Post by Lord Greevon on Mar 10, 2014 2:09:27 GMT -5
The Ethnologist
“So, James, how has the uh… the research been coming along?” Dr. Movitch asked, rolling the word “research” in his mouth, as if to test and see if it applied to whatever crazy incoherent ramblings I had produced since we had last met. I stood in a large conference room, filled with, dare I say it, my “peers.” Dull and blind buffoons who have considerable trouble seeing past the mundane veneer atop the world we live in, I prefer. It was an international meeting of scholars, scientists and doctors mostly, but this particular event was celebrating recent discoveries in the field of ethnology.
“Oh, it’s coming along just fine, Dr. Movitch. In fact, I’ve recently completed a study on the modern descendants of the Naacal civilization, I’m sure soon I’ll have the funds to start an expedition to the lost continent of Mu. It’s quite interesting how funding works these days, you see I had to…” Although I knew Dr. Movitch had no genuine interest in what I had to say, I thought he was asking to be polite, but less than halfway through he had stopped listening, evidently finding more interest in the appetizers being passed around. Naturally, an esteemed and published scientist such as him is above listening to an unproven whack job. Well, come a few years, we’ll just have to watch all of his precious findings sit and gather dust while the world praises me, me! For discovering the ancestor of the human race!
“Well, I’ll talk to you later, Dr. Movitch, I have some business with Mr. Weller over there.” I eased my way out as Dr. Movitch, completely unaware of the fact that I caught him ignoring me, nodded his head and smiled before moving on to devour the buffet, the pompous imbecile.
Mr. Weller was in one of the side corridors, listening to another ethnologist, Mr. Keating. While he and I were technically rivals, I had the utmost respect for him as he had for me. While we disagreed with one another, it never turned to one calling the other crazy, even if he did believe that we all came from early primitive people in Africa rather than an advanced race of proto-humans that thrived on a continent now lost to time. I turned to look at some of the exhibits and saw a recent paper on the ancestry of man. In its perfect frame of polished wood and gleaming glass, lit by lamps and the glowing smiles of people sipping coffee from steaming china cups, I knew the paper wasn’t mine. None of my works have been published by “accredited” journals, but what exactly makes a journal “accredited” anyway? Does it have to be backed by an institution and dozens of scholars? Is one not allowed to be run completely by a few select individuals who all have the same hypotheses? No matter, if the intellectual society fails to see the fantastical nature of the world we live in, so be it. That is on them.
“Mr. Weller, it’s good to see you. How have you been?” He gave me an odd look, and then quickly turned away, as if he remembered something. Perhaps he had something to show me, so I stood where I was until he returned. When he finally arrived, he was escorted by two large men in uniforms. “Mr. Weller, what is this?” He simply pointed at me and the two large men grabbed me by the arms.
“James, you can’t keep doing this. You know I have a restraining order against you. You weren’t even invited here, what are you doing?”
Kicking and screaming, they dragged me out of the convention and into the parking lot before letting me go and returning inside. Well, it seems another setback will befall the scientific community. In addition to ignoring all of my indisputable research, a sudden catastrophe has led to all attending scholars getting flat tires. “How horrible,” I thought as I took out my pocket knife and set to work.
“So, James, how has the uh… the research been coming along?” Dr. Movitch asked, rolling the word “research” in his mouth, as if to test and see if it applied to whatever crazy incoherent ramblings I had produced since we had last met. I stood in a large conference room, filled with, dare I say it, my “peers.” Dull and blind buffoons who have considerable trouble seeing past the mundane veneer atop the world we live in, I prefer. It was an international meeting of scholars, scientists and doctors mostly, but this particular event was celebrating recent discoveries in the field of ethnology.
“Oh, it’s coming along just fine, Dr. Movitch. In fact, I’ve recently completed a study on the modern descendants of the Naacal civilization, I’m sure soon I’ll have the funds to start an expedition to the lost continent of Mu. It’s quite interesting how funding works these days, you see I had to…” Although I knew Dr. Movitch had no genuine interest in what I had to say, I thought he was asking to be polite, but less than halfway through he had stopped listening, evidently finding more interest in the appetizers being passed around. Naturally, an esteemed and published scientist such as him is above listening to an unproven whack job. Well, come a few years, we’ll just have to watch all of his precious findings sit and gather dust while the world praises me, me! For discovering the ancestor of the human race!
“Well, I’ll talk to you later, Dr. Movitch, I have some business with Mr. Weller over there.” I eased my way out as Dr. Movitch, completely unaware of the fact that I caught him ignoring me, nodded his head and smiled before moving on to devour the buffet, the pompous imbecile.
Mr. Weller was in one of the side corridors, listening to another ethnologist, Mr. Keating. While he and I were technically rivals, I had the utmost respect for him as he had for me. While we disagreed with one another, it never turned to one calling the other crazy, even if he did believe that we all came from early primitive people in Africa rather than an advanced race of proto-humans that thrived on a continent now lost to time. I turned to look at some of the exhibits and saw a recent paper on the ancestry of man. In its perfect frame of polished wood and gleaming glass, lit by lamps and the glowing smiles of people sipping coffee from steaming china cups, I knew the paper wasn’t mine. None of my works have been published by “accredited” journals, but what exactly makes a journal “accredited” anyway? Does it have to be backed by an institution and dozens of scholars? Is one not allowed to be run completely by a few select individuals who all have the same hypotheses? No matter, if the intellectual society fails to see the fantastical nature of the world we live in, so be it. That is on them.
“Mr. Weller, it’s good to see you. How have you been?” He gave me an odd look, and then quickly turned away, as if he remembered something. Perhaps he had something to show me, so I stood where I was until he returned. When he finally arrived, he was escorted by two large men in uniforms. “Mr. Weller, what is this?” He simply pointed at me and the two large men grabbed me by the arms.
“James, you can’t keep doing this. You know I have a restraining order against you. You weren’t even invited here, what are you doing?”
Kicking and screaming, they dragged me out of the convention and into the parking lot before letting me go and returning inside. Well, it seems another setback will befall the scientific community. In addition to ignoring all of my indisputable research, a sudden catastrophe has led to all attending scholars getting flat tires. “How horrible,” I thought as I took out my pocket knife and set to work.