The Jarvis Nebulae Files - Part Three (other parts to follow)

© Duncan Wheeler 1997-2007

Have you ever wondered where possums sleep during the day? I mean, this is a country with really thin trees with really small leaves and somehow there are thousands of fat furry brown things the size of petrol cans supposedly hanging off these supermodel- proportioned trees during broad daylight, which by the way is some of the brightest daylight in the world. And nobody sees them. Let me ask you one thing - have YOU ever seen them during the daylight? So where do they go? That's a very good question.

Since visiting my local government department who told me, "well, they're just very good at hiding", I believe I have uncovered a conspiracy regarding the whereabouts of these oversized rats during our normal working hours. Upon hearing the ridiculous suggestion of an animal being very good at hiding (how can you hide when you look like a giant meatball with fur?) I immediately set to the public library where I found some interesting pictures. I don't know why they have pictures of men feeling naked women's breasts in books on art, but it sure makes interesting reading. I found it quite difficult to remain focussed on the task at hand, especially as the lady sitting in front of me was wearing nothing but clothes. Eventually I forced myself to find the Little Furry Creatures Section, which by happenstance was exactly next to the books on artistic voyeurism. That's quite strange really, but I immediately found the pictures of the little creatures quite appealing.

Very soon, however, after looking at photo after photo of terribly frightened and sickeningly cute wide-eyed fuzzballs, I had to fight the rising feeling of revulsion. It was all the more abhorrent as I thought about how well these seemingly harmless, helpless creatures were exploiting the well-known human tendency to anthropomorphise cuddly critters. It was the ideal cover for a race of UTUFO-flying interlopers. Yes, my theory as I see it now is undeniable and incontrovertible but of course, as with all theories, unprovable.

Let me explain piece-by-piece the elements of my theory: You want to know where they go during the daytime? The little poo-coloured monsters go underground, like poo, and don1t come out until they see the dark, the opposite of poo. Ever wondered why their eyes are red? Because, my friends their eyes are not really eyes, they are infrared remote controls for the security systems on their flying vehicles. Now, to address the problem of them flying underground, well don1t you see, it all makes sense now - I have seen a UTUFO myself, with my own eyes, on the underground express route. Ah, there1s no denying it! I'm onto something, alright.

Call me Jarvis: P.I., or Jarvis: poet laureate...perhaps Jarvis: living legend, but just call me, WOMEN, please just... no, I mustn1t beg... Look, baby, if you think I'm somewhat of a genius trapped inside a gorgeously understated body, just, you know, c'mon over and, well, I'll come on over too. Aw, I know, honey... just try and calm down... take those clothes off slowly.. we've got all night then, well I gotta do what a man's gotta do, with another chick in the South of France...yeah...look I'm sorry, HEY !? oh, no, don't go...no! I was just, talking to myself, no pretty lady, please don't turn into a fat furry creature and start climbing a tree , no ..no ..no .....NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!

Damn those bloody creatures! They're starting to really intrude, messing with my mind like that in my most private James Bond fantasies. Well, I'll have to try the Scully and Mulder fantasy then:

Look Mulder! He's spouting black gelatinous liquid from his eyes!

You want to know what I think?

You're not going to tell me that it's the leftover of an alien rock from a meteorite that crashed into the earth 60 million years ago during the Jurassic period and annihilated the entire dinosaur species, and thereafter led to the creation of a cross-species of possessed humans who were, with the advent of advanced genetic tinkering this century, improperly cloned in an attempt to discover how to make a photosynthesising humanoid-alien breed in case we run out of food on planet earth?

No Scully, I was going to say, oh how beautiful you look in that close-fitting grey cloth suit today.

Oh Mulder, why do you tease me, when you know I...

Shut up and take your clothes off Scully, you little sex-pot.

Oh Mulder, why...

Cmon, babe, every other woman in the world would die to see me in those red speedos again, so why don't I just take off my trousers, matter of fact - I've got my red beauties on right now - wanna see?

Oh Mulder, I...think you're undergoing some sort of transformation...

You bet I am sugar...

No, you're turning all small and furry

Now, that's not nice, Scully...

No, really! Look in the mirror - it's...uugghh, it's horrible!!!!!!

God damn it even this no-fail fantasy isn't working...I .......j.........just ......can't make it work.......ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I have decided to dedicate my life to uncovering those UTUFOs. No matter where they go I WILL find them, and they can be sure, that when they decide to unleash thousands of small forest animals upon the cities, I Jarvis, KNOW ABOUT THEM! Forewarned is forarmed, suckers!!

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The Jarvis Nebulae Files - Part Two (other parts to follow)

© Duncan Wheeler 1997-2007

Here's a poem I wrote to commemorate a special event that happened to me last Sunday night:
The stars, the stars, the cars and the bars,
Twitching under my itchy palms
On the roof while looking afar
I made a fire that blew afar
It went into the highest stars
And made my heart begin to start
The stars, the stars, the cars and the bars,
Ha ha, Ha ha, to squish in a jar - don't laugh
For the stars, the stars, the cars and the bars
Nasty cross-dimensional travellers behind bars
Into the future and into the past - how bizarre
You'll never get me cos I'm Jarvis
I'll fill your craft with rotten tar and laugh Ha Ha!

I'm just a bit worried because, although it rhymes perfectly and in the most subtle and elegant way, the second verse just carried me away so much that I couldn't condense it into six lines to match the first verse. I1m sure you'll appreciate that talent such as mine cannot be defined by conventional writing rules, nor can it be cramped by horrible experiences - indeed, it seems to have blossomed.

You'll note my cleverly obtuse references to the UTUFO I sighted on the sickly underground journey, but they probably disguise the fact that I am still reeling somewhat from the event. I haven1t had a good night's sleep for a week now, and those "No Doze" tablets my caring neighbours keep recommending probably weren1t designed for someone with my superior physiology. Being entirely hairless is a sure sign of advanced evolution in the human species (since we will have clothes, heating and houses to protect us from the cold from now on and into the foreseeable future).

Not that I require the smallest shred of covering to remain warm and comfortable! You see, much to my neverending amazement at the wonder that is me, I discovered another undeveloped talent within myself when I rubbed my hands together on the roof of my house. Might I point out at this conjecture, that my roof is magnificently understated. Just as the house is magnificently understated. Just as I am magnificently understated. So understated is my house that in fact, after the doorbell has rung, I usually find visitors kindly waiting for me in the cellar, which is directly below the minimalist front porch. They often seem to have a quietly impressed and subdued look upon their faces. Indeed, when I offered a baked bean sandwich to the postman last Thursday, he was so awe struck by his surrounds that he ran upstairs, out the front door, and then did it again, twice, before eloping out the back window. Such behaviour is not unusual in my humble but striking abode. I am rather proud of the knife display hanging like a chandelier from the entrance hall ceiling.

To return to my tale of undiscovered talent, however, I was on the roof and as usual I was watching the neighbours dancing around the garden in their underwear. As I dreamed of chateaus, big gates with big black knobs on them, and really cute tea-cosies, the friction caused between my itchy palms set alight the thatched tiling. Fortunately next door were cooking over a bonfire so they didn1t notice my little outburst. I have noticed that cooking dinner for most seems to be an all-engrossing procedure. I personally take little fuss over it, having discovered a fantastic book by an old Antarctic explorer detailing the world's greatest baked beans recipes. You know, my household runs like a smoothly oiled laxative pill, is highly efficient and environmentally friendly - I have no waste because I eat everything. It is a real shame I am not hooked up to the council's sewage and water systems because if I were, my bills would be so small they would have to pay me!

The only disadvantage of not being connected to the Council's services, and the first time one has arisen, was that I could not put out the fire I had started. Not immediately, anyway. I stomped on it, I threw a towel over it, and I poured methylated spirits on it, then even soaked the towel in methylated spirits and threw it down upon the burning tiles in an effort to suppress the mighty flames. It was at that point that I felt the hand of God. Perhaps not God himself, maybe one of his proteges, maybe the aliens I had encountered in the underground envelope. It was remarkable all the same. It began to rain. It rained so hard my pants fell down under the weight of the water they'd absorbed. I wish I had checked out my neighbour's 19 year-old daughter in the garden next door at that point, but I was too busy trying not too slide down onto their woodpile along with my roof tiles and a plastic armchair.

It was with my hands wrapped around my chimney, my bare butt pointing towards the neighbours, and a small fire gradually falling off my roof into the neighbours' garden, that I discovered something incredibly profound about myself. Something that I had never dwelt upon before this absolutely clarifying event was thrust upon my weary shoulders. Something that the neurons firing commonly used pathways in my brain had been planning and coordinating based on years of experience. It had to be true, I realised: I like big breasts.

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