Posts Tagged ‘Comedy’

Vegetable salad

Rather a basic western menu from a chef of ill repute. The bamboo one is a bit devious

Claustrophobic carrots sighing
as they leave the soil
Peas that plead to simmer when
the water wants to boil
Potatoes that must shiver when the
knife descend to peel
Cabbages that when undressed a
coldness surely feel
Runner beans that grow new legs when
they are chopped to size
Bamboo shoots that almost always
end in painful cries
Onion layers that quiver when they
sense it’s time to part
Vegetable quandaries hereby
served up à la carte.

Perhaps you’re stimulated to add your own (even more exotic :-)) double set of ingredients? If so, let me know.

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The Theater of the Absurd is less than half full.
The presenter of tonight’s show walks onto the stage – a rotund gentleman of uneasy gait.

‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to our cold, heartless theater and the new show. We have an impressive group of artists to perform for you tonight, I hope you’ll agree.’ (more…)

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My face is full of yummy
my mouth is almost too
and Mummy’s looking angry
with hints of love it’s true.

Brown fingers on the sofa
and hands upon the wall,
the carpet, and that thingy
whose name I can’t recall.

I saw it when I looked up
I reached out on tip toe
My fingers grasped its bottom
The rest I guess you know.

The jar is now half empty
I stare into her eyes
I smile to hide those feelings
She shakes her head and sighs.

I dip my finger into
that soft sweet yummy yum.
It may just be the last time
I get some in my tum.

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A sexton is a bell-ringer and general odd job man around the church if my Oxford Dictionary really knows anything about the subject. I hope they all have a fruitful life and can later pull in a good pension.
This piece has really nothing to do with sex or sextons – well not directly anyway – but I felt in a naughty mood and wanted to see how many readers would be drawn to my boudoir with the word blazoned in the heading to light up expectant eyes and attract those of a curious bent. I won’t get to find out who you are, of course, but the numbers should get pumped up somewhat. I realize this may work against me but what the hell have I got to lose. (more…)

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Garden of dreams

It was pleasant in that garden
where the gnomes all stand in rows
but now though it rains most fry days
not a sausage ever grows.

Two old wizened trees are standing
with their trunks now at half-mast,
creepers pulling them down slowly
to reveal what still holds fast.

There’s a greenhouse brown and aging,
thankful to be free from pane.
No more hammering and howling
from the storms with hail and rain.

Earth is crumbled, gray and failing,
yearning for the roots of old,
leaves of those it still remembers
tempering the heat and cold.

Look! There sits the owner snoozing
in the afternoon sunlight,
perhaps dreaming how things might be
in a gardener’s delight.

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I read in the following headline in a local newspaper:
“One-legged man steals one shoe”
This took place in Belgium, apparently. The man and his wife were both over sixty years old, Russian, and destitute. In the circumstances no further action was taken by the police and they were released. Whether or not the man was allowed to keep his new shoe wasn’t reported.
While not wanting to rub salt into anyone’s wound it does make one think.

I came up with following headlines:

“One-armed man caught robbing a one-armed bandit”
“One-eyed man injured while winking at girl”
“Lawyer cross-examines cross-eyed witness”
“One-legged detainee makes a dash for freedom”
“Father in wheelchair stands up for his son’s innocence”
“Light-fingered suspect gets heavy sentence”
“Bald fugitive escapes capture by a hair’s breadth”
“Car crash victim drives his case home”
“Sailor’s plea thrown overboard by judge”
“Gardener planted false evidence to incriminate owner”
“Astronaut found guilty of parking in protected space”
“Doctor should have been more patient”

Please give me a few more if you’re so inclined.

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Sensual organs

I’ve got a nose for business
Which I keep in a jar
I take it out when things get tough
Or approach the bizarre
It sits there on my office desk
And gets strange looks from those
Who wonder what it’s doing there
Sporting a turned up pose

I’ve got an ear for music
Which I keep in a jar
It inclines more to Bach and Brahms
Than twangings of guitar
It sits there next to CDs of
Santana and Pink Floyd
And when I play those very loud
It’s closed and most annoyed

I’ve got an eye for beauty
Which I keep in a jar
It doesn’t look at Auntie Jane
But sees you from afar
It sits there by the window pane
Staring around to view
The wonders born of Nature’s heart
That capture it anew.

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I read a report today in the press of a newly proposed UK government measure to reduce human CO2 production. The population is to be issued with specially developed trendy masks containing recyclable CO2 filters. The idea is that they will be worn at least eight hours a day and that those who wear them longer (which can apparently be measured by the mask) will be rewarded with national lottery tickets and the chance of a five day holiday anywhere in Iceland. Apparently, a test is being carried out in Cobblers on the Wold, a cozy, picturesque village on the edge of Cotswolds.
Although difficult to understand through the masks, a female reporter did manage to carry out a few interviews – it seems the speech membrane is still being worked on.
Houseman Gordon Soapsud said it was a chore having to remove and refit the mask numerous times every day to eat and he thought the special straw provided by the manufacturer to aid in drinking wouldn’t really catch on. He added that the gills which opened when breathing in didn’t really relieve the discomforting warmth and the perspiration build up. When asked if he didn’t find the demands of the authorities a little over the top, he admitted to some reservations about having yet another waste container in the house to contain the daily filter modules. With a hardly perceptible smile he further told that the giving of spontaneous kisses was also becoming a thing of the past.
Mildred Highbrow said she thought it terrible that everyone now looked the same. It was difficult to tell who was who through the eye slits and her friends often changed their hair color. She added that she’d never really studied the height and shape of people as much as she did now. She’d also noticed a tendency for everyone wearing masks to wave less at passers-by than they normally would have done. Apparently, mistakes of recognition had resulted in numerous embarrassing moments, and there had been more than one case of physical violence – a normally unheard of occurrence.
Constable Coppem said that the police were worried that the wearing of masks might encourage criminality. Although it was only a matter of kids stealing apples at present, he was concerned for the future.
Mavis Flirtingly said she found the masks rather erotic. Her partner had already adapted the Darth Vador outfit he wore during their Star Wars fantasy big bang.
Mayor Diddling Tenants said he was proud of the villagers for agreeing to undergo the test. Though he realized it was not an easy task, he had assured them that their efforts for a cleaner world would put Cobblers on the Wold firmly back on the map, and his pig farm and other local businesses would undoubtedly gain from the extra publicity as would the flagging tourist industry.
The reporter came away with the idea that though people were not as hostile to the wearing of masks as she’d thought, there were still many problems to be solved before general acceptance of the measure could be counted on. But as her Editor had said while lighting his Cuban, ‘A cleaner environment couldn’t be achieved without sacrifice.’

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Another heap of junk is about to collide at high velocity with the Moon to test a theory about ice possibly lying in abundance near its poles. This is important for any humans who are planning to exploit it in the near future, not in the least because they’ll need ice in their cokes when the Sun is high.
I hope any sentient creature there will get an inkling of disaster before it gets spread into infinitesimally small, some probably twitching pieces – as cows sense an approaching storm. It is almost certain that microscopic life forms will be sent to their heaven up there, presumably above the none existent sky, perhaps arriving on Earth and eventually replacing us with those of a more enlightened nature.
Man has done this before with the Moon: some eastern nation, probably China, did the same thing not long ago, I believe, though I’m not interested enough to look it up.
Man feels he has a right to blunder his way into the universe any way he sees fit, using collisions (as above), nosy rovers digging holes everywhere and left-over robots now disintegrating in some toxic atmosphere. Perhaps some earthly microbes that have hitched a ride undetected are even now mutating into exciting new forms.
Of course, I should also mention the thousands of pieces of junk flying around our own planet, some still pinging their way in orbit, some dead or dying and heading for the upper atmosphere where they will burn up, perhaps spreading some nasty part of their innards downwards in the process.
The astronauts who landed on the moon seem to have been pretty milieu friendly, leaving little else but a lot of footprints and a few leftovers like a stiff US flag and some reflecting mirrors. These will no doubt cause any visiting aliens a few headaches (if they have heads that is) unless man returns first to clean up a bit. Odds are he will return before long and I wonder how much longer it will then be before the landing sights are turned into tourist attractions with exciting new low-gravity experiences?
Will there be a Mount Armstrong, a Duke City or perhaps a Mitchell Gorge?
Mars has also had its share of unexpected intruders though it has managed to swat quite a few before they could carry out their self centered missions. One made a significant crater of its own on landing due to a mix-up over the system of measurement used by its computer to plot speed and distance, causing the brakes to be applied a little too late.
One Russian probe was zapped in the neighborhood of Phobos under mysterious circumstances. The Phobosians probably have a national day to celebrate.
The early Viking orbiters took pictures of features on the surface of Mars before flying on to oblivion and beyond. Unfortunately due to lack of detail many geological features took on the form of artificial ones when studied by those not brainwashed by science – a human impediment (not science) which may yet prove useful. Unfortunately, later orbiters with sharper eyes appear to show that these earlier signs of civilization are but optical illusions, though only when a human or an advanced robot can run rampage through the Cydonia region or accidentally comes across a beer can somewhere else, which might in turn might lead to a mysterious entrance into a Martian underground extravaganza, will most be convinced one way or the other.
I find it a great pity that these traveling rovers always seem to be put down in the most visually boring locations, so that we laypeople are left with nothing else to do but imagine letters and numbers scrawled on rocks and boulders shaped like familiar objects or gasp with limited excitement at seeing another dust devil spinning by.
I do hope we are not alone within the accessible vicinity of space and that others, whoever or whatever they are, are going to teach us a very good lesson before long.

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Head count

Mister Mills has half a brain
His wife one owned by few
But even they have less than half
We’d need for five point two
Now if you have a normal brain
And your loved one has too
Then with my own we might just reach
The sum of five point two
‘Why five point two?’ I hear you say
‘Why not just make it five?’
But that would spoil this little rhyme
I’ve worked hard to contrive.

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My computer, an aging desktop model, is going away for a week. It was all rather sudden but it had to get away it said, otherwise it couldn’t guarantee being able to blog any more because it wasn’t feeling all that well.
How does it speak to me? Through emails of course, doesn’t yours?
So anyway, rather reluctantly I said okay though I’m sure my sour expression spoke book loads, even though I quickly added a smile of compassion.
It’s going to a recuperation center where it’ll be cleared of all toxins and other bits and bobs lying around inside its hard discs. It also needs a good rubbing down (massage it calls it, can you imagine?) to clear away the dust and other unsavory remains of the last six months.
It hopes it hasn’t caught any viruses because that might put a real damper on the proceedings. It knows I do everything within my power to keep it healthy though apparently it doesn’t rate my power too highly, especially as I still refuse to invest in a new firewall to replace the Windows one which it looks on with disdain and mistrust. I’ve tried to explain that the modem has a firewall of its own and that I’ve had bad experiences with those I’ve tried but that doesn’t seem to satisfy it. Well, I’m satisfied and it seems to have accepted the stalemate, at least for the time being.
When it comes back all shiny and irritably refreshed I expect the bickering will start again.
I have a notebook (well, actually, I’m not its true owner as it keeps telling me) but after a long discussion – it does so go on – it refuses to take over the blogging job because it says it doesn’t have the necessary know how and doesn’t trust me to set things up correctly even if it would consider it. Irritable little twerp! It even threatens switching itself off if I try to log in! Can it really do that?
I hope your “comrades” are more accessible than my tormentors. Perhaps it’s just an age thing.
Well, I know it’s all a shock but I promise I’ll be back in business as soon as possible.

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A Tour de Force

A fictitious journey through the English countryside. Any resemblance to actual place names is entirely accidental

I came from Humping Meadows
by way of Weeping Gorge;
drove on to Buttocks Clenching
where you’ll find Uncle George.

Then on to Mildly Gasping
through sleepy Pasture Peak,
and right for Delving Deeply
where I’d been just last week.

A long stretch then to Cumbold,
Much Panting, and Knobs Bend,
stopping in Middle Bonking
then on to Heavens End.

At last in Creeping Major
I found the Old Queens Arms
and stayed for one night only
to sample her famed charms.

Refreshed I left next morning
for home in Alice Falls,
on Nathans Point which rises
as if it to her calls.

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The pot sat on the shelf a lot
but sometimes next to Fireman Bill,
who stood there on the window sill
his brain void of a safety drill
for if the pot’s contents should spill.


Writers are those blighters who
will tell you truths and lies.
They’re often good with metaphors
they hope you to surprise,
and turns of phrase made to amaze
they’ll feed to hungry eyes.

Whether prose or poetry
or scripts or even hymns,
with idioms and similes,
anto- or syno- nyms,
they’ll sweep up your emotions wild
to chase away megrims.


Please tell me your secret or give me a clue
Is it an illusion or could it be true?
Magic it may be but then also a trick
I guess from your silence I can take my pick.

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I was visiting someone’s site this morning which contains the author’s poetry and some short stories. The latest poem was full of feeling and quite moving but, for me, the flow could have been better. There were just too many pebbles causing disturbing eddies.
I got to thinking how difficult it is to comment on poetry, especially as I don’t consider myself anyone who is qualified to pass judgment on another’s work. This author gets more visitors than I do, for heavens sake!
Of course, on a personal level, what it boils down to is, “Do I like it or not?”
But I don’t find it easy to convey the reason why using such an impersonal medium as the internet. One naturally tends to be overly considerate of the other’s feelings and to often hide negative comments by not commenting at all, though this does rather defeat the object of the exercise. Then again, poets are often those teetering on the edge of insanity so one must be wary of giving them a push in the wrong direction :-).
An added disadvantage is the fact that commenting hardly ever takes the form of a dialogue in real time.
So commenting does tend to give, at best, a distorted view of one’s talents. If one desires better qualification, one can throw one’s efforts to the wolves by posting them on a site where “experts” are gathered and constantly shifting in their seats waiting to cast their opinions. I have occasionally done this, though it can be quite an unnerving experience – definitely not for the squeamish.
Of course, there’s still a lot of disagreement concerning style and technique.
Should poetry be punctuated like prose or only when necessary to avoid confusion? Should first letters be capitals?
Flow is important though rhyming is not necessary in achieving it.
Getting a poem to flow without recourse to rhyming is a most demanding task, one I avoid as much as possible. Anyway, I like rhyming.
I must admit to having a preference for poems of a more philosophical nature and humor can be quite refreshing. Deeply personal emotional outbursts often leave me floundering in the dark desperately trying to find a light switch. Come to think of it many less hard hitting poems do that too, though no doubt this can often be put down to a dismal failure on my part to comprehend.
That’s another thing, lack of comprehension. I personally avoid adding explanations to poems as they seem to me to rather destroy the element of discovery. Of course, this implies that one should equally strive to avoid a lack of clarity, something in which I am undoubtedly not always successful especially when delving into more abstract topics.
And there you have it again, commenting is the desired means of communication between author and reader also to restore clarity, though for the reasons given above its usefulness is too often limited.

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It seems to me that blogging can be compared to an “open house” where the door’s nearly always open and anyone can come in and look around. The owners might be there at the front door to meet you, working in house or out back pulling the weeds. Maybe they’re away for a short vacation. If they’re home and you want to chat, ask questions or make suggestions then fire away, but try to match the politeness of the inhabitants. Anyway, it’s certainly appreciated if one enters something in the visitor’s book before leaving.

Well, what have I got on offer today to any would be visitor who has either been here before and enjoys the company and the ambience, lost their way and ended up here by accident or arrived just out of curiosity.

It’s been a bit quiet here lately – haven’t had much inspiration as you’ve already gathered. I’ve been reading quite a bit though.

I’ve been following Bill Bryson with some enjoyment on his trip through America in “The Lost Continent”. He delivers a rather negative view of America in the late 1980’s with its over-commercialization and a general lack of interest in preservation and conservation. Although a born American, he had already lived a while in Great Britain when he undertook this visit to the States to find his dream town Amalgam – a childhood fantasy. The people don’t come off too well as seen by this now British tourist. Nevertheless there’s a lot of humor and entertaining flashbacks of his earlier life in Iowa and childhood holidays with his extremely frugal father. A good read if you don’t take his critique too seriously.

Just for the fun of it I got to thinking about possibly useful and invigorating courses that might be available if one searches around:

1. “Brick making for beginners” with its companion course “Simple kilns”

2. “Vegetable growing without a garden”

3. “How to remain on equal terms with your cat”

4. “Easy ways to walk your dog”

5. “Caged bird psychology”

6. “Serious tax evasion”

7. “Coercion techniques for managers” with its companion course “Coercion

essentials for employees”

8. “Effective rush hour tactics” with its companion course “Advanced shoving”

9. “How to drive slowly without annoying other road users”

Well just a few ramblings for now.

Have a better one!

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Mars looked down from his throne at the multitude in the great hall. It was a time of celebration: nothing in particular, just a celebration that Mars thought it was time for.
Things were going well with warring; there was always one going on somewhere, thank Mars.
He rubbed his hands together and looked down at his favorite mortals, wine sloshing in their goblets. There were Adolf and Genghis of course, always good for a lot of shouting and table thumping, at the very least. Napoleon and a handful of Caesars were arguing some point of strategy with a Japanese Emperor – a particularly notorious one whose name Mars couldn’t quite remember. Well, it had been a long evening.
He could see smoke rising from Genghis’s rather shabby clothing, still smoldering from the attentions of the servants of Pluto, down under.
Bacchus, with a lot of backslapping, was dealing out wine as if there were no tomorrow.
Mars turned to Venus sitting by his side and smiled. She smiled back lovingly. She didn’t really enjoy all this debauchery, but, as she didn’t get out much these days, it was a pleasant change from brooding over lost love. And, anyway, Mars was always tender when he took his mind off battles and weapons, which, unfortunately, seemed to occur less and less these days. Sometimes even immortality sucked.
“How’s Cupid these days?” asked Mars, smiling sincerely.
“Oh, well, well,” she answered somewhat distantly, “the trouble with his pulling arm has gone away, so his arrows are flying around again increasing populations.”
“That’s good news,” said Mars.
“More population, more wars,” he thought. It was a simple equation as far as mortals were concerned.
In the middle of the hall a large group was fighting now. He could see arms and legs flying about as swords flashed in the light from the enormous open fire and the massive hanging chandeliers. Cannon balls were flying around willy-nilly and muskets were exploding their body carving innards. Nuclear weapons and other advanced technical horrors were not recognized by the Gods, and mortals who used them down there could expect little mercy when later being assigned their afterlife fates up here.
Mars, who lead the original debate, had said that he found these weapons to be a little, well, too much. They were so, well, undemocratic. Complete annihilation just happened too damned fast. No glory in that. There had to be gushing blood and visible sinews, not instant atomic particles, at far as he was concerned. And he would continue to be the concerned party for some time to come, he’d decided. Oh, there were others who had tried to take his power away, but none had succeeded or even lived to enjoy prolonged immortality. The other Gods had agreed pretty much whole heartedly, though Diana had gingerly admitted to getting a teeny-weeny amount of pleasure from big bangs.
Times were good as even Saturn had to admit.
(Time to Gods is, or course, a rather trivial and awfully relative thing. In fact, they wouldn’t have much to do with it at all, if it weren’t for its necessity in dealings with mortals.)
The smoke was getting rather thick now in the hall and there was a lot of coughing from those who still could, so Mars raised his hand and, as trumpets sounded, the hall fell silent. The air-conditioners did their work and the broken furniture, undead bodies, and parts thereof, were quickly removed by his minions. Swords were sheathed and muskets lowered. Gun carriages withdrew into the shadows. Tom (The Great) Minion had his whip cracking as always, and son Alf shook a fist at Adolf who had raised his one good arm again. It was an old habit.
Everyone suddenly looked up as Mercury, who had taken on the roll of The Messenger with some gusto, suddenly flew in through a high window, and after circling round a few times for effect, alighted like a feather on the podium just in front of Mars, though at a respectful distance.
“Well, Freddie, what is it this time?” said Mars, always fascinated by the ridiculously small folding wings.
“Jupiter’s coming,” said Freddie, rather out of breath and still missing his Queen.
“Damn! Always comes uninvited that one,” said Mars, stroking his beard, “and he always makes such a show of being the BOSS – that booming voice of his and all the lightning bolts flying around disturbing the guests. Never takes the hint either from all the cowering in fright.”
“Well, got to be off again,” said Freddie. “More messages to deliver. Catch you again soon and have a good one!”
With flapping wings and a short wave he rose, circling upwards, until he became a small speck and disappeared through the same window.
“Show off!” shouted Mars to the dissipating eddies, and then turning to Venus, “Well, it looks as though things are going to get really out of hand again then. Big Daddy’s underway and you know what that means,” he said.
The feasting in the hall gathered new momentum.
‘Yes, and he’s such an awful bore, even when he gets round to talking. I don’t know how Juno puts up with him,” said Venus, admiring the rippling muscles of some stalwart just below.
Suddenly a feeling came over her, though it wasn’t love.

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I walked at a run down the dimly lit corridor, its lighting blinding my eyes. On each side there were doors, some opening inwards, some opening outwards, and there were others.
Some rooms were empty with only a few people inside but many were fully empty. In one I saw Jack who was just out of sight.
“Hi Jack,” I called out loudly so as not to disturb the others.
Looking up he turned away and waved.
“Hey Jan,” he thought walking over and giving me a hand which I quickly concealed in the bag I was carrying on about.
“Thanks,” I said. “How did you know?”
“That you needed a hand?” he said.
“No,” I smiled grimly.
“Oh, well you asked me for one didn’t you?” he said.
“I don’t remember. When was that?” I said.
“In about ten minutes, if my watch is right which I left at home,” he said.
“Oh well, I guess I won’t be needing it until then,” I said fumbling in the bag where the hand should have been but wasn’t.
“It’s not here,” I said.
“Well It wouldn’t be would it? I haven’t given it to you yet,” he said peering into the now closed bag.
“Oh how stupid,” I said, feeling clearly faint.
“Never mind old chap,” he said. “If you need one then let me know. I’ll still be gone when you come back.”
“Oh, right Jack,” I said wearily. “Well thanks for the hand you’re going to give me. It really helped.”
“No trouble, it really is,” he said offering me a hand.
I shook it and after thanking him again he closed the door and disappeared inside.
The bag felt heavy but I didn’t dare open it.

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There’s a lot of confusion about Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity, especially amongst those relatively new to the subject and those who are not easily seduced by their betters. Its application to the real universe is a subject that has preoccupied minds small and large alike.
The theory assumes that there are dimensions that collectively form a space-time continuum, in rectangular coordinates measurable using three of distance and one of time, say x, y, z and t. It further assumes that the speed of light is constant and that the Lorentz transformation equations determine the translation of dimensional quantities between space-time coordinate systems in uniform or un-accelerated relative motion. Uniform is very important even in non-military applications. Oh and accurate clocks are unmissable if one wants to measure anything useful.

Time for thought

Time seems to me to be just man’s way of measuring change in form or motion as detected by the senses. It is a particular source of confusion especially amongst those who still rely on the accuracy of timetables.
There is the infamous (I almost said “famous”) twin paradox of Einstein, which states that twins age at different rates due to their differing relative uniform motions. I have come up with an example which, though perhaps rather involved, is I believe a more graphic disproof of this premise.
Consider if you will (and even if you wouldn’t if you weren’t reading this) the following thought experiment.
There are three spaceships A, B and C (there is military censorship on their real names) from the same home planet somewhere in space-time. A and B are doing their best to move in a circular orbit, maintaining a constant distant between themselves, around a common centre where C is situated. All three have all been instructed that no relative accelerations are to be made between their vessels under pain of reduced rations or worse. They are thus in perfect relative uniform motion.
Specially trained observers (STO’s) on board have accurate clocks for the measurement of time that also wake one up with military precision to alien ditties. These devices have been calibrated based on some measurement made on their home world – the vibrations of something vibrant, the orbit of something orbiting, whatever. The source is immaterial providing the intervals measured do not vary within the apparatus itself. We shall call a unit of time which the clock records a tock (as tick is an unacceptable word in the language of this system).
The STO’s on A, B and C have received instructions to grab their synchronized clocks and at a certain prearranged moment their space ships are to accelerate at a prearranged rate towards a prearranged star S. They are all to take time measurements of a sister ship O as it moves at the same moment from a nearby moving space station X to another moving station Y in non-uniform motion.
Two bridge officers who questioned the whole idea as being a waste of time and resources (as you might do) were immediately replaced and sent to BigDig 5 where they now gouge for something only slightly precious.
Now let us assume that when O reaches Y, STO A’s clock has measured five hundred tocks.
Are you still with me? Only just. Well hang on, here comes the crunch. The observers on B and C will measure the same time interval. Yes, it’s unbelievable but true.
Note that the only constant factors here are the tocks of the identical clocks and the uniform relative motion of A, B and C. All other distances, velocity- and acceleration vectors and, for example, ideas on space hygiene are variables.
To reiterate, under the given conditions the measured times of the three STO’s will be the equal.
I believe that anyone using a modicum of pure or slightly soiled thought and who knows how to handle coordinates like x, y, z and t, must arrive at the same conclusion, eventually.
I know what you’re thinking. Where’s the mathematical proof?
Well although such a thing is possible, one of this nature is extremely tiresome and time consuming, not to say difficult. Its formulation can easily lead to enormously irritating errors which can multiply exponentially. One I concocted some time ago automatically incinerated, probably due to an overheated pencil, before I could make a copy, so I’d just take my word for it if I were you.
Many students do that even with the oversimplified examples one comes across in textbooks. A professor of mathematics, where I buy eggs and who prefers to remain anonymous, has assured me that my reasoning is at least 95% valid, which is enough agreement for me anyway.
Nevertheless, I would welcome any mathematical proofs especially if they agree with my conclusions, but please note that these should be checked and checked again before being sent, because at the first sign of an error or confusion they will be duly cast into a three dimensional cylindrical container with gently sloping sides and a flat bottom.
I would therefore state that the measurement of time is just that and no more. It can have influence on real physical processes.
If there are any extremely rich, preferably uniform, twins out there who would like too spend some time orbiting Earth at great speed to prove or disprove the theory, then they should approach the NASA via the portal http://www.nasaguineapigs.org where one can sign up. Rewards can be quite prestigious.
Of course uniform motion is something alien to the universe anyway, which has decided that non circular curves are the real McCoy and still smiles at man’s attempts to give all sorts of strange forces the blame for the lack of straight lines and circles.

The Photon Puzzle (shedding light on light)

The photon is considered theoretically as being both a particle and a wave. It zips around in a vacuum of nothingness (which doesn’t exist in reality) at an enormous speed which is called, perhaps not surprisingly, the speed of light (TSOL).
The Theory of Relativity tells us, adamantly, that no object can travel at or exceed TSOL because if it did then its mass would become infinite or worse, and that tends to fill up the known and perhaps the unknown portions of the universe rather quickly. Precisely how quickly the theory doesn’t say.
Hey, wait a minute! Stop me if I’m wrong! Doesn’t that apply to the photon itself which means it also would have infinite mass? Scientists who don’t like this sort of feedback and after an excruciating moment’s thought will explain this seeming paradox by stating that the rest mass (the mass when stationary) of the photon is zero.
Uh, what!
Now as every serious science student knows, the photon is never at rest but always on the go. So saying it has a zero or even negative rest mass is just a ploy to fool the innocent, absolve the guilty, or silence any who might just dare to question authority.
How dare you suggest…
Oh shut up!

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Just for fun – 4

An English eccentric called Fry
Thought on rockets to ascend and fly 
As he opened his arms
He ignored all alarms
And they both ended up in Dubai

There once was a doctor called Durse
Whose patients got steadily worse
She gave them more pills
Hoping to cure their ills
But they still ended up in a hearse

There was a dumb banker called Crane
Whose investors demanded more gain
So he gave out sub-primes
Blind to coming bad times
Now his assets distressed bring but pain

A NASA employee named Brace   
Unexpectedly ended in space
Whilst checking the wiring
Her foot caused a firing
And now she’s a floating disgrace

There was a truck driver named Hearst
Who took a left turn for the worst
The freight had a fright
As it left to the right
But it soon found its fortune reversed

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Black holes are cosmic guzzlers
Gulping is all they do
They don’t have any manners
And they dribble sometimes too

They’ve hardly any whiskers
Spitting they love to do
You ask me what they’re good for
Well, I wanted to ask you

I cannot think why Nature
Would want them round at all
They’re just so very frightful
Always winning in a brawl

I hope science is kidding
And they do not exist
Einstein might well be weeping
Such a joke he’d not have missed

Theories look good on paper
Can earn a buck or two
But put them into practice
And the laugh might be on you

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