Well stated. I hereby make your appointment official, and further decree that you are the Official Nut Dismisser as well.
I will not respond to one of your lesser minions. You need to recognize the facts of this situation Subbie
Maybe we fell off the wrong cliff in the beginning. Let me begin again.
Please bear with me. Your hypothesis is, to say the least, without adequate (read: any) foundation. I know this does not settle well with you but life doesn’t always conspire with our more demented illusions and, for you, this is one of those times. The proofs for Gravity are overwhelming, in observation, in the logic of the math, in the tiny little back-recesses of the greatest minds to contemplate such great thoughts. I understand this disturbs you but these facts must be faced with lifted chin, stout heart and maybe a little brandy.
Fortunately, you are onto something, you just have no true conception of what it really, really is. There are reasons in an open forum such as this to maintain a bit of subtlety, so let me approach the ravings of your obviously hung-over henchman in this manner.
Yes, my idea appears to sound to the unwashed masses as some nut wing spinning in the wind. Remember they laughed at Immanuel Velikovsky and Daniel Jackson, didn’t they? But I have proof.
You may have heard the name of Richard Feynman. He was a famous scientist skilled in the ways of physics. He was the bongo player who developed Chromo-something-or-other. I guess it had to do with color photography, and he got some big award for it. Well, he also developed what are known as “Feynman Diagrams” that proved his theories correct. I have developed such a diagram as the clinching proof of my theory.
Do you own a computer, Subbie? Maybe you can get access to one if you have any friends left. They may be willing to put up with your caustic personality long enough to show you something important. Have them look in the financial and investment files on something called the “internet.” Ask them this question:
Do you have any idea, any inkling of an idea, of how much Kraft’s Philadelphia Brands Division pulled down last year?
Although you may think yourself above dealing with me, I in turn think it is not beneath me to engage in polite conversation with you, in my capacity of Official Nut Dismisser. I may be temporarily indisposed to meet with you in person, on account of not having acquired Alka-Seltzer and, as a result of that, needing to stay within close range of a bucket, in addition to currently residing in a location which it is wise not to disclose, but I will not let that stand in the way of again protesting your ramblings in the gravest possible manner.
Since most of your "argument" consists of mindless logorrheic verbiage, I will concentrate on your illustration containing a so-called Feynman diagram.
There are two possibilities: either the substance in the lower left corner is real substantium, in which case you, or whoever made this picture, are acting in direct contravention of each and every ethical maxim regarding the handling of Dangerous Materials; or it is not, in which case your illustration proves absolutely nothing. Either way, you are in deep trouble, be it in an Abu Ghraib kind of way, or else in a less urgent, but equally shameful, logical way.
Subbie, can we communicate without the intervention of the hatchet hamster?
“so-called Feynman diagram”
“whoever made this picture”
Doesn’t know a Feynman diagram from a phone doodle! Picture? A symbolic representation of the high-level math concepts this dolt calls a “picture”!
Inform your scruffy little mongrel that it is NOT a PICTURE! Since you and your “organization” have yet to uncover any Substantium, in fact you haven’t even started, how in the name of Zaphod Beeblebrox could that ”picture” be something that you haven’t even produced yet?!
He may be a loyal and tenacious little guard pooch but, Subbie, we are talking the find of the millennium here. No, not your supposed “theory” but a real find. One that will bring the rewards to those bold enough to see it.
Now, I’ve been over you papers, if you care to call them that, and I have formed a quite reasonable prospectus on your project. By my reckoning you have nearly 2 whole dollars American greenback real cash money in your coffers. What are you waiting for? How much does it take to rent a hand trowel from a junque shop and get digging? Is this some sort of scam you have going here? You think you’re going to get rich schlepping Pffrrts in Yahooslavonia where your demented money grubbing little muscle mutt is a wanted criminal in hiding?
Get real, Subbie. Wake up and smell the coffee and the bagel and the cream cheese!
We don't have a lot of time here, Subbie. Just how long do you think the Mods are going let this keep going?
As President and CEO of Kraft, the world-renowned makers of such wholesome foods as Mac & Cheese, and the ever popular Philly Cream Cheese, as well as many other cheese based products, I find it quite necessary to step in here.
Our most recent covert operations in the Marianas Trench not withsatnding, we have never, and will never, produce Philly Cream Cheese from the mixture of Substantium and Iron. We are well aware of the possibility of throwing the whole universe out of whack by bringing the Substantium to the surface of the Earth, and would never undertake an endeavor such as that for the mere thousands of dollars anually we'd make from the sale of Philly Cream Cheese.
However, the scientific promise (as well as any potential government grants and Nobel Prizes) make it a worthwhile enterprise.
I would like to thank you all for bringing this potentially earth-changing finding to our attention before any of you could have sullied our reports with your own.
PS, we have alerted the Teknîkollor-Vômit authorities: the Vômitorium Guard, to the crimes of which we are privvy.
First of all, let me reassure you: I am safe and in no danger. I am back in Splat. However, I am no longer in Vômit. Allow me to explain.
When I left the "Apotèk" in Pfwèpp, with the vial in my pocket, I realized I had to get out of there quickly. Before long, the old shop keeper would notice that the vial was missing and would raise the alarm. So I walked straight back to the Bweeûûh, gave it a push, jumped in, and drove out of town.
I headed back to Splat, from where I planned to drive to the border and get out of Vômit altogether. I switched on the radio in the hope of hearing some news. I don't understand any of Vômit's 397 languages very well, but when I heard the words "Bweeûûh" and "Vômitate" in one sentence, I knew enough: the Vômitate is the secret service of Vômit and they were after me. (You may wonder why it's called a secret service if their activities are broadcast on the radio, but this was a local Ffártsy radio station and if they were going to say anything about it, they couldn't make it a lie.)
I took my foot off the brake and the car started to accelerate. Dangerously fast I sped along the roads of Vômit. I had nearly reached Splat when in my rear view mirror I saw a black car (why are they always black?) speeding up and overtaking other cars. It was the Vômitate. As I passed the municipal boundary, they were only 50 metres behind me. I took a left turn, a right turn, and then turned onto Regûrgitás Avènjê, the main road to the centre of Splat. When they were about to overtake me, I suddenly remembered something I had read about this road.
About 20 metres ahead I saw an empty parking space on the left side of the road and I prepared for a 180o handbrake turn. In between two oncoming lorries, I skidded across the road into the parking space and came to a screeching halt, with 10 centimetres to spare back and front. I breathed a sigh of relief because I knew I was safe.
The black car sped past me, made a handbrake turn a bit further on, and came back towards me. They pulled over next to me and lowered the window. A man growled: "This time you escape, but we will get you some other time." Then, with screaming tires, they left.
What I had read about Regûrgitás Avènjê was that the left side of it was actually a foreign enclave. You see, in the tumultuous split-up of the Federation of Yahooslavonia a few years earlier (completely in accordance with the U.P.O.T.S.U.O.E.B.M.M.C.A.S.O.T.), all kinds of groups and affiliations suddenly realized that what they really wanted was independence. It so happened that I had parked my car on the territory of the Independent Principality of Oddnô, which consisted of the uneven numbered houses of Regûrgitás Avènjê. The newly installed head of state, prince Kaspar Broz, lived at number 1, although he also had some real estate abroad, at number 6, 6a, and 14. I decided to seek political asylum and walked to number 1.
In the next episode I will tell you about my conversation with prince Kaspar, about a very fast elevator, a concrete door with the letters "M.T." on it, and the rivalry between the P.C.C.I. and the S.C.S.