The Crossroads of the Aether
Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, I hereby formally invite you to attend The Accepted Cog Saloon.
For all those worried about the time of day, do not fret. I have oft heard the saying "it is 5'oclock on Friday somewhere." Well I fed this data into my analytical engine, then plugged it into one of Mr. Steampunker's temporal iris machines. Once the crank on the tabulator was turned, Eureka, a temporal time shift bubble encased the saloon. Once you enter the doors of this place, it is 5 of the clock on a Friday afternoon, and you can pack up your worries and enjoy it like it is the weekend tomorrow.
What happens after you leave the temporal bubble is your problem, sorry.
Want a beverage or foodstuff that does not exist in England in the Year 18..? Do not fret. A well respected author I refer to a lot discovered L-space, that dimension created by the accumulation of knowledge into which all libraries in time and space are linked.
I reasoned that since once alcohol is consumed people seem to know everything, the same principles could be applied here, thus:
Alcohol=knowledge, knowledge=power, power = energy, energy=matter, and matter=mass.
Since mass has the ability to warp space, this formulae allowed me to punch through the barrier of space and time and link all places where alcohol is served via B-space, wherever and whenever they may be. So, request a food or drink, and I shall navigate the labyrinth of B-space to find you your desire (by removing it from another’s establishment) and return to you in mere moments. There is a karma in it all, as I have allowed other barkeeps entrance to the system, so we all borrow from each other.
So, come one, come all, park your air ships on the roof, shrug off your jetpacks and coats, wipe the coal dust from your cheeks, and come in for an evening of entertainment and lively discussion.
Those dastardly homographs, they get me every time. Thank you for catching my mistake. (Principle)
Hmmmm, that puts me in mind of the extraordinary tale of the manipulated mannequins. Or does it? Or will it? Does anyone have the correct time, the old chronometer is a bit discombobulated here, I may have let some honey get into it.
Honey goes delightfully with cheese you know. This all says picnic to me really. Hang on, let me find the red and white checkered rug. Shall we wind back the roof to let the afternoon air wash over us? I could open up the portal to a lovely little still in the woods of New Hampshire, 1761. Might even hear some bird song, and allow access to the inevitable trail of ants that no good picnic is without.
I hear violins, sweet melodic and lilting violins. Gentle breezes play in my ears, birds chirp their sweet melody. Such a perfect moment... <falls into a still meditation>
Cast away all cares, gentle sleep. Hold on to such a peace and dream. Sweet melody of the past, such an innocent time, such simplicity will it ever last?
Time is now 3:00 p. m. (GMT + 0:00) at the time of this message <tick - tick - tick...>
If you do not mind, I would like to take a moment to remember the late great Sir Terry Pratchett. A man of immense talent and humour. Bartender, Banana Daiquiries all round.
Oooook ook ook ook oook.
to Sir Terry Pratchett (raises glass and is very disappointed to find only a fictional Banana Daiquiri)
I think you will find it is indeed a bananananananana daiquiri.
I'll just sit here and remain calm, sips (no pretends to sip) a glass... do you have any thing light? A cider perhaps?
The Professor shares your feelings , if not your tea . .