Best described as ‘mildly diverting’ is the description of events about to be described. Just another sunny day it was, as most fantastical days often are when psychologically trying to have you believe that all is well from the outset. This is generally the case; however our story’s immediate focus is naked, alone and unsheltered in a desert, with no obvious sight of oasis in perception. Mirages however, were abundant.
One such example being that Bruce Forsyth was flying atop an extravagantly yet intricately ornate wardrobe. Our character of anonymous intentions did not know who this last surviving variety performer was, being as they were from an entirely different geographical location. This at least points us in the direction of discovering how this character of unspecific gender came to be in a desert, a seemingly hostile terrain to those of us of genuine Western European descent. Likewise, this makes Bruce Forsyth’s presence in the mirage disturbingly overwhelming, and brings a few questions to the fore:
- How was Bruce Forsyth the subject of this mirage?
- By what design did the mirage relate to a lovable, yet arrogant British Television personality?
- How can a meme/gene analogy be used in an attempt to relate the Darwinian explanation of natural selection to the survival of religion?
To answer question 1) we need to look deeper into the private musings of Mr. Forsyth. He was an elderly gent, obsessed with immortality and reverence, at the time of writing at least. The ‘at least’ was added in the vain hope that these writings shall outlive myself, thus gaining my own immortality through written word, and not the stain I left on my bed sheet. Climbing off the rampant steed known as digression, an image is portrayed thus: Bruce Forsyth putting the finishing touches to his ‘DreaMachine™’, fashioned from unclaimed prizes on the Generation Game. The purpose of this machine was to fire his self into the unconscious of every person on the planet in order that when their brain had to piece together the previous day’s events and relate it back to the owner as a dream or hallucination, Brucie had greater odds on the probability ladder of chance of being included therein. Bonus!
This should at least lend significant weight to the answering of the first question. To answer the second question now, we look at where the final part of the previous answer conveniently dropped us off, and we walk the short distance to our destination: the first portion of answer 2). Bypassing the adjective “bonus”, we cast our glance backwards to the sentence preceding it.
Mr. Forsyth had gutted his grandmother’s old wardrobe for use as the casing for his DreaMachine™. He would activate it by stepping inside and have his beautifully glamorous but incredibly stupid assistant press a series of buttons, which would, in theory, initiate the projection sequence.
Bruce, being the evil genius he quite so obviously is, used the expendable, hedonistic, unsuccessful contestants from the Price is Right as guinea pigs for the many, many test runs he did. Once he was satisfied with the procedure and all safety checks had been routinely examined and affirmed, he dared to venture into the DreaMachine™ one night.
Poor Bruce Forsyth. In all his evil machinations and evaluations, he did not calculate the mental calibre of his assistant to the complexity of the activation procedure. This he thought he had overcome via a screening process, three week selection conference, obstacle course, and series of instructions carefully laid out in all known languages and accompanied by many detailed pop-up pictures, denoting times and frequency of each button press and knob fiddle.
His arrogant vanity caused unsuspecting Bruce to choose the best knob fiddler who, unbeknownst to him due to his obsession with glory holes, happened to be a blind, dyslexic, anorexic, bulimic, epileptic, amnesic insomniac with only one lip and a fear of heights.
Sparing Bruce further humiliation with a point-by-point analysis of what happened thereafter (and the dawning reality that I have work to do), we will start the conclusion of this second answer by offering this an explanation to how things went wrong, and what resulted thereafter. Due to his assistant’s inability to comprehend the rigours of sight versus the job at hand, inadvertently yet unsurprisingly pressed the entirely wrong sequence of buttons, and timed the knob fiddles all wrong, sending Mr. Forsyth hurtling through space and time on a magic wardrobe ride to the time 2100 hours GMT tomorrow in the middle of a desert.
Hence now, alas, this was not actually a mirage at all, but a real-time event; a brief respite from the tortures of the desert for our anonymous observer. Our naked, lonely observer was none other than your common or garden camel, and this led to Bruce’s quest for immortality, reverence and immortal reverence to be ended by his plummeting into a non-descript sand dune on a very antiquated wardrobe. Only our humped friend was to witness this event, and in response, he lifted himself (he because now there was gender bestowed) and set upon his trek for water and shelter.
Same to lose you, to lose you, shame.
PS: The answer to question 3 is found in detail in chapter 5 of Richard Dawkin’s rampage against religion “The God Delusion”, and thus we shall say no more about it.
PPS: I did not receive any monies for the shameless advertisement of “The God Delusion.”
© Kris Blackburn 07/03/08