Someone once said that life is like a box of chocolates. I think it was Tom Hanks. Or possibly Channing Tatum. I guess it depends if the latter went through a magic blue box like I did, and ended up in a world minus Forest Gump.
Imagine that. A world that never heard a small girl cry “Run Forest, run!”, which then went on to become the first thing most yobs think of when they see a skinny bloke running to catch the bus on time. A world that has no simplified metaphor for the phrase:
“Everyone’s a potentially sweet sugary bundle of joy, so don’t you damn well complain when you get one filled with that manufactured orange goop- that someone out there apparently enjoys, but seemingly will never own up to -because since your uncle threw away the piece of paper saying which one was which, all of us have got to take that risk and you didn’t pay a thing.”*
I’m glad I don’t live in that world. Forest Gump is a classic. I liked it too, but it’s the classic bit that counts. Add classic to anything and you’re more or less saying “It could be bad, it might be good, but it lasts/has lasted for bloody ages so cut it some slack and just agree with people who say it’s a classic. Capiche?”**…
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Again. Guess what? That hatter wasn’t a magician after all. Not really. He can’t produce rabbits. He just gets them from a place that has rabbits, by jumping into his magic blue box and pulling a bunch of levers.
He calls himself a “Time Lord”. As if that’s supposed to make any sense. Seriously. If Time had a lord, they would be the disheartened wretch of all…well, time. Time moves for no one. You have plenty when you need less, you need more when it runs thin, and you never learn it’s lesson until it’s too late to do anything. I lost time.
Maybe if I ask this “Time Lord” nicely, he’ll call Time in for a chat. And maybe we can have some sort of reunion.
Preferably the sort you have with a dog you haven’t seen for a long time. Preferably not the sort you get with an acquaintance who you haven’t seen in AGES; with whom, after five minutes of awkward muttering, you realize there is in fact nothing worth talking about. I can see that happening though.
How the hell does small talk work with time? Do you discuss faulty alarm clocks, for a laugh, or talk about the weather like everyone else?
It’s not going to happen any time soon, mind. He’s been tinkering with that blue box of his since the minute I dragged out of the ocean. There’s too much stuff inside. If gambling machines shared a religion, this would be their deity. A metropolis of levers and bright colors.
Eventually I excused myself. If you’re faced with a lever, sooner or later your body will decide to pull on that lever. It feels amazing when you do, but I figured at least one of them would lead to a game-show host appearing in a cloud of confetti to tell me I was to be dunked in bright green goo for the amusement of a nation’s childhood.
I figure I’ll wait for him to finish whatever he’s doing outside. Then I’ll ask for that rabbit. He did say he could get me one, with that magic blue box of his. I can’t remember what he called it, actually.
It sounded rude, though.
*Not the most tactful piece of wisdom ever imparted, but it’s still a better explanation than “Sh*t happens.” accompanied by a shrug.
**Womble does not actually speak Italian. Like many, many people, he heard a gangster say it on TV once and adopted it simply because it sounds snappy.