Damn You, Swine!

Forgive me for turning up my nose (pun fitfully intended!) at your “pandemic,” but 109 cases of swine flu in one household did not stir alarm in my day.

[Surgeons didn’t even wear these in 1909. However, one did have a 90% chance of dying in surgery]

Your swine flu seems more like a mild case of typhoid than the premier hog-related ailment of my time: full-on pig-transformative syndrome. If one contracted PGS, he would literally turn into a boar. Why, Grover Cleveland’s Secretary of State James G. Blaine was a pig for the last two years of his tenure.

[Blaine modified the Clayton-Bulwer treaty to include “slop, much slop”]

I hear your cries: “Dear Octave, how do you manage to stay so fit whilst the masses are peaked amongst you?” Be not afeared, for I have a few helpful remedies.

Blood-letting:
I just went through a two-hour session myself, and huzzah! I feel tremendous. Accompanied with gin assures a deep and satisfying slumber.

Burn tar:
In a large (45 cubit) container, set tar ablaze and inhale the fumes. Also works for shortness of breath.

Lavender:
Eat it, smoke it, rub it on your skin. This shit is the best!

Psyllium seed husks:
Provides for rapid, painful, and often purple defecations. Not a cure, but I just love the taste.

On my word, if you follow these remedies you will be as happy as a pig in shit! Inappropriate, I know, but it is the only colloquial allusion I have picked up.

Man Alive, Pirates!

Curious twenty-first century citizenry are begging to hear my opinion on the matter, and yes, I too am surprised at the recent increase of pirate-based intrigue. Blackbeard and the like were the subject of children’s tales in my day, and nary did I hear of real-life algerines. I salute the naval sealmen (who seem to be the result of twisted, Gregor Mendel-inspired cross-breeding) that smote the maritime bandits.

[What a cozy-looking pirate, all wrapped in fleece]

What I am most perturbed by in these swashbuckling tales is the presence of a plague I dedicated so much of my life to eradicating: boats. Come on! I pioneered the strut-wire braced wing structure for a God damned reason—that all travel from thereon out would be of the aeronautical persuasion. Why the hell are you still using these floating death traps?

[Boats were invented 40,000 years ago, which unsurprisingly coincides with the advent of homosexual intercourse]

I didn’t hold the International Conference on Aerial Navigation at the World’s Colombian Exposition just so one hundred years later people would still be loafing around on some rusty, buoyant piece of excrement.

[So close, halfway there]

It has also come to my attention that your president is going to spend billions of dollars on American railroads. Don’t misinterpret my wrathy disposition; I worked with and very much enjoyed trains—in eighteen sixty fucking seven!

["Goodbye, all of Octave Chanute's hard work and genius towards the progress of flight"]

All I hear is guttersnipes kicking about complaints when asked about aerial travel. “I have to pay fifteen dollars for a checked bag,” “they make me take my shoes off at security,” “the food is bad.”

YOU JUST TRAVELED AT 500-MILES PER HOUR IN A 200,000 POUND METAL TUBE FROM CHICAGO TO NEW YORK, QUIT YOUR PESTULANT WHIGNING.

[What's the deal with Jewish comedians making fun of efficient, expedient, aeroplane travel?]

How long would it take in a boat? Oh yes, pardon my forgetfulness, YOU COULDN’T MAKE THE VOYAGE IN A BOAT.

But yes, bully job quelling those pirates.

Zounds, Failure!

What a dreadful day! My last correspondence was written with much hope, for I was led to believe that I would soon have the wealth and means to purchase the cocaine needed to power my time machine for a return to 1909. It seems a cocksure scallywag pulled a ruse; hoodwinking me into thinking he was a descendent of King Arochukwu. It has been nearly four days since I wired funds to be returned twenty-fold, but no response. I can only hope this doesn’t sour US-Obong Okon Ita relations.

[I haven't been robbed like this since I was pick-pocketed whilst gazing at Ferris's Wheel. Rest assured, it was worth it. My Heavens, a wheel that spins!]

To make matters worse, it seems as if Glock Deez, the chap who had arranged the cocaine for parceled delivery, is upset as well. His tone is mightily stern, but I must admit I am having trouble with the dialect. He keeps shouting he is meaning to “clap my ass.”

[Pardon me, Mr. Deez, but I do not own a donkey. Even if I did, I surely would not allow you to give it chlamydia]

Alas, I am stuck in this dreadful year, when everything is horribly awry. I cannot go a minute in 2009 without being utterly confounded.

[A telephone is supposed to be a status symbol!]

I am saddened that I now am doomed to live in a time when an honest traveling salesman can’t hire the services of a lady of the night to placate his loneliness.

[We have all been there, Vincent]

Why, I was a traveling salesman once; I sold elixirs that sent scrotal lesions on their merry way. The only thing that calmed my demons on my journeys was the company an impoverished, sinful dollymop. Although, it must be said the chap made a mistake: he should have known better than to kiss a prostitute!

My Time Machine is Nearly Repaired!

Splendid news, friends! It seems as if my short stay in 2009 is soon to be over. I had a bully of a stay, but I feel I must return to a time when the name Octave Chanute actually carried some water! Heavens, I cannot continue living in an age when a simple Armenian gypsy child is more famous than a prestigious engineer.

[What is the origin of this rubenesque young lady’s notoriety? Fame should be awarded to the deserved, such as skilled marksmen or hotel heiresses]

How have I procured means to return to my erstwhile century, you ask? Allow me to explain. Unlike your modern day mechanisms, my time machine uses neither petroleum nor refined crude oils. To be honest, we only used that crap to light our lanterns and flavor our jams.

[Benjamin Silliman, the first man to distill petroleum. He was a fine man. Did I say “a fine man?” What I meant was, “an untrustworthy, manic-depressive opium addict”]

The genius of my time-traveling device is that it harnesses the power of the medical world’s favorite anesthetic: cocaine!

[I don’t have a toothache, but Goddamn, I could go for some cocaine right about now!]

I must have in my possession three hundred cubic pounds of dried, pressed and processed cocoa leaves to make it back to 1909—with a little left over for a celebratory oral application. Unfortunately, obtaining the needed fuel has proven harder than catching a weasel asleep; every alchemist I have encountered has declined my request or threatened to call the local constable (there must be a limit to how much one depot can administer).

[I apologize, officer, I was merely attempting to purchase cocaine]

Thankfully, a pert young man who goes by the moniker “Glock Deez” overheard my pleas to the pharmacist and has said that he, given some time, can provide me with “the shit I need.”

Huzzah!

Unfortunately, the value of the medicine is $5 million. Although I am unfamiliar with the effects of a century’s inflation, it is surely an amount I do not possess…yet.

Rejoice, for the fates have intervened! A descendent of my old Nigerian cohort, King Arochukwu, has telegrammed to inform me that there is a fortune of millions waiting to be transferred to my accounts!

[I owe you one, King Arochukwu]

Watch this space, for my departure is imminent!

Dubious Acts of YouTubery

O my! I write excitedly of the most marvelous invention: moving pictures without the aid of thumb nor nickel! I had thought I’d seen it all—travelers’ cheques, rubber, cold cereal--until a virtuous child showed me “You Tube.”

[Like we used to say: "look out, bowels, here comes that bullyhoo, shredded wheat!]

Upon exploring this vast and wondrous wilderness, I couldn’t begin to fathom the possibilities that moving photography could offer man. Given a choice, what is the first thing anyone would want to see? Trains, of course! I typed in my inquiry, and discovered this:




HOLY SHIT!

O, my palpitations! As a boy I mistakenly wandered onto the tracks of a Union Pacific freighter, only to be rescued by my best mate Calvin Hayes. I never got to repay young Calvin for his most heroic deed; he died of cholera that winter. O, that reminds me, I played a wondrously humorous ruse on Calvin—I had my Uncle Tobias, who was ill with cholera at the time, defecate in the Hayes family well. I was a regular O'Brien & Havel!

[The bit in which Havel portrayed a courier who couldn't muster the strength to lift O'Brien's trunk had me in raptures!]

To calm my nerves after that most terrifying locomotive collision, I decided to view a flipbook. I loved flipbooks, but nary had room in the budget for such luxuries (despite being the preeminent railroad executive of my time!):



Hilarious!

King Frederick’s ghost! This has garnered 590,000 views! Why, that’s nearly the entire population of Prussia! You can imagine my alarm when I saw that some videos have earned over one hundred million viewers! These must be true feats of creativity and wisdom! Perhaps a dancer whose grace confirms the very existence of God or inspirational words from the nation’s most pious preacher.

I have stumbled across the second most viewed moving image of all time. It is entitled "the evolution of dance" and is billed as “the funniest 6 minutes you will ever see!” My eagerness and joy cannot be contained, commence hilarity!



Why, this is lamest buffoonary I have ever witnessed.

I come from a time when dressing up as a member of a class you didn't belong to was considered the most hilarious thing in the world, and this video still isn't funny.

This fellow is so gay he makes Thomas Edison look like Buffalo Bill Cody! And no, I don’t mean “gay” like “cheery” or “mirthful.” I mean it like this guy is a fucking Nancy.

Your age is truly baffling.