Written by Ian Wolff
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Friday, 9 November 2001

It has very frequently been alleged by Stephen Hawking and many other prominent scientists and physicists the world over, that our universe, rather than expanding, is actually collapsing in upon itself. Meaning, that in keeping with Einstein's theories on the space/time continuum -- all that ever was, shall be again. In simple terms, our descendents will one day bear witness, not unlike a traffic cop on a busy downtown thoroughfare, to the entire collective history of mankind passing before their very eyes in a constant flow of centuries old vehicles.

"Only a select few will actually see it," claims Hawking. "It will depend upon their location within the Earth's magnetic field. The visions will come at random, as opposed to their historical order of occurrence. With entire decades being compressed into mere seconds, as are songs in a musical medley."

I was pondering these very thoughts the other night while watching a fascinating documentary concerning our long lost brethren, the Neanderthal. A people, by the way, who according to the narrator, frequently ate their newborns for the purpose of clan preservation and birth control -- when it suddenly dawned on me that I would hate to be working in the emergency services sector if and when Mr. Hawking's theorems on cosmology ever come to pass. I would also hate to be one of the poor confused souls who may one day find themselves caught up in one of these strange magnetic epicenters.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Some strange looking people are eating a baby."

"Excuse me?"

"A baby!" screams the caller. "We tried to stop them, but they just grunted something and threw a spear at my wife."

"I see," sighs the operator, while covering the mouthpiece and motioning for the nightshift commander. "I have a guy who claims that some people are eating a baby and threw a spear at his wife," she whispers.

"Typical Friday night," replies the commander, while taking the headset from the operator.

"What seems to be the problem, sir?" says the commander.

"Hitler is in my living room," says the caller.

"Is he the one who ate the baby?" asks the commander.

"No," says the caller, in a flat emotionless monotone. "The Neanderthals ate the baby, but they seem to be gone now."

"So they say," mumbles the commander, while desperately fighting back the laughter. "I have someone I think you should call," he continues, while fumbling through a nearby binder for the number of the local mental health facility.

"I can't," replies the caller, in a distant ghost-like voice.

"We just hit an iceberg and I'm needed topside."

She'd been circling for hours, her fuel was running low and her hopes were growing dimmer with each and every passing second.

"This is Amelia Earhardt, do you read me?" she repeats again, for the umpteenth time. No response. She quickly adjusts her frequency and tries again.

"This is Amelia Earhardt," she says. "Can you read me?"

Nothing. She tries again, this time unwittingly locking into the frequency of a nearby 747's in-flight movie.

"This is Amelia Earhardt," she says. "I'm low on fuel and I'm not sure of my location. Can anyone help me?"

"Momma always said that life was like a box of chocolates," comes the response. "You just never know what you're gonna get."

"What the hell are you talking about!?" shouts Amelia. "I'm in trouble here, what should I do?"

"Run Forest, run!" comes the reply.

"I told you five times now," says the woman to her psychiatrist over the telephone. "I'm holding the box of breakfast cereal in my hand right now, and David Cassidy is on it!"

"That's highly unlikely, Laura," he replies. "He hasn't endorsed anything since the seventies."

"Shut up!" shouts the woman. "I have my own damn problems."

"Are you talking to me?" asks the psychiatrist.

"No," the woman replies. "There's some idiot named Lovell on the other line who keeps whining about his problems with Houston."

"Remember that Prozac prescription I just gave you, Laura?"

"What about it?" she replies.

"Triple the dosage."

"Fire department sixteen, how can I help you?"

"Rome is on fire!" cries the caller.

"Which part?" asks the operator.

"The whole darn thing!" shouts the caller. "Are you blind?"

"I see," moaned the operator. "And who started this fire, sir?"

"Six centurions in a chariot, and they're still here, please hurry."

"Where are they now, sir?"

"They're kneeling in the seven eleven parking lot and praying to the neon 'open twenty-four hours' sign."

"Stay where you are, sir," says the operator.

"I'm sending help now. When they arrive, just climb in the van and they'll take you to a nice safe place where the fire can't get you. Okay?"

"Did you say you're sending a van?" asks the caller. "Or a dirigible?"

"Sir?"

"Oh no, it exploded!"

"Sir?"

"Oh the humanity!"

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Yeah, I need some cops, quick."

"What's the problem, sir?"

"Brazzini and Pantaglia are sitting in a car outside the restaurant I'm in, and I think they're planning to kill me."

"And what makes you think that, sir?"

"I can't tell you that," says the caller. "On the grounds that it may incriminate me."

"I'm afraid I'll need more information than that, sir," says the operator, somewhat impatiently.

"Just send a car, damn it!"

"Please don't raise your voice, sir, or you won't get any help at all."

"They're coming in!"

"Who's coming in, sir?"

"Are you deaf!"

"If you persist in insulting me, I'm going to hang up on you, sir."

"They're carrying piano wire!"

"Are these friends of yours musicians, sir?"

"Send the car, you whacko!"

"And your name, sir?"

"Hoffa, Jimmy Hoffa!" shouts the caller.

"One minute, Mr. Huffy, I have another call."

"No!"

"Strategic Air Command, Lieutenant Adams speaking."

"This is Marlon Brando, and I'd like to report that a huge Japanese flotilla of warships has just passed my island and is now heading towards Pearl Harbor."

"Tell it to Stella," says Adams, before slamming down the receiver.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I was fiddling with my hydrogen to carbon ratios and I'm afraid I made a huge mistake, because the entire inner core is beginning to rumble and if my calculations are correct, there's about to be a very big bang."

"And your name, sir?"

"God, and please hurry. This could get messy."

"I'm sending a car, sir, just relax."

"A car?" replies God. "No, no, I need a thermonuclear diffusion chart with quantum dynamic cooling solutions."

"Please don't argue with me, sir," she replies. "I can't help you if you're going to be difficult."

"Please," says God. "You don't understand. I need-

"Where is this device now, sir," she interrupts.

"It doesn't have a place," He angrily replies. "It is everywhere and everything!"

"Hang on," says the operator.


"No wait!" bellows God, who is then rudely treated to the long rendition of Tom Jones' She's a Lady. Several moments pass as he strums his fingers in disgust. Eventually giving in to the last bar before the operator's return, "And the lady is mine," He coos.

"Are you there, sir?"

"Yes," mumbles God, slightly embarrassed.

"I'm afraid we can't help you," she says.

"Oh well," He replies. "Maybe next time. Buckle your seatbelt, honey. Here we go again."

Bang!

By Ian Wolff

(C) 2001

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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