A Brief History of Time, Space and Urine

Space is curved. We all know this, it is common knowledge. Many theories of time travel rely upon this curvature, and indeed an entire branch of science was founded specifically to deal with the curviness of space. It really is quite curvy. The majority of empty space, known as Blank Space, has a curvature of roughly one quarter of a full circle, sometimes ranging to one third. Certain pockets of space, known as such due to the large amount of space lint that is generally located within such an area, are extraordinarily curvier than normal. These pockets of space possess a quality known as triple cyclicity, essentially stating that their curvature is that of three full circles. This is, of course, physically impossible, which makes it all the more interesting. Time and space actually folds back on itself, and then folds a second time, making it possible to experience past, present and future all at the same time.

This triple cyclic temporality exists in places known as Killing fields (do not let the name fool you, it was merely discovered by Professor Henry Killing, who was, ironically enough, a psychotic mass-murderer who paused his homicidal rampages periodically to survey astrological phenomenon with his razor-tipped telescope.) It is in one of these Killing fields that I have been in for the past nine months or so, which explains my temporal disappearance and lack of updates to my rather anaemic web log. I have not, however, stayed there by choice.

Whilst was pursuing my evil doppelganger, who shall remain nameless in order to protect both his reputation and mine, I was tackled into the entry point of a wormhole which just so happened to have been located on the peak of a very tall cliff. Whilst falling into this wormhole and emerging out into a Killing field had saved my very life, it also imprisoned me, and my doppelganger, into a seemingly inescapable temporal vortex. Setting aside our differences, (which were few, as he was my twin), we worked together and designed a device of such magnificent complexity that it was sure to rend asunder both time and space, and set us free. The device failed.

We tried a simpler device, which was essentially a large catapult. This plan also failed, and I was now short a doppelganger. As I sat and thought, attempting to pick the strands of raw meat from my teeth, an even more brilliant idea occurred to me - or rather, it would occur to me fifteen minutes in the future. As time had folded back on itself, I began working on the device two days ago and so it was already completed before I’d thought of it. This worked to my advantage, obviously, as I could quickly emerge from the vortex and resume my previous work, although I can also remember waiting in the vortex for about seven years after I’d thought of the device, so I can’t be sure of how long I was really there for.

Chronotomics is a confusing branch of science, even more so if you end up practicing it before you’ve begun studying it, but it has certain perks - one of which being that you can travel back in time and see long-dead pets as if for the first time. They will also urinate on you, as you have not house-trained them yet. You may also visit friends and relatives, who will also urinate on you, for obvious reasons. There is a surprisingly large amount of urine involved in time travel, which is rarely mentioned in science fiction novels. I am unsure as to why.

Gambling on races and events of which you already know the outcome will not work, as the Time Police will put a stop to this before you have even considered the idea, and you will be severely fined before you were even born, which, with compound interest, accumulates to such immense debt that paradoxically causes many scientists to travel back in time in order to bet on races that they already know the outcome of. The Time Police do not like this happening, as it tends to make the universe explode, and is usually considered to be responsible for the decline of gambling in the world of today.

My pilot, Oedipus Rex, had apparently become an alcoholic in my absence. This was disconcerting to all involved, as a drunk pilot is not a very good one, even when he possesses incredible skill. In order to sober him up, I had to drain all of his blood and run a saline solution through his kidneys, before replacing the blood with Ribena. I do not think Rex knows this has happened, and he is unable to see the colour purple.

In all other respects, work continues as usual. Genetic mutations are performed on orphans, who, I assure you, have given me their informed consent whilst munching on bowls of oatmeal. The reanimated corpse of Abraham Lincoln has demanded that Servo, my robotic assistant, be emancipated. I have told Zombie Lincoln that this is unlikely to happen as Servo is programmed specifically to reject any form of freedom, and to get back on the table, as I am not yet finished with his lobotomy.

Due to temporal anomalies and the attacks of undead Presidential figures, I cannot say when next I will update this web log. What I can say, however, is that as long as there is science, so too will there be scientists to ‘blog’ about it (that is, until the robotic uprising of the year three thousand and forty six, at which point there will be robots to blog about science and the majestic splendour of President Zombie Lincoln.)