July 24, 1996
When my home computer died a few weeks back, I didn't have the heart to throw the whole thing out, so I more or less stored it in the spare bedroom.
Little did I know that over the succeeding weeks, while I went obliviously about my job, my chihuahuas pulled the computer apart, made some adjustments and constructed something entirely new out of it.
Pinky and The Brain, stand aside: Rusty and Smedley built a time machine.
I'd just gotten home last Friday and was looking forward to a serene weekend. The dogs seemed rather standoffish, giving me my usual greeting and then quickly disappearing. I settled down to be offended by the opening of the Olympic Games (a draft dodger opening the games, another one lighting the torch!), but soon got to wondering where the mutts were hiding.
I heard the hum from the bedroom, then a flash of light. Rushing back, I saw the dogs just about to step into the machine. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the LCD displaying "July 24, 2025" on the readout as I dove, trying to save my puppies from getting fried.
I woke up to a terrifying new world.
For starters, my apartment was now located in the middle of a classroom in the Boutros Boutros-Ghali School for Caring, Creative Elementary Education. The flag on the wall was recognizeable as that of the United Nations, although it had logos depicting sponsorship by AT&T, Compaq, Versace and Wal-Mart.
Given the flash and lightning of our arrival, I rather much expected to be greeted by screams; after all, there were 76 children stuffed into that classroom. I started to mumble apologies, but the adult in the room shushed me, saying to please not disturb the children's meditation time as she walked her cart between desks, dispensing various drugs.
"I'm the class facilitator," she explained in a whisper. "The children have decided they need to meditate today, in order to prepare themselves for the possible trauma of having to meet their birth parents tomorrow."
Dropping three horse-sized Ritalin pills and a condom into the open palm of a glassy-eyed 8-year-old, she continued: "I think it's a rather silly law, making them have to spend time with their birth parents every month, don't you? Fortunately, I think the Department of Education will remove that requirement next year."
I made some mention about that being nothing short of a criminal act, whereupon she rolled her eyes.
"Oh, no, not another one!" she exclaimed, grabbing a nearby video cell-phone. "Mister Chun-Perez? Could you call security please? We've got another historian has broken in and is trying to tell children the truth!"
The dogs gave me a sour look as they re-activated their time machine and returned us to the real world.
And I wasted no time in throwing
that broken computer away.