I, your intrepid eye-witness, have been in semi-hibernation for a little while, but having disposed of certain impediments to written communication for now, have emerged temporarily from my cave for a bit of a sniff around, to see what’s been going on.
My first impulse on seeing what has actually been going on was to immediately retire to the cave for a further session of hibernatory oblivion, but I decided that this would be a little bit cowardly, so I ventured forth into the Brave New World that our talented politicians are trying to create for us. Or should that be our taloned politicians, as in birds of prey?
Having discovered the sheer incompetence and corruption of seemingly just about everyone whom diversity has delivered into positions of authority, I was wending my way towards my favourite café, bent on quaffing coffee and munching muffins, when I espied my old friend, the professor, ambling along the footpath with his usual expression of borderline imbecility fixed on his face.
Some readers may recall past experiments made by this professor, using the DNA of government ministers and journalists, and will perhaps recall the disastrous results of these experiments. I knew it would be hard to attract his attention if he was engaged in mental gymnastics, but I decided that I needed to have a word with him, if only to prevent another cataclysmic event. I inwardly feared that I might be too late.
“What ho, old parsnip!” I cried, knowing that a P G Wodehousian greeting would catch his attention. But there came no response from the perspicacious prof, who continued on his way just off to starboard. “I say, old lobster!” I cried, even more loudly.
This seemed to penetrate his hyperactive brain, and he stopped and looked around. “Stilton Cheesewright?” he inquired, and then catching sight of me gave me the honour of a slight sign of recognition. “Oh, it’s you,” he stated, with a 100% level of accuracy, as I was indeed ‘you’ to him.
“How about partaking of the juice of the bean and the fruit of the oven with me?” I said, as I had not lost sight of the objective of my sally into what remained of civilisation.
“No thanks,” said the prof firmly, “but a coffee and muffin would go down well if you’re paying.”
Having assured him that I would readily cough up the required spondulicks, the prof accompanied me into the café and was soon soaking up his coffee like a nuclear-powered sponge and making spectacular inroads into a muffin the size of a basketball, as though he hadn’t eaten for a fortnight.
“How is your research going these days?” I enquired when conversation eventually became possible. “I hope that you haven’t been dabbling in further research using reject DNA as in the past.”
The professor glared at me over the top of his third coffee cup. “Dash my buttons!” he declared. “Of course not! I have learnt my lesson; on that score, you may be certain. I now realise that politician and journalist DNA is to be avoided at all costs as it is totally abnormal and it springs from some dark and evil source, the origin of which is better not imagined.” He shivered convulsively, but this may just have been the coffee tickling up his system.
“No,” he continued, “I have changed my focus towards AI and the building of androids powered by it. I have been reading much lately about the incredible exploits of the greatest race to have ever lived, and I’m trying to project this greatness into the personality of the androids.”
I racked my brains trying to imagine what race this must have been. “You mean the Ancient Greeks, or perhaps Romans?” I hazarded. “Or perhaps the Sumerians, Chaldeans, or Persians?”
The prof made a dismissive gesture. “No, no, of course not,” he cried. “It is of course the Mouldies of whom I speak.” He became excited. “It has been disclosed that these amazing people actually visited the Antarctic, in canoes and wearing nothing but grass tutus. What resilience and amazing navigation skills they must have possessed. And they found their way here from Taiwan, which they left because the locals were so intolerant of a little innocent slaughter.”
I was rather taken aback by this information. “But they had not even invented the wheel,” I said tentatively.
The prof looked at me pityingly. “Of course they had!” he said forcefully. “But they left them behind in Taiwan and found they didn’t need to reinvent them here, because when they got here they discovered there were no roads.”
“What’s the source of your information?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve started reading the newspapers again after a long period of not bothering,” said the professor. “They’re full of information from famous intelligentsia. Let me see…” and he ticked them off on his fingers. “There’s Willie Relaxin’, Nanenane Matooter, Marama Rabidson, Tookit Mouthorgan, and lots of others.”
I sighed heavily inwardly. Yet more re-education of the prof was obviously required. “How are the androids doing so far?” I asked.
It was the prof’s turn to sigh heavily. “The true intelligence is elusive,” he admitted. “So far I can only get them to enquire as to the whereabouts of the nearest tinny house, say ‘Honour the treaty, eh bro’, and ask where the nearest WINZ office is. But I’m sure I will be able to find the true spirit if I persevere.”
At this point, I spared not the prof’s feelings and pointed out that he was again repeating the mistake of believing that there was a shred of remaining integrity amongst the nation’s journalists, and that the quoted ‘intelligentsia’ were as far from that description as it was possible to get. It took some time, but eventually, realisation dawned, and the prof’s chin hit the table.
“Oh dear, oh dear, it’s back to the drawing board,” he mumbled. Having bade the prof farewell, I strolled back home, pondering the prevailing insanity and determining to fight it strongly.
