by Jonn Fischer
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Greetings company, before I recount the event that has led me to this pollywag of a situation, allow me to make your acquaintance. My "nomenclature" (as my facetious cronies at the academy call it!) is Neils Bender and I am a pro-fesseur of materials and alchemy studies at Pickwick Academy in Yorkshire. I was born on the fifth day of August, seventeen hundred and thirty-five (millenium two) and during my scholarship at the academy I have succeeded in the creation of a rather curious yet ingenious contrivance that allows me to scamper through what hu-mans call time. While it is quite complicated and involves many systems of leeches and windmills, I will spare you the details of the design; I will inform you, however, that this is a device not to be reckoned with by any gertsie fool who sees fit! On one particular occasion, I decided to dare into the dark realm of the future. Who knew what would await me? Perhaps in the future, a new creed of loafer would exist so that my poor feet would not suffer so after a good jonsey-ball match! Perhaps in the future, a new type of material would be available so that the strings of my loyal loot would not break with oh so little effort! With high hopes I calibrated my machine of time to venture into the 3rd millenium, specifically, the year twenty hundred. I stepped into the device bringing only my faithful journal in which I now write, and my sac-a-dos. With a bright flash of what men of science call light, I found myself in the midst of a bizarre wanderlust. Before me was a rather unfuturistic village with large, ugly buildings that cried bitter gercha in the glory of her majesty's royal palace Buckingham. The horses, which had the words "romantic carriage rides" written on their rumps, were weak and feeble compared to the stalwart stallions of jolly Yorkshire. Suddenly, a horrid man or beast (of which I could not distinguish) approached me. His hair, which protruded from his scalp in long, sharp spikes resembled the dreaded Italian Iron Maiden. In fact, his chemise had the words "Iron Maiden" written on the breast- a testament to some ghastly crime he must have committed. I then realized that this must be a member of her majesty's dreaded death squad, egad! Perfumed by the tipsy sensor of death, my legs began to dash like gertrude, desperately running from the hooligan until I remembered that I was no longer in the eighteenth century…what a confusing business this travelling of time was! More out of hope of amends than anything, I befriended the young ragamuff who went on to explain that he was a member of the illustrious league named "Generation X." He explained that his fillip appearance was part of his duty as a member of the club; it was imperative that he make himself as beansy as possible in order to rebel against what men of scholar call society. What a rub! I knew exactly of what he spoke, for in the days of my youth, we were called the 'Stokes because of our incorrigible tendency to fold our knickers inside instead of out! After this brief rhetoric, I further surveyed the scene to find that there were no windmills with which to pro-pell my time device. Would this be the end of my normal life in the 18th century? < To Be Continued… |
