Douglas is right, David. This made me chuckle. More than a gee-gaw. We otta
call you George Bernard Kickshaw. Bravo Bircumshaw!
gabe
At 06:33 PM 10/20/2002 +0100, david.bircumshaw wrote:
>I just thought I'd send this on the chance it might amuse. It's format isn't
>possible to reproduce accurately in e-mail but I did my best.
>
>
>
>
>THE DEMENTIA OF PROFESSOR HAPPENSTANCE
>
>( a reconstruction )
>
>Personae:
>
>Baboon troop with typewriters (p.p. an infinite number of chimpanzees )
>
>Prof. Happenstance, Head of the Laboratory
>
>Morine, a cleaner
>
>Nutt, Boom and Case, assistants on secondment to the lab.
>
>Our Poet, a.k.a. the doorman
>
>Scene:
>
>The Coalville Cavendish Laboratory towards the end of the 20th century. A
>room of grey and white terminals and consoles, of flickering green screens,
>wire trays stacked high with paper and gleaming metallic tables. A troop of
>baboons, each of which is secured to a seat before a typewriter, occupy a
>deep cage at one end. Wires from the cage connect to a wall speaker and
>screen. The Professor is deep in discussion with his assistants. The baboons
>begin to type.
>
>
>Baboons: To be or not to be, that is the Quested.
>
> Prof: Excellent. 95% duplication, 100%
> reduplication of run 107 @ 33b.
> Gentlemen, I believe we are on
> the brink of success.
>
>Nutt : Absolutely.
>Boom: Indubitably.
>Case: Undeniably.
>
>Baboons: A verse, averse, our kingdom is a hearse.
>
>Puzzlement and concern wrinkle the domed foreheads of the scientists. The
>assistants peer frantically at readouts.
>
>Nutt: Deterioration of Improbables.
>Boom: Unlikeliness
>unstable.
>Case: Abnormality critical.
>
>Assts(all) Warning! Meltdown! Warning! Meltdown! Warning!
>Prof: Enough! Peace. Originality vectors variable.
>
>(at controls)Likeliness of Hackenshaft effect 3.2 rising.
> Reverse typewriter feed, reverse type -
>Assts(all) Feed reverse jammed. Feed reverse jammed.
>Baboons: Who would not abdenture for such merchant ice?
> Who would not conventure for such parod eyes?
> This must give us paws, this puddles the Will.
> LIKEWISE:
> Thou dost affect the royal in thy speech.
>Prof: Overload! Duplication crash. Originality
> invasion. Breakdown of banality field.
> Boom, call security. Case, switch -
>Baboons: Why what but why what mine but my what why?
>Prof: No, no! Order is all. The degradation of
> the predictability of the impredictable,
> the control of the uncontrolled, doth rank
> and steep against the vantage of our state.
> The very certainty that rests embower'd
> in the pleasant suburbs of security
> becomes the beast of madness when the sure
> and fixed balm of number-reining law
> turns to a dark hell that munches roses
> ranked in figured nature on the lawn.
> That way dementia lies. That way lies.
>
>He begins to break connections, upend terminals, beat at screens. Nutt, Boom
>and Case try to restrain him but fail. Worriedly, they confer.
>
>Nutt: Project's end:
>Boom: Technicians' meeting:
>Case:
>Events to ditch:
>Assts(all) Our names to save. Records dump and let's unhitch.
>
>They begin to erase records but leave on hearing footsteps
>
>Enter security, in the guise of 'the door', Our Poet.
>Poet: Did somebody want me?
>
>The Professor is sitting in front of the baboon cage, making simian noises.
>Smoke rises from the terminals, befogging the room.
>
>Baboons: Ill-sits my reason with this heavie houre.
> The gross enfumed mist that ranks and steeps--
>
>Enter Morine, mop and bucket in hand, cigarette in mouth.
>
>Mor\; Nora bleedin' bucket, what a pig-hole. Hoi, gormless, (to
>Poet)
> give us a hand with this. The old prof don't
> look too good, does he, eh? What's all this about?
>
>Poet: I dunno, I only work here, you know.
>
>They clear up the mess in the smoky room. Poet looks for a fire
>extinguisher. The Professor gibbers softly. The baboons type faster and
>faster, red lights begin to dance, an alarm sounds bleatingly and a printer
>disburdens a mass of sheets.
>
>Poet (reads) 'The Ghost Machine or a Fit in Four Bits'
>
>Puzzled, he tucks the sheets under his arm. He and Morine gently coax the
>Professor from the room. The smoke thickens as the plot thins.
>
>
>
>Best
>
>Dave
>
>
>
>David Bircumshaw
>
>Leicester, England
>
>Home Page
>
>A Chide's Alphabet
>
>Painting Without Numbers
>
>http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/index.htm
|