GIGGLE BREW
It was a bad day for science because there was nothing left to discover. The turning point had been
reached when it was decided to stitch up the eyes of kittens to see if they could find their way around ...
(true). Easy, sexy grants would soon be no more, and scientists in their white lab coats would emerge
from labs here and there, shielding their eyes from the sun, and wondering what the term ‘proper job’
meant, which had been buzzing around the labs for a while now.
There was one positive point. Their lives in the sterile atmosphere of the lab where they spent their
days saving the world by working out why it worked like it did, i.e. the blind, leading the blind, using
double blind testing ... wasn’t the most vibrant of atmospheres, and the concept of happiness and
laughter wasn’t known in that world. They would discover fun, laughter and happiness when they finally
did what they were never supposed to do ... i.e. joined the workforce in factories, offices and call
centres. Being institutionalised and never seeing the ‘other’ world was a bit of a comfort zone to leave.
Most of them discovered the magic of alcohol as a saviour, which was the key to real happiness ...
it even made them laugh. This was because the ethanol molecules sped through their blood streams and
found the docking points on the Opiate Receptors in their brains (not bad when you consider they’re
working in the dark), these docking points ‘doorways’ to actual ‘happiness’ when the molecule
delivered its information.
Some who couldn’t stand the artificialness of the Sun as compared to natural fluorescent,
committed suicide (it does happen). The rest ended up in mental institutions, which was really, for them,
the act of moving from one to another. So, the alcohol discoverers were noticeably happy, and were,
when seen as ‘Happy Scientists’ in the press, grabbed by the hungry hands of bosses and managers here
and there who thought they would be happy on Monday morning, so they would come in and cheer the
rest of the workforce up and the factories and offices would at long last be filled with chirpy people.
Great! Production would rise and the economy would return from its exile in hell.
They joined the proper job world with some trepidation, but at least it was something to do, but
they soon discovered that the wages offered were nowhere near as juicy as a constant flow of large grant
cheques; and that chirp soon disappeared as there were no bars to be found in the workplace.
Something had to be done to save our saviours of the earth ... for a start, there were far too many
kittens being born, so they needed their eyelids sewn shut and disposed of with a cricket bat and a target
incinerator bound bin (you think I jest???). Who else would do such a job and actually write down the
results?
Some of them got so happy though (they designed alco pills which they could pop at work), they
had to quell it a little before they split their sides laughing, and they joined the AA. The bosses at work
realised their mistake and hired ‘un-chirper managers’ to lower happy levels; a booming economy just
wasn’t worth the price of cheerful workers ... it simply felt, ‘wrong’.
The AA meetings were held in a member’s house, and then when they were done with whingeing
about how bad life was in a very happy sort of way, they went to their second meeting i.e. they pissed
off to the pub to get pissed, and hey presto, the laughter started again. A second whine (topically chosen
word) meeting consisted of a boozy discussion round a pre-booked table in the pub, the landlord of
which would give them the best discount if they booked every week; the AA isn’t that bad sounding.
One of these groups which had a scientist in their ranks, one night noticed he was staring into
space, when suddenly, he yelled “Eureka!”, which was what Archimedes shouted when he sat in the
filled to the rim bath, and most of the water left the tin tub. He had discovered not only the concept of
displacement, but also how to piss off your missus, as she had to mop up after he had wrapped his towel
around his waist and run off to the tavern to celebrate.
The pisshe troubled alcoholics wanted to know why he had cried ‘eureka!’ so loudly? (Three had
dropped their treble Whisky and Drambuies in shock and one had been rudely awoken).
“I can’t tell you yet, but I’ll give you a clue.” He took a sip of his quadruple Napoleon Brandy. It’s
a mixture of left brained activity i.e. science, and some right i.e. creativity. I’m going to mix the two.
And talking of ‘mixed’, anyone fancy a cocktail?
