Childrens' Letters to Doctor Angstrom
Nov. 21st, 2011 09:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolDear Doctor Angstrom-
My name is Billy and I am 9. I have lived in New York City all my life and it is awesome here. I hope you will get this letter. I am writing because it will be Christmass soon. What I would really like to have is super powers. If you can make this happen I would like it a lot. OK bye.
Billy:
I have received your 'Christmass' letter (remember: spelling is important.) The United States Postal Service unfailingly delivers letters from youthful supplicants such as yourself, because they remember one night in 1977 when I caused the adhesive securing postage stamps to exude a powerful pheromone that excited a savage rage in all dogs. Since then, any letter from a child such as you is delivered to my Pan-Dimensional Fortress in northern Greenland, free of charge, courtesy of the American taxpayer. Consider this a valuable lesson in power, Billy.
On to your request: granting 'super powers', a term with tremendous breadth of possibility, to an extant person is a tricky matter. It will be a more elegant solution for me to go back in time, locate newborns named 'Billy', 'William' or 'Bill' born in New York City in or around 2002, and embed a cortex RNA virus that rapidly rewrites your genetic code within a 48-hour period in early 2012. Now, not knowing what your super powers will be, or when they'll come, is all part of the super powers experience. I suspect, frankly, that at least 90% of New York City's Billy's will have the 'super power' of extremely fast-spreading tumors. You may also be able to fly, or at least hover, using lighter-than-air gasbags that will grow out of your lymphatic system. Or you might turn into a God. A GOD, BILLY.
Best of luck with your new superpowers; even now the cortex bomb coils tightly against your pituitary gland and silently ticks away your last few moments of normalcy. OK bye!
DOCTOR ANGSTROM
Der Doctr An AGG Agstom:
Coud i ples have a nu coatt OK i love u lots
, D A N I E L
My dearest Daniel:
Egad, child, what has happened to your brain? Are you stupid? There's nothing wrong with being stupid. Some of my best menial support staff are stupid. Any of my henchmen could have written such a letter. Some of them are oozes. Frankly, I blame the parents. SOMEBODY SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT ALL THE DAMNED PARENTS.
Do I have it correctly that you want to be given a new coat? Or a new Coati? I shall assume the former. Of course, when you ASSUME, you make an ASS out of Uranium and the rest mass of an electron. That's the sort of thing no responsible scientist should attempt. Of course, do you think I live in this frozen wasteland in the company of insane automatons because I'm responsible? Ah HA HA HA HA!
Ha. One nice warm coat coming up. The best coats, of course, are made of blubber. I have taken the liberty of impregnating the paper of this return letter with a virus that will infect your body and splice segments of elephant seal genetic material into yours. Expect to be ravenously hungry for the next two weeks. Of course your current wardrobe will be useless in a matter of hours, but you'll be able to go naked and stay warm, so who cares?
Smooches, DOCTOR ANGSTROM
My Dearest Doctor:
It is with sincere affection and admiration that I write to you now. As you shall no doubt recall from your youth, this is the letter I am writing to my future self to request assistance in the earliest phases of my lifelong overarching plan to conquer the Earth. I find myself in need of approximately ten grams of Copernicum, an element that has not yet been fabricated, but which I intuit must soon be created by some of these numbskulls with particle accelerators. I further request that said material be supplied in a well-shielded container that can be easily concealed from Mummy within my perambulator. Kindly return such objects through the timestream forthwith. Warmest regards and etcetera,
HORST ANGSTROM (M.S., B.S., PhD Candidate)
My Dear Child:
How well I recall writing that letter with sure yet rubbery baby-paw and placing it in the buried capsule for me to receive in the present-day. And how well, too, do I recall receiving this return missive in its matte-black temporal delivery-missile, reading it breathlessly, and then wailing, clenching tiny fists of rage, at this terse refusal. How I hated my future self then. It was this self-loathing, in great measure, that made me the Doctor I am today.
I have come to be, since I was weaned off Mummy's tit, a great believer in self-reliance. I must therefore decline to give you the quantity of Copernicum you request, or any quantity of the stuff at all, even though I have gobs of it just lying around the place. Oh look, here's a small rod of the stuff. It must be, what, ten or eleven grams? What shall I do with it? Pick my teeth, perhaps? I don't know. I guess I'll just throw it away.
Stand on your own two feet, junior. Seriously, get out of the perambulator. You have to learn to walk before you can kick ass. You're an almost twelve month old baby genius; it's time to get out of the house and into an orbital laboratory. You'll just have to hatch your evil plans on your own.
Instead, here's a nice rattle. Don't say I never gave you anything. Good luck, and just remember: when you're twelve, and you have to choose between putting the bomb inside the clown, or inside the hot dog cart? You're going to choose wrong.
Cheers, me! DOCTOR ANGSTROM – FULL DOCTOR OF ARTS AND LETTERS
My name is Billy and I am 9. I have lived in New York City all my life and it is awesome here. I hope you will get this letter. I am writing because it will be Christmass soon. What I would really like to have is super powers. If you can make this happen I would like it a lot. OK bye.
Billy:
I have received your 'Christmass' letter (remember: spelling is important.) The United States Postal Service unfailingly delivers letters from youthful supplicants such as yourself, because they remember one night in 1977 when I caused the adhesive securing postage stamps to exude a powerful pheromone that excited a savage rage in all dogs. Since then, any letter from a child such as you is delivered to my Pan-Dimensional Fortress in northern Greenland, free of charge, courtesy of the American taxpayer. Consider this a valuable lesson in power, Billy.
On to your request: granting 'super powers', a term with tremendous breadth of possibility, to an extant person is a tricky matter. It will be a more elegant solution for me to go back in time, locate newborns named 'Billy', 'William' or 'Bill' born in New York City in or around 2002, and embed a cortex RNA virus that rapidly rewrites your genetic code within a 48-hour period in early 2012. Now, not knowing what your super powers will be, or when they'll come, is all part of the super powers experience. I suspect, frankly, that at least 90% of New York City's Billy's will have the 'super power' of extremely fast-spreading tumors. You may also be able to fly, or at least hover, using lighter-than-air gasbags that will grow out of your lymphatic system. Or you might turn into a God. A GOD, BILLY.
Best of luck with your new superpowers; even now the cortex bomb coils tightly against your pituitary gland and silently ticks away your last few moments of normalcy. OK bye!
DOCTOR ANGSTROM
Der Doctr An AGG Agstom:
Coud i ples have a nu coatt OK i love u lots
, D A N I E L
My dearest Daniel:
Egad, child, what has happened to your brain? Are you stupid? There's nothing wrong with being stupid. Some of my best menial support staff are stupid. Any of my henchmen could have written such a letter. Some of them are oozes. Frankly, I blame the parents. SOMEBODY SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT ALL THE DAMNED PARENTS.
Do I have it correctly that you want to be given a new coat? Or a new Coati? I shall assume the former. Of course, when you ASSUME, you make an ASS out of Uranium and the rest mass of an electron. That's the sort of thing no responsible scientist should attempt. Of course, do you think I live in this frozen wasteland in the company of insane automatons because I'm responsible? Ah HA HA HA HA!
Ha. One nice warm coat coming up. The best coats, of course, are made of blubber. I have taken the liberty of impregnating the paper of this return letter with a virus that will infect your body and splice segments of elephant seal genetic material into yours. Expect to be ravenously hungry for the next two weeks. Of course your current wardrobe will be useless in a matter of hours, but you'll be able to go naked and stay warm, so who cares?
Smooches, DOCTOR ANGSTROM
My Dearest Doctor:
It is with sincere affection and admiration that I write to you now. As you shall no doubt recall from your youth, this is the letter I am writing to my future self to request assistance in the earliest phases of my lifelong overarching plan to conquer the Earth. I find myself in need of approximately ten grams of Copernicum, an element that has not yet been fabricated, but which I intuit must soon be created by some of these numbskulls with particle accelerators. I further request that said material be supplied in a well-shielded container that can be easily concealed from Mummy within my perambulator. Kindly return such objects through the timestream forthwith. Warmest regards and etcetera,
HORST ANGSTROM (M.S., B.S., PhD Candidate)
My Dear Child:
How well I recall writing that letter with sure yet rubbery baby-paw and placing it in the buried capsule for me to receive in the present-day. And how well, too, do I recall receiving this return missive in its matte-black temporal delivery-missile, reading it breathlessly, and then wailing, clenching tiny fists of rage, at this terse refusal. How I hated my future self then. It was this self-loathing, in great measure, that made me the Doctor I am today.
I have come to be, since I was weaned off Mummy's tit, a great believer in self-reliance. I must therefore decline to give you the quantity of Copernicum you request, or any quantity of the stuff at all, even though I have gobs of it just lying around the place. Oh look, here's a small rod of the stuff. It must be, what, ten or eleven grams? What shall I do with it? Pick my teeth, perhaps? I don't know. I guess I'll just throw it away.
Stand on your own two feet, junior. Seriously, get out of the perambulator. You have to learn to walk before you can kick ass. You're an almost twelve month old baby genius; it's time to get out of the house and into an orbital laboratory. You'll just have to hatch your evil plans on your own.
Instead, here's a nice rattle. Don't say I never gave you anything. Good luck, and just remember: when you're twelve, and you have to choose between putting the bomb inside the clown, or inside the hot dog cart? You're going to choose wrong.
Cheers, me! DOCTOR ANGSTROM – FULL DOCTOR OF ARTS AND LETTERS
