I met a good friend Dobson Dobberson today at the gentlemans club for a snifter or two of brandy. A fine chap despite having a face like a bat eating sherbet. We shared a pipe of some new imported Scandinavian baccy. It was good, although I did pause at the idea of touching anything Scandinavian after the Two Bum Percy debacle last year.
Over the sweet vanilla scented smoke he filled me in on his plans.
You know this electricity nonsense?
I looked around at the lights in the club and concurred that I was indeed familiar with electricity.
He continued.
I have created an apparatus. An electrical contrivance if you will. By my reckoning it should, by attachment to the happy sacks and the introduction of sufficient electrical current allow a fellow to reverse the years somewhat.
Reverse the years? You mean, rejuvenation? By jove, seriously?
I was excited, who wouldn't be? Being a perfect example of manliness and iron physique myself even I was not immune to the capricious touch of Father Time himself.
In fact, only the other day when I was thrashing the maid for an incorrectly poached egg I felt a bit of a twinge in the shoulder after four strokes. I had a question though.
How do you know it works?
Well, I need to test the final version. I just need a willing subject...
At that point the waiter came over, an older chap with a sad worn face. I looked at Dobson. We both grinned.
I watched disapprovingly as the leather and metal clamps were fastened to the bollocks of the now naked waiter chained to the wall of Dobson's laboratory. Dobson himself had removed his clothes and changed into a black leather apron. I frowned slightly. The waiter mewled something about his mother.
Dobson stepped back beside me and handed me a black box with a shiny lever on it. it was attached via some wires to a large humming transformer from which snaked some thick cables to the lucky waiters jubblies.
Would you do the honours dear chap?
Of course!
I flipped the switch.
There was a collosal bang and a flash followed by a burning bacon smell. The old waiter jerked around in his chains, blue flames leaping from his Shimla Pinks.
Oopsy.
Dobson reached over and switched the contrivance off. The waiter slumped forward, his silk purse now a charred mess. One of his eyeballs burst open with a splatter.
Back to the drawing board I guess.
I dwelt upon this later as I sipped on some mulled wine. Dobson had sent the waiters children a fine ham hock to tide them over the worst of their grief.
He had a big heart did Dobson.
I opened the pooter and read my weekly missives from my fellow steemians. Hopefully there were none seeking the secrets of eternal life.
SpamFarmer1: Hey! Would you like to use this chat to trade upvotes and support each other?
Uncle Boom: This chat dear fellow?
SpamFarmer1: Sure! :o)
Uncle Boom: Lets do it! First though, let's seal the deal with a round of Licky Willy!
SpamFarmer1: Um. What that?
Uncle Boom: I send you a picture of my marsh growler. You then lick it.
SpamFarmer1: What?
Uncle Boom: Lick it.
SpamFarmer1: You voting me or not?
Uncle Boom: Lick it.
SpamFarmer1: Asshole
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And there was me thinking for a moment that we were building something beautiful in that one.
Next.
SpamFarmer2: Here is my post sir - shitpostlink - Tell me my weaknesses so I can improve.
Uncle Boom: You have a very small chin judging by your profile and wait. Are those ladies hands?
SpamFarmer2: Sir I am not a lady. I want to buy a camera to follow my passion for photography but cant afford it right now
Uncle Boom: Your writing has a womanly touch.
SpamFarmer2: Sir, did you look at my post.
Uncle Boom: Have you kissed a boy my dear lady?
Uncle Boom: Hello?
Uncle Boom: Hello? have you gone?
Uncle Boom: Is it that time of the month?
My my, I am somewhat spent after such vigorous advisements and this week I didn't even get an opportunity to get the cane out for a damn good thrashing. Most disappointing!
If you would like some splendid advisement or just want to show off your lady hands. Please, do so via the steemit chats. Anonymity is assured, after all...
