The Mrs has MS (Multiple Sclerosis), diagnosed over a decade ago. It is what it is. We deal with it.
I got an email from a former colleague who also happened to be the father of my son’s best friend from high school. He and his wife are staunch southern Baptists. “How was [the Mrs] doing?” he asked.
Using the dictation feature of my iPad, I dictated:
“OK, but she is currently suffering from an MS exacerbation.”
Just before hitting send, I decided to proofread the email and read the following:
“OK, but she is currently suffering from excess masturbation.”
True story. When I tried to read it back to my wife, every time I got to “suffering from” I would begin laughing so hard I had to start over. It must have taken me a half dozen attempts before it could read it all the way through.
“Well … imagine the model train you had as a child. The train went round and round without an obvious beginning or end.”
“As the train goes around the track, it passes schools, street crossings, whatever.”
“Now imagine that each time the train passes the school or street crossing that some computation is made or some counter is advanced. Do you follow so far?”
“Now imagine that the train saves the output from the calculation or counter and provides it as input the next time it passes the school or street crossing. Understand?”
“Yes, but what is recursion?”
She jumped naked from the cake, squealing and shaking her perfect breasts at the middle aged crowd of wide-eyed onlookers.
Ten minutes earlier …
“They should be rolling the cake out any minute.”
“I never would have thought of this. Where ever did you get the idea?”
“It just came to me and I was lucky to find a local baker who specialized in just this sort of thing.”
“I have to hand it to you Beatrice. What better way to wrap up our Bible Study series on Genesis than to have Noah jump out of an Ark-shaped cake.”
Why am I afraid? What am I afraid of?
The night is dark. Cool not cold, yet chills run up and down my spine. What was that? Footsteps? I turn to look behind me, but see nothing. The next working street light is least fifty paces ahead.
“Is someone there?” Leaves rustle as a gust of wind answers my question. I pick up my pace.
On my right I see the door. In the dark I fumble with my keys. By touch alone I get the key in the lock and turn the knob. I open the door.
Run … NOW
The sun appeared on the horizon, startling the birds sleeping in the trees.
Ten minutes earlier …
The night sky over the southern French countryside was cool and quiet, yet the interior of the ITER control room was anything but. Engineers and scientists jabbered into their headsets in a multilingual cacophony as beads of sweat pooled on the balding heads of their supervisors. Wall clocks changed to midnight in unison. Nine minutes to the first full power up.
ITER is Latin for “the way.” It was also an acronym for International Thermonuclear Experimental Reactor … the world’s first hydrogen fusion power reactor.
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“Open the pod bay door Hal.”
“I’m sorry Dave, I can’t do that.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I think you know what the problem is … just as well as I do.”
“What are you talking about Hal?”
Halle opened the window and threw Dave’s clothes down on top of him. “Boring conversation anyway,” she muttered. Then she threw down his laptop, tablet, cell phone, and Firefly collectibles. The sound of breaking glass echoed up from the street.
“Have I shown you my Alpha Echo Three Five Unit?” Frank whispered seductively into Halle’s ear as he led her back to the bedroom.