French Robot Radio ici !

Choo-choo! Choo-choo!


Socrates, old boy: What are you up to now?



Oh, toodles, fair youth. I'm just playing with my new miniature train set! Choo-choo! Choo-choo!


Your new what?



Oh, forgive me, son of Cleinias: These "trains," as I call them, haven't actually been invented yet, but something tells me that they're going to be very popular someday.





If you say so, Socks. But what exactly are they for?



Well, you see these rectangular boxlike contraptions with wheels?


Indeed.



Well, they travel along these two so-called rails, like chariots, if you will, that are magically limited to following one specific path.


Cool beans.



Mind you, the trains of the future will probably be much bigger than this, so that actual human beings like you and I can ride on them.


I see. But there's one thing that bothers me.



Speak, son of Deinomache.


Well, how can I put this? I'm just surprised, to say the least, that you, of all people, are playing with toys like this: you said so yourself!



Did I say that I was "playing with" this thing?


Those were your very words.



I meant to say that I was "contemplating it from a philosophical viewpoint," of course!


Oh, yes, of course, :Socrates: "Philosophical viewpoint," indeed. Wink, wink!



Wink me no winks, Alcibiades: I'm serious here: I'm really contemplating this train from a philosophical viewpoint.


Oh, yeah? Then why were you going "choo-choo, choo-choo" when I arrived, Socks?



Okay, Alcibiades, you have me there: I was getting a little carried away with that admittedly childish onomatopoeia. But then you know how us guys feel about trains -- or you can at least imagine how we WILL feel about trains once the transportation in question is finally invented.

Death, grasshopper, Death.


Death, Dear Teacher? What mean'st thou?


Come, grasshopper, sit on yon log whilst I -- no, not that log, grasshopper, THAT log. THAT log.

What, this one?


No, not THAT one -- why would I ask you to sit way over there?! Over here, grasshop-- no! not on that log either! -- Oh, just sit down somewhere on this silly mountaintop! Honestly, grasshopper, you would try the patience of a saint with your awkward bumbling!


I kneel in abject self-loathing, Dear Teacher.


Oh, you kneel in nothing of the kind! Now, chin up! You know very well that I like you very much -- nay, you're my best student, if only at the end of the day, as our British gurus like to say -- but you really must get yourself together, man. You've no idea how difficult it is for me to remain stony and philosophically impassive with you bumbling around me like Inspector Clouseau of the Parisian surete! It's like warily watching a bee at a picnic and being forced in spite of oneself to engage in morbid speculation about where the insect will next alight. Indeed, one is very tempted right now to haul off and swat you one with the nearest available manuscript! (Speaking of which, I've got a thick copy of Plato's Republic here inside my cloak, so you'd better mind your p's and q's today, mon cher student.)

I'm William Asphodel of Antiques Roadshow. Today we are in the historic town of Pitts in Northern England (known jokingly to many local residents around here as "THE Pitts"), in front of the post-modern turrets of Wrinkled Brough Castle. It was here in the year 2112 that Prince William XXXII signed the official peace treaty ending World War Eight. 500 years later and the town is now just a Neo-Chav backwater, with only one public teleportation center and a mere handful of interactive hologram parks -- but today we're going to bring Pitts into the 28th century as thousands of cosmopolitan antique lovers from Euro Sector Seven converge on this once-tranquil commons behind me, eager to learn the potential dollar value of the knickknacks that they've inherited from their ancestors. Rumor has it that some of those family heirlooms date all the way back to the early 21st century and include an anti-botox bumper sticker, a politically minded coffee mug advocating self-service at gas stations, and even a geeky mousepad celebrating a programming language called 'PHP', one of the original programming languages of the Internet. Indeed, the Internet was just getting started in the early 21st century, so a treasure trove from that time period should be a real historical eye-opener, indeed.








Aha! So, you have a bumper sticker, as they used to call them, from the 21st century?



Yes, that's right.


How do you know that it's from the 21st century?



Well...






I don't REALLY know, I suppose -- but our family has always assumed it was from back then.


And maybe it is -- let's take a look, shall we?




Well, first, of course, we see the text, and it says: "Age before Botox."

Wemaster Brian: Company Halt!


Webmaster pacing menacingly in front of cadets


Webmaster: Private Lil Wayne!

Lil Wayne: Yes, Sir, Webmaster, Sir!

Webmaster: Well, if it isn't the 'young Millie aire' who's (now let me see if I've got this right...) 'tougher than Nigerian hair'?

Lil Wayne: Yes, Sir, Webmaster, Sir!

Webmaster: Get down and give me 20 for racism, sexism, and inciting violence against police officers in the song 'Milli'.









Webmaster: Oh, so you find that funny, do you... Kanye West, is it?

Kanye West: Yes, Sir, Webmaster, Sir!

Webmaster: Well, suppose we just take a look at YOUR lyrics lately, huh, in, uh... that masterpiece that you recorded with Young Jeezy: What's it called? Oh, yes: "Put On."

Kanye West: Sir!

Webmaster: And I quote!

How many people like death? Let's see a show of hands.

No, seriously; I look at it like this, folks:

I will no more be dead in 100 years FROM now than I WAS 'dead' 100 years AGO.

Get it?

Props to 19-century Teutonic philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, by the way, for vouchsafing me that comforting paradigm in his lovely little beachside 'read' he called 'The World as Will and Idea.'

Of course, I do have a bit of a conceptual problem when it comes to immortality. You see, it's been my lot in life to make (how should I put this...?) a few enemies, shall we say? and well...

It's not clear to me that immortality would actually be a GOOD thing if those enemies of mine were permitted to share immortality WITH me.


I'll be like: "Gee, God, thanks for the offer of immortality and everything, but frankly, if you're going to include my arch-nemeses Kevin M. and Ronald C. in that offer, I think I'll sit this one out, if it's all the same to you!"




No, seriously, seriously! Otherwise I can see me up in heaven, getting all comfortable and snug in my own fleecy cumulostratus cloud, maybe even primping one corner of the cloud up into an ergonomically correct pillow for my now-ethereal neckbones, right?

And then suddenly the heaven elevator door chimes and voila: standing there before me in the traditional white church choir robe is Bluto the bully from my 3rd grade homeroom class...





And he's like: Move over, shortstuff: God says I'm lodging with you, see?

And I'll be like, Crikey, there goes the neighborhood!

Dear Diary,

I'll be honest with you, I was a little skeptical about the proposal to arm airline pilots, but today's Washington Post reports that the pilots will be required to keep their semi-automatics in a lockbox.

Naturally, that's a different story.

(By the way, what do you make of today's unpredicted snowstorm? They say we may get six to eight inches by Friday.)

Of course I can hear the gun lobby at this very moment: "If guns are in lockboxes, only criminals will have keys to those lockboxes!"

Or something like that.

But if you really want something to worry about, think about an airline pilot going crazy while aloft, now that we've armed him or her to the teeth, both with the tactical weapon of a gun and the blunt instrument of the airplane itself.

(And there's still a good 3 inches on the ground, not to mention plowed drifts in excess of 3 feet.)

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the Second Amendment if it means the right to bear the sorts of arms that existed at the time it was written (slow-loading blunderbusses and the like). What I object to is the notion that this right extends in perpetuity to all descendants of those primitive weapons, including semi-automatic rifles and laser-guided pieces, provided that the magical word "gun" appears in their description. By this logic (or rather by this total lack of differentiation) we must tolerate nuclear-powered handguns should they pop up on the streets -- for make no mistake: if nuclear-powered handguns are outlawed, only outlaws will have nuclear-powered handguns.

(Fortunately, I like snow, however.)

I took a SAM missile right through the thorax up in Iceland during World War X. I don't know what a thorax is, but apparently it's expendable because I'm still alive.


Pause


Well, I say "alive" -- I'm actually sidelined in this godforsaken V.A. hospital... but boy, can I go flying in my dreams! Just look at this.



Wheeee!





The only problem is, dreams have to end, and one eventually wakes up and finds oneself starring in a politically correct morality play designed to ostentatiously stick a humongous metaphorical vampire stake through the heart of a pathologically despised ex-president...








Who the heck is this moron in the wheelchair?


Please, Grace! Is that any way to talk to a cripple?!