Uhh... Hi. This is Branwen. Vodbog and Bruce are both unavailable for this post, so they uh, requested that I do it. In a very persistant manner. Luckily, I was prepared, and had the time to ask them their views on a random topic:
Particle Physics
V:
"Scientists say that you can't see the quantum particles, such as muons and pions, but I see them all around me: Branwen's mother has raveons and rantons pop in regularly, while fartons seem to be passing through her father on a regular basis, and her brothers contain high quantities of pissons so far as the toilet seats are concerned, and pissoffs whenever she is around. Little Dan even has a few wantons and whineons, but they're not rare in her family...Like most families, there are never shortages of cryons, laughons, funons, and borons. There are plenty of crayons lying around from when they were really young, when there never seemed to be any sleepons. Even now, theshowmustgoons keep her parents up all night. Bruce is full of carryons that nerver leave his side, while Branwen is brimming with dreamons.
It's not just them, though: Whenever I meet new people, I find Tallons, shortons, fatons, thinons as well as oldons, youngons, and even some wearagreencoatdoesthisons. I don't think the scientists know what they're talking about, because I'm pretty sure anyone can see those-ons..."
B:
"Pfft, are humans still going on about those things? I've surpassed that level of thinking entirely."
Thanks for reading, and sorry about the long absence. You'd think we had a lot to talk about, but nothing really happens when you live away from everything that exists...
Monday, 28 December 2009
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
Housework and Poetry
Now, no one can say that the kind Sir ever asks for much. The odd thing here and there to keep him entertained, out of people's hair and off their backs, but there is only one thing that he might be a little fussy about, and that is housework. He doesn't do it himself, of course. He is Sir Bruce, Lord of Black Holes [ltd.] and destroyer of all things marginally okay. He couldn't possibly do housework. He spend his time doing much more important things, such as stealing candy from babies [which, may he add, is very easy to do when he has thousands of black holes at his disposal. Side-effects include also stealing the baby and half of the playpark], keeping away from french old women, and destroying all things marginally okay. However, he does know the importance of hiegene and a clean workspace, so he took the liberty of making sure that Vodbog keeps everything nice and tidy. Well, Vodbog tries to keep everything nice and tidy, but is, unfortunatley, not very good at it...
So bad, in fact, that they inspired the Sir to write a poem about their attempt to do the dishes. Would you like to hear it? Of course you would.
It was a bad move to make you the cleaner:
You can't even do your bit.
The mugs all smell of playdough,
and the plates are covered in manure.
It is the best poem he has ever written, and he thinks it is because it was inspired by a true story, based on the truth. But then again, he doubts that some of the most famous and well known poets ever wrote the truth about feelings they felt and things they saw. Blake, Brooks, Byron, Poe... No, wait. Edgar's were mostly true, if a little exhaggerated. The Sir was never that good with an axe...
The Sir is so preoccupied with cleanliness in the house that whenever he reads about cool breezes of spring whispering over a glittering lake of blue, he thinks of fabreeze on his curtains, and whenever he reads of dainty little creatures with butterfly wings dancing through a magical if little overgrown forest, he is reminded of that time he accidentally sprayed fairy power spray on his armpits.
So bad, in fact, that they inspired the Sir to write a poem about their attempt to do the dishes. Would you like to hear it? Of course you would.
It was a bad move to make you the cleaner:
You can't even do your bit.
The mugs all smell of playdough,
and the plates are covered in manure.
It is the best poem he has ever written, and he thinks it is because it was inspired by a true story, based on the truth. But then again, he doubts that some of the most famous and well known poets ever wrote the truth about feelings they felt and things they saw. Blake, Brooks, Byron, Poe... No, wait. Edgar's were mostly true, if a little exhaggerated. The Sir was never that good with an axe...
The Sir is so preoccupied with cleanliness in the house that whenever he reads about cool breezes of spring whispering over a glittering lake of blue, he thinks of fabreeze on his curtains, and whenever he reads of dainty little creatures with butterfly wings dancing through a magical if little overgrown forest, he is reminded of that time he accidentally sprayed fairy power spray on his armpits.
Sunday, 4 January 2009
What are opposites?
Like every other year for the past year, Sir Bruce went to Fishguard to celebrate the coming of 2009. Of all the places he could have gone, it was this small, almost pitiful place he was forced to spend the precious second that took one year to the next very conspicuously in. One of the most noticed and well used seconds of all time, it seems, except for the one where you wake up from a dream and realise with relief that you didn't really go to work with no trousers or underwear on and dance on your desk in the staff meeting. Or the one almost straight after it when you see the pictures posted through your mailbox that prove that you did go to work with no trousers or pants and dance on your desk in the staff meeting, after all.
But the second doesn't really want to be heeded. He means, if the second wanted all that much to be noticed, people would actually feel something as the second passes the time from one year to the next like the baton of a never-ending relay race. [Excepting the protests of their stomachs as they attempt the impossible by processing the less-than-third-rate curry and home-brew alcohol mix.] And so the Sir has worked out, with his tremendous intelligence [and imagination] that the second only got the responsibility of New Year through winning the lottery of time, and it doesn't want anyone to notice that it has none of the necessary skills or qualifications to undertake such a task, so it tries to pass by inconspicuously. Unfortunately for it, it is very bad at this, so it's getting more attention than any other second with it's job ever before. It only continues with the job because the pay is high, and his mother, the first hour of June 12th, is very proud of him.
Due to the second being so terribly bad at going by without anyone knowing, the fireworks are much more extravagant than they used to be. The people flock to the big-city displays like mosquitoes to a MoziTrap Lantern. They hover in droves and hordes, waiting in the freezing cold outside for the sky to burst into life with coloured fire. For every hour they spend queueing and generally standing around with nothing to do but blow the cold from their stiff hands, they are given two minutes of wondering at the spectacle above them. So if they spend five hours waiting, they get to watch ten minutes of a wonderful winter skyfire extravaganza, then later in the morning, when they have gone to bed and woken again, all they have to show for it is a hang over and a neck ache.
Which is one of the reasons Vodbog dragged Sir Bruce to a smaller show, where they could be there for five minutes to watch the fireworks, then go home and be warm. It can't be said that it was amazing, or brilliant, or beautiful, but it was alright. It wasn't as exciting as ones he had been to before had been - no houses were blown apart by a misguided rocket, and none of the audience had hot, yet to explode gunpowder inserted into their eyes as they gazed up at twelve o' clock.
What got the old cogs going in the mind of a brilliant genius like the Sir himself was something so simple, it would have been overlooked by anyone else thinking of writing of the New Year. [Proof of them having inferior minds, of course] In fact, it had very little to do with the event at all. The Sir had happened to see a program on the television that showed many clips of celebrations of the New Year. Showing random displays one after another, they flicked straight from the blinding marvel of Sydney in Australia to what was flat lifeless show in comparison, set off in Cardiff - as if to scrutinize the very best effort the lazy south of Wales could summon up for the yearly event. It was said by the over-voice that the two shows were as different as light and dark, but they were both simply composed of lights in the sky after someone famous pressing a big red button.
This got Sir Bruce thinking. Light and dark are opposites, like wool and polyester, or chalk and cheese, and the meaning of the word 'Opposite' is 'Altogether Different'. But he doesn't see all that much difference between these things. Light and Dark, for example, are both shades of the same thing. Wool and Polyester are both used to make clothes, and chalk and cheese both begin with 'ch'. Dark and cheese would be more accurate, because cheese is made of matter, and dark is not. Cheese can be consumed, and dark cannot. They are true opposites. Ah, but wait - dark can be consumed by light, so they're not completely different. Light and chalk, then... No, they both have five letters! Wool and cheese. They aren't either, because if you covered someones eyes in either cheese or wool, they wouldn't be able to see. Finding true opposites is harder than he'd first thought. It's hard, even for a genius like him.
Since he, the most knowledgeable and wise being in [or out] of existence, could not find any, he has come to the conclusion that there are no opposites. Everything has some sort of likeness to everything else.
Due to the second being so terribly bad at going by without anyone knowing, the fireworks are much more extravagant than they used to be. The people flock to the big-city displays like mosquitoes to a MoziTrap Lantern. They hover in droves and hordes, waiting in the freezing cold outside for the sky to burst into life with coloured fire. For every hour they spend queueing and generally standing around with nothing to do but blow the cold from their stiff hands, they are given two minutes of wondering at the spectacle above them. So if they spend five hours waiting, they get to watch ten minutes of a wonderful winter skyfire extravaganza, then later in the morning, when they have gone to bed and woken again, all they have to show for it is a hang over and a neck ache.
Which is one of the reasons Vodbog dragged Sir Bruce to a smaller show, where they could be there for five minutes to watch the fireworks, then go home and be warm. It can't be said that it was amazing, or brilliant, or beautiful, but it was alright. It wasn't as exciting as ones he had been to before had been - no houses were blown apart by a misguided rocket, and none of the audience had hot, yet to explode gunpowder inserted into their eyes as they gazed up at twelve o' clock.
What got the old cogs going in the mind of a brilliant genius like the Sir himself was something so simple, it would have been overlooked by anyone else thinking of writing of the New Year. [Proof of them having inferior minds, of course] In fact, it had very little to do with the event at all. The Sir had happened to see a program on the television that showed many clips of celebrations of the New Year. Showing random displays one after another, they flicked straight from the blinding marvel of Sydney in Australia to what was flat lifeless show in comparison, set off in Cardiff - as if to scrutinize the very best effort the lazy south of Wales could summon up for the yearly event. It was said by the over-voice that the two shows were as different as light and dark, but they were both simply composed of lights in the sky after someone famous pressing a big red button.
This got Sir Bruce thinking. Light and dark are opposites, like wool and polyester, or chalk and cheese, and the meaning of the word 'Opposite' is 'Altogether Different'. But he doesn't see all that much difference between these things. Light and Dark, for example, are both shades of the same thing. Wool and Polyester are both used to make clothes, and chalk and cheese both begin with 'ch'. Dark and cheese would be more accurate, because cheese is made of matter, and dark is not. Cheese can be consumed, and dark cannot. They are true opposites. Ah, but wait - dark can be consumed by light, so they're not completely different. Light and chalk, then... No, they both have five letters! Wool and cheese. They aren't either, because if you covered someones eyes in either cheese or wool, they wouldn't be able to see. Finding true opposites is harder than he'd first thought. It's hard, even for a genius like him.
Since he, the most knowledgeable and wise being in [or out] of existence, could not find any, he has come to the conclusion that there are no opposites. Everything has some sort of likeness to everything else.
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