRAVEL"

Next on the agenda? They will attempt to solve Gravity/Anti-Graivty with an eye on Alchemy in the not to distant future.

==========

We will return you to "love's passionate splendour" soon.
puc reducks

bieramar wrote:
Now that you've deftly and decisively solved time travel, how about taking a stab at gravity?


LOL!!!
puc reducks

"Beezer, you're the bomb," said Pop proudly.  "Your Uncle Coebul just announced on BumRejects that we've solved the time travel conundrum."

"Well, Pop, I couldn't have done it witout you," replied The Beez, smiling from his identical-to-dad's recliner.

"I hope you're good and rested from all that inter-dimensional fol-der-rol--not to mention the people and places we've seen, because now we've been asked to take on another weighty subject..."

"What's that?  Sorry to interrupt, but Pop--are you talking gravity?" Beezer's eyes were wide open, filled with anticipation.

"Actually, I'm talking anti-gravity!"

Pop leaned forward in his plaid recliner, really it was tartan--the Stewart Clan--and that look appeared in his icy blue eyes.

"Hang on, Beezer, here we go..."
scrutney

Quote:
"Hang on, Beezer, here we go..."


"here we go, where?"

"where any self respecting seeker of knowledge goes when he wants to unscrew the inscrutable, son."

beezer inaudibly mumbled something about a geisha house but in a louder voice said "the internet?"

"the internet?" replied his father..."son, what we're in search of is so highly speculative in nature that anything on the net will be so hopelessly out of date and so filled with facts, that we'll be overwhelmed with useless data...no son, if we want answers to theories so complex, that we haven't figured out which questions to ask, we need to use the reference library that the pros use."

"einstein's theory of restitution?"

"nope." scrut answered, "we need to watch reruns of 'in search of'."

"oh crap, do you mean that show where that jerk with the deep voice says those stupid things like 'could this mean that crop circles are the jockstraps of the gods'?"

"the very show, beezer."

"but that's the show that said that the yeti, the loch ness monster and the easter bunny all came from the bermuda triangle which is exactly where atlantis sank...and that atlantis was sucked into a giant vortex and spit out in the arctic circle and that explains the northern lights."

"i missed that episode, pal."

"count your blessings, pop."

scrut flipped through his dvd's and selected one, popped it into the player and sat back in his recliner, remote clutched firmly in hand.

"ooooooh" a voice from the tv purred."my trusty dutch stallion, pour more chocolate over my....."

scrut jumped out of his chair and snatched the dvd out of the player.

"dude, what was that? that was cool..i wanna watch that."

"no son, we're doing research." scrutney said, putting another dvd in the player.

"i can research that."

the television intoned ebulliently, "life is a smorgasbord and most poor suckers are starving to death."

"i want anti-gravity and i get auntie mame." scrutney sighed.

at this point scrut started furiously flipping through the rest of his dvd's, idly speculating about how his living room furniture had magically changed to twin plaid recliners and how his son's eyes had morphed from their normal green to a steely blue.

"calm down dad" beezer said. "look, just tell puc what i always say when someone asks me to explain gravity."

"and that is?"

"there is no gravity, the earth just sucks."

"but that doesn't explain anti-gravity."

"the earth blows?"

"i'm going to have to give this some more thought, son."

"yeah...i'm holding my breath....you said the same thing about genrecide."
puc reducks

"yeah...i'm holding my breath....you said the same thing about genrecide."


"Genrecide."  Now there was a magnum opus.   Very Happy

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