The scientist & owner of the 46 laboratories, Billum; Master of Computational Finance, Master of Science in Teaching now retired. Has put his developments in his underground laboratories of a Time-Machine and Automatic Pickled Walnuts Slicer developments, experiments and creation on hold, all in the name of empathy and care of blogger Inchcock. Why? I’ll tell yer…
Billum invited Inchcock to come to his scientifically outstanding latest additional laboratory, dedicated to Medicationalistical ailments in the elderly. Having read the news about the Nottingham pensioner was having with his Cataracts, Glaucoma and Saccades in the sad old twits blog. He’s got plenty of his own, yet magnanimously and with great beneficence, Billum offered Inchcock to visit and “Have your Eyes Checked” in Laboratory 102, dedicated to Optical Solutioning! A marvellous offer and gesture, which the old Nottinghamian jumped at the eleemosynary offer. (Not literally, of course, jumping awake, yes, he can and does do… I’m waffling off of topic here again; sorry!)
Someone so far away, with his own ailments to cope with, and cares for others… That’s Billum! On arrival, they fed me, washed me, and we were soon going down to Laboratory-102. A fantastic, amazingly dazzling reception area… I think that his son Alan is the one who deals with the building side of things.
Billum’s other half, HRH Lisa, came in and gave me a sexy, pulse-prompting dance routine to the sounds of 1970s music. While Billum checked on Google, I assume to refresh his memory on cataracts, glaucoma and saccades?
It seemed like no time; it does when you are enjoying yourself. Before Billum took me through to his newest Laboratory-102.
He started his examination of my eyes…
Amid so many tests, prodding, probes and the usage of, to me, unidentifiable optical machines, some that played music, others that hummed, I smelt the perfume of my beloved (but don’t tell Billum) Sweet Petal, HRH Lisa… it was tantalising and moved my loins. Or maybe the painkiller that Petal Lisa gave me caused hallucinations? It contained Codeine, CBD and Cáñamo Hashish, whatever they are, but I felt no pain; they worked a treat!
I was spoilt rotten afterwards!
ODE TO THE VISIT
They sat me on a luxurious settee,
That was warming; they were lovely…
Served biscuits and a mug of Glengettie tea,
Petal Lisa came in and sat with me…
Billum was typing his assessment, you see…
The cats jumped up on my knee,
Petal Lisa, gemtly kissed me… ♥
I realised the tests done by Billum, for free!
I asked Petal Lisa if she wanted an adoptee?
Billum came in his report in hand and calmly…
Said, “It’s’ alright, you’ve got two eyes, not three!
That sort of puzzled and confused me…
Billum gave me a large bottle of CBD…
I went to take a wee-wee…
It didn’t flow very freely…
I said I know I’ve two eyes anyway…
Billum added, rather pleasantly,
Well spotted, and sent me away!
I make these blogs for Billum and Lisa, my Petal, Not for anything that is epithetical… But to raise a laugh, which to me is congenital, For Billum, Alan and my precious Lisa Angelical! I believe a laugh is as effective as hexobarbital,
Enough of this waffle, I need another pittle, Usually a painful trickle… But releasing it is vital… But having a laugh, trying to be comical… To me, is worthy and commonsensical! Even in this ode, that’s pathetical!
“Oi, pay attention, Inchcock; it’s your devoted, friendly, happy-go-lucky Alto-Ego here. Bringing you news and a…
Eh, erum… Oh, Sod-Off!
That’s nice, innit! I’ve come to warn you of the explosions in the gut, and all yer do is get antisocial wiv me?
Well, that’s cause I’m sitting here on the Porcelain Throne for the ninth time today, coping with the eruptions mentioned above in my stomach! You’re a little late in telling me…
Don’t get nasty turd-face, no need for insults! Anyway, if you want to nit-pick, I said explosion, not eruption, so there! Haha! I got here as fast as I could…
For an Alto who claims to have been in existence for thousands of years, you are very childish at times, mate… What were you doing in the guts anyway?
Why do they keep sending me to thicko-idiots to threaten and get depressed? If yer must know, I was checking yer body for any new signs of ailment, injuries or the likes…
What for… No, no, don’t tell me… It’s so you can worry, annoy and depress me, innit?
Oh, yes, clever clogs! An’ I did it too! See? Your Blood Pressure has shot up, spittle is building in yer throat, and you’re in agony with trots… I bet Haemorrhoid Harold is bleeding as well?
Yea, putting it that way, you’re nearly right...
Owd on… nearly right? How am I not spot-on then, freckle-balls?
It proved yer lied when you first disturbed me.
You coffin-seeker! Lied, ruggish! Everyfing I say is John-Bull and Cosher!…
Yer? Like, “It’s your devoted, friendly, happy-go-lucky Alto-Ego here? Devoted, friendly, you? You are an unwanted blight on me mentality!
Well, thank you very much; I appreciate that. It proves that I’m doing my job successfully and adequately: “Assure at all times that your client is DFF; Depressed, Frustrated, in Pain. For extra Alto points, you human having suicidal tendencies a minimum of once a day…” “Achieving an 80% success rate is required” – Now that’s in the Alto-Ego job description!
I proved I have the credentials for promotion…
How can you get a promotion when I’m yours, and you are mine? What did you call it? Client or human? You’ve already said you’re stuck with me, so what kind of promotion can you get clever clogs?
Gawd, you’re thick as a pancake with hebetude! When you kick the bucket, snuff it, I might be moved on to a politician, bank director or even Putin. Then…
Yer that’d be cushty. We had a bit of a drawback with Putin, never been known before, but his Alto-Ego went mad. He’s had to be delisted. No doubt he’ll be moved to some war immigrant in another country. Putin with me by his side could rule the planet… not that it’s got much time left, mind you…
Has it not? I expected as much...
Crap! You’re too thick to work owt out, Inchcock; you’ve been reading Billum’s blog, ain’t yer…
Well, yes, and he’s dead right...
You’ll be the dead one, Fungle-Knob: although I’ve not worked out the best way to nobble yer yet. I’ve thought about getting into Putin’s brain; just think of it…
Hang on, I’m getting confused here…
Nothing new there, dog-breath…
Can we start again?
Oh, so now yer want to converse with me? You want to make your feeble, befuddled mini-mind up! Dumbo!
You said you can’t hurt your human?
Oh yer, right, but only physically, now mentally, is another matter. And being as you are already halfway to being bonkers, discussions like these will soon tip you over the edge, and hey-presto, you’ll be dead, and I can put my bid in to be sent to Mr Putin, see… easy!
How are you planning to top me then?
I’m glad yer asked me brain-dead. I see there are three possible options.
One: You’ll get a heart attack from hearing the truth from me…
Two: You’ll do the decent thing and swig a litre of chlorinated bleach and drink it with ten Beta-blockers, Warfarins, and a good swig of liquid Codeine. I know they are regulated, but if you can time it for when you just get the prescriptions delivered, I advise you to take the whole packet of Morphine sulfate to be safe. Then stick all the remaining Enoxaparin Injections into your belly. (Not that it will matter where now). Then open the balcony window, make sure no one is below… No, no! Better not dive out of the window; with your eyesight, there may be someone on the pavement to crush when you land, and that’s not fair. Just stick with the bleach, medications and injections; they should do the job efficiently.
Three: you will have one of your tumbles when the neurotransmitter nerve-ends fail, and you fall forwards, trip over yer walking stick on the way down, and crack yer head a good belt on the sharp corner of the end counter… you’ll basically bleed to death, and be found the following day by a Carer, who after clearing out any valuables, will call the paramedics, but you be declared dead in your kitchenette floor, probably around 08:33hrs tomorrow. Oddly enough, your prescription delivery day, Hehehe! Well, you asked,you gormless dunderhead, Hahaha!
Thanks, I did ask, didn’t I? Well, that’s honest enough, Alto. Although I’m a little concerned at your going into great detail on option two? Suicide. It sounds to me like this is your favoured route to my demise?
Well, it’s the least bother for me, and I can shoot off and go Putin-hunting straight away. I’ll make my report first, of course. Should you plump for committing Hari-Kari, I promise I’ll make a good praising report of you and your actions to the Alto-Ego Controller. They don’t get many of those; I think Florence Nightingale was the last human to get one. You could live in fame in your death, mate!
‘I could live in fame in my death?’ Somehow, that doesn’t sound very attractive to me at the moment…
Ah, that’s cause you are temporarily not frustrated or depressed. That’s thanks to me, see. Bringing good news and advice to you again… Giving you thoughts that grabbed your attention and shooed away destructive emotions. I really hope you go for the choice to autodarwinate. It makes the most sense all around…
Maybe for you, but not for me…
Whyever not, Numbskull? I’m sure you are going to say that Altos can’t die, so have no idea what it’s like?
No, but that’s a good point; what’s your answer to your own question then?
Oh, dearie me, my ugly duckling. Is it not so obvious what I was referring to? I shall miss you your ignorance, unknowingness, innocence, duality, absent-mindedness, scepticism, ambivalence, and lack of sophistication when I’ve moved on… thankfully!
Oh, you dense creature! What power I have given you…
Wot power ‘ave you given me?
How many people have the knowledge of when they are going to die?
How do I know? You’re bamboozling me again…
No, Knuckle-Mouth! I’m empowering you. You can pick your timing to take the suicide route, lock the door to prevent any interruptions, and just resign yourself to the nothingness that will follow, a certainty within minutes… minutes of pain, yes. Still, you will be well prepared for that, having led a pain-ridden emotional and physical life, so what does a couple of minutes of further pain mean to you? Nothing! No ailments, no food orders to get wrong, substituted items, nothing to forget or learn, no crime, no emotional topsy-turvy; a state of utter bliss is death! Which is where you will be going, mate – into nothingness – no noisy neighbour above you, no rent, tax or fuel prices rising to fret over.
Inchcock & Alto-Ego, launch into Q&A Odeing Mode…
You keep harking back to suicide.
That is for you, my Button-Willy, to decide!
But will life never be indemnified?
Not until your death is verified!
Suicide? All my hopes will be pulverised,
Which is better than being lobotomised!
My friends will miss me, far and wide…
Friends, you? Now your telling porky-pies!
This conversation is like Morecome and Wise!
Death can be a pleasure, do you realise?
I’m not so sure… it’s a sacrifice?
In death, there’ll be no one who vilifies?
My ailment, all gone, pain defies…
Freedom, nothing left to visualise!
So, Covid has gone; no need to immunise?
You must get your thoughts strategised!
The thought of nothing does tantalise…
Alto sensed Inchcocks resistance to suicide weakening…
That’s the spirit, Inchcock, my old fruit…
Hold a minute, just wait...
Indeed, my old cocker, you take your time…
Take me time? What in or at?
Choosing which way to die…
I’m not sure how we got into discussing suicide?
Well, you wanted to know the best way to do it.
Yes, plan B you went for…
Yes, you decided you’ll do the decent thing and swig a litre of chlorinated bleach and drink it with ten Beta-blockers, Warfarins, and a good swig of liquid Codeine. (I know they are regulated, but if you can time it for when you just get the prescriptions delivered, you to take the whole packet of Morphine sulfate to be safe.)Then stick all the remaining Enoxaparin Injections into your belly.
Are you sure I chose this way and agreed?
Course you did Snot-Head, and it makes common sense, my friend! And once you’ve succeeded in suiciding, there’ll be no more painful battles with Trotsky Terence or Constipation Konrad! Now, this must be worth topping yourself for?
You really thought I was going to do it, didn’t you?
Well, yes! Are you not going to?
Too bloody true I ain’t going to.
Gragnangles! But I’ll be back!
Inchcock on the Throne realised Alto had truly flit… He finished his evacuation, messy, but just a bit, Pondered over suicide, blaming Alt-Inchie, the shit! Putting it into my mind, a disgusting gambit!
All a part of Alto & Inchies’ mutual brinksmanship… A strange sort of unwanted mental partnership, Full of insults, bullying and unsportsmanship, Alto’s getting nasty, pretending to be a prophet?
If he expects Gerry to top himself, there’s a blip… Even suggesting it shows Alto’s unsportsmanship, Suicide? No, he’d instead favour the opposite, Even living with ailments and a financial deficit!
More critical now, Harold’s Haemorrhoids do bleed, He cleans things, ointmentates, & takes some hempseed, It’ll be painful; he mustn’t hesitate and proceed… Agonisingly he did, then he wee-wee’d…
He turned his attention to what to self-feed, From his fridge and freezer, he took a swede… Leeks, mushrooms, tomatoes and bread, just a snead, Prepped and got them cooking; it smelt good indeed.
Off to the wet room. where he passed wind and pee’d, Settled in his recliner, he nodded off; he was so pleased, Woke two hours later, surprised yet frustrated… At the smell of burnt food, he recognised!
All his vegetables had been pureed! Burnt potatoes, uneatable, he had to concede… A Whoopsiedangleplop, he just didn’t need… He cleaned the mess to the bucket he pee’d!
The meal he ate for dinner was not one of his best… A can of peas, an out-of-date vegetarian duck breast, The whole meal went in the bin, top join the rest… Which annoyed him, and he began to get stressed!
Thought-Storms stopped him from getting to sleep… His life, he began to despise and threap… Suicide? Not a failure living, even in this muckheap… His life is not good, but living he wants to keep,
Though he passes evacuations, the liquid then concrete… Has cataracts, is deaf, tumbles over, and has terrible feet… There are times when he finds life semi-sweet, Screw Alto; his life is not yet over or complete!
He vows to ignore Alto-Ego, on his next visit… Alto’s intrusions, he’ll try his best to prohibit… He belched; the extruding wind tasted like horseshit, Inchcock pondered, is it me or Alto, that’s the eejit?
Dizzy Dennis called; his head felt as if it was in orbit… Thoughts coming so fast, he can’t cope, dagnabit! He thinks this is becoming a nightly habit… And he had Alto to return, the nasty dipshit!
But this time, Inchcock was determined, not frit… He decided to keep up his flagging spirit… Amidst words like Grongletits and Gawdammit! He got up and this Ode he writ… Hoping Alto stays in his pit!
And, why is the Inchcock News Snippets reporter there?
Who is Billum? He is the once unspotted, then much-spotted, lesser-spotted, and now spot-free, Humira-taking, emeritus professor of algebraic, arithmetical, numerical, and statistics.
He, and his assistant, the lovely Petal Lisa, are referred to as HRH (Her Royal Highness) locally, around Crowell Manor, their home. She is always there, and always ready to support Billum, on his inventioning-habit. Billum is a clever lad. In fact, at the interviews I’ve had with him, I gleaned little – I was spending so much time on the Thesaurus and Dictionary.
After my last interview, I picked my way through the unwritten, intelligently and clandestinely formulated sagacious words in his replies. This is still a job in progress!
The Short Interview: Scientist, Lecturer, PhD, Astrophysics Master-Technician was working in his cellar basement laboratory, a sort of manufacturing complex, with a nuclear fall-out shelter, DVDs of the entire Grimm series, and enough supplies of cat food for 6-months was working on a new invention at the time.
I inquired what it was he was working on:
Billum: After explaining to me about his work, everything bar what it was he was inventing, said; That mutually inconsistent theory must not be ignored completely. Unless you want to… but if you do, you may miss a vital link that could prove that spaghettification is a natural phenomenon that we will meet. Thus, accepting that this is part of the process needed to be understood before the creation of any viable, workable model can be achieved, naturally…
Thankfully, Angel Lisa arrived as Billum got on with something in the other lab room (by gum, he must be working on two inventions simultaneously? Clever chap, you know!), and I was given a mug of Glengettie tea.
When he returned, I had a wee-wee, washed and returned. The interview resumed: I tried to think of a way, without sounding too stupid or upsetting Mr Billum, that he had not yet told me what the invention was yet… I mumbled and hesitated a bit; you would when talking to a genius!
Inchcock: Would you mind mentioning what your project is, Sir?
Billum: Not at all, transtemporal travel.
Billum: No need to be sorry, my lad… A way is bound to be discovered; I intend to be the man to do it… I’m close now; the lad Alan and HRH are getting excited at the prospect…
Inchcock: Erm, I’m not sorry you are doing it, Sir; I’m just sorry I didn’t understand what transtemporal travel means.
Billum: Well, what do you think it might be?
Inchcock: Er…, transport, maybe a cheaper way to power trains or aeroplanes? No, perhaps an unpunctureable air balloon… or…
Billum: No, no, no… Time-Travel! It’s taken me two weeks to get this far, but I’m sure I shall have it cracked by the end of today!
Inchcock: Er, So, you think it will work and be controllable, Billum?
Billum: Right now, at the particular place you are sitting, at the time when you are sitting there, one of two things is true: Either there is a closed timelike curve passing through that point in spacetime, or there is not. And that situation will never change — no matter what clever engineers may do in the future if they create closed timelike curves, they cannot pass through events in spacetime through which closed timelike curves did not pass. Simple!
Inchcock: Er… Is it?
Billum: Oh, aye! A time-travel paradox is a paradox, an apparent contradiction, or a logical contradiction associated with the idea of time and time travel. Time travel is one of the most popular and most exciting topics in science fiction. In psychology, mental time travel is the capacity to mentally reconstruct personal events from the past. We all do that. The motivation for a character to travel in time, provided that it is intentional, is either to rectify events in the past or to explore the past or future. However, there seems to be a danger of causing a paradox in the timeline, especially when going to the past. The best-known dilemma occurs if the time traveller goes back something like 70 years to the past and inadvertently kills his grandfather before grandpa has met grandma. He is extinguishing his own existence at the very exact moment. If he will never exist in the future, there is no one to go back to the past to cause the change in the timeline in the first place. As a result, the timeline is ambiguous since that time was in the past, and the person exists and does not exist at the same time from a logical viewpoint, at least in one possible interpretation.
Billum: Oh, yes, easy-peasy! Time travel via speed, or the reverse… This is the easiest and most practical way to time travel into the far future – go really fast. According to Einstein’s theory of special relativity, when you travel at speeds approaching the speed of light, time slows down for you relative to the outside world…
Inchcock: So you’ve made an actual time machine then, Billum?
Billum: Of sorts, yes. The stronger the gravity you feel, the slower time moves. So my time bubble is super magnetic and will move at the slowest pace ever, so time travelling backwards is so easy! Which us what we will be doing.
Inchcock: Is it? Err, We?
Billum: Yes! Of course, it has to be large enough to carry food, water etc., for a good few years. And I was looking for someone who is not entirely with it. Preferably bald, so he’ll have no haircutting to worry about, will be needed; to be my first man to time travel in my bubble-magnet… Have another mug of Glengettie, mate…
Lock the doors, Alan!
Ode To The Outcome…
I enjoyed the tutoring for my journey… By HRH, a joyous beauty, You’ll have to see and agree… But facts and numbers only confuse me… Still, we had a cuddle and mug of Glengettie!
Time to go, lacking fear, and HRH was kissed… I went slowly into the ether, the space mist… I wrote of the nothing I saw and all I missed… In time, I became a pretty fair anecdotalist, Throughout, I kept at a level of my cheerfullest…
At no time did I become worried or distressed… With Bill’s magnet-time-machine, I was impressed, It was cold, and I was glad I wore my woolly vest… Although, with my pencil breaking, I was stressed… I’d a spare pencil stuck with a plaster on my chest. Inchcock at his cunning best!
I saw Spike Mulligan, Aneurin Bevan, Yes, Siree! I looked around to see if I could see Suzie… Then I sensed starting, a Thought Storm, spree… And then it all became vividly clear to me…
Huh, it was all a dream, Alto Ego laughed heartily… At his mocking, I did disagree, We had a verbal argy-bargy… I started the battle off with “Pardon me?”, We ended up drinking mugs of Glengettie tea…
I’d had a dream-ridden, ever-waking up, nodding off, back to kip, more nightmares, waking up… a terrible night. I even started to feel sorry for him, then realised it was me! As I reluctantly got my head together, I expected the horrendous Thought-Storms would arrive. But no! Alto-Ego Inchie was on at me like a shot…
Boy, were we both in a niggly mood!
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
“Do you know that you were talking and farting in yer sleep last night?… Mind you, they both made about the same sounds and sense… Hehehe!”
“Oh, sod-off Alto, I’m not up to coping with your claptrap yet…”
“Who the $%&+💣 are you talking to? Wot the hecks up wiv yer?”
“Ah, Mr Know-all Alto, needs to ask me what’s up – You’re up and rattling around in my brain, that’s bad enuf! And before I can work out what day and time it is, your there, gobbing away at me! Work it out, Pugface. I had a horrible night’s non-sleep; the Peripheral Peters neurotransmitters in the legs ain’t working…!
“Ah, Tithead! La-la-la Lalala! You ain’t moved yet, so how does yer know, eh, clever clogs?” ♫ ♫
“If I could, I would likely kill you! You are so cruel and cutting – but pig-ignorant with it…”
“That’s cause I am you, yer pillock! You’ve not worked out who and what I am yet, have yer?”
“As I was saying, before being so crudely and rudely interrupted… I can generally sense when the neurotransmitters are failing or about to fail in the legs and feet…”.
“Load of tosh, I don’t feel owt wrong…”
“No, Dumbo, that’s cause you don’t have a body, innit!
“Well, it’s not my fault I ain’t human or that they assigned me to be your Alto-Ego, is it? It ain’t easy yer know, gerrin’ posted to a turd like you – we both have to make the best of it…”
“Hang on, hang on, hang on… What are you up to? Where do all this ‘we’ come from? I never heard you use that word before?
“Ulterior motive in there, dogbreath, it’ll do no harm to tell yer worrits all abarght, I suppose. Is yer ready; it’s a bit complicated for an idiot wiv dementia to grasp. I’ll pretend I’m talking to a ten-year-old and choose easy words for yer…”
“This should be good, coming from you, Alto…”
I am aware the yer Doctor is not interested, and also you have the Vascular Dementia, Cataracts, Glaucoma and Saccades in yer eyes… are you following”?
Well, despite instructions from the Alto-Ego Control Room to make yer life as much hell as possible, I’ve got to be fond of your deafness, Whoopsiedangleploppings, tumbles and falls. stupidity, ailments, failings and countless other inabilities…”
“You’re enjoying this ain’t yer?”
“Carry on then…”
“Because you give me a laugh and entertain me when I’m just in observation mode. When yer scratched yer head and lost a pint or two pints of blood as you cut the head of the boil-off with yer nail, yesterday… That did it for me; I laughed my head off, which is not easy when you don’t have one!
“Come on, tell me…”
“Where was I?”
“I’m the one wiv dementia! Tsk! You were at; ‘I laughed my head off, which is not easy when you don’t have one!'”
“Oh, yes… be patient…” I decided to help you get some help from the medical profession. Mental, Diabetes, Fungal Lesion, Dentist, Audio clinic and Cardiology. Maybe, just to cover all of your ailments, Gastroenterology, Haematology, DVT, Orthopaedics, Neurology, Nephrology, Oncology, Ophthalmology, Otolaryngology, Rheumatology, Orthopaedics, Urology, Rheumatology, and Urology. To be on the safe side, I’ll add a psychotherapist, psychologist, psychoanalyst, psychopathologist, disorders analyst, guidance counsellor and some men in white coats…
“Are you teasing me or what, having a laugh?
“Oh, no, let me finish before you make a judgement. All will become clear of my genuine good intentions…
Well, gerron wiv it, then!”
I was aware that if I had a go at you about things today, you’d be bound to put it in a blog, see? Thus the billions of medical persons worldwide can potentially feel sorry for you and come forth with free assistance, help and advice for you?
Is that it? You dipstick!
Well, that’s not very nice, is it?
Are you aware of how many of the billions are out there that read my blog? Eh?
Erm, I’ll check my memory log; hang on…
‘Sorry to keep yer Dumbo… I just calculated some of the figures. Well, I do feel like a fool now, Hahaha! Your average day viewers total for last week was 5…, and likes were 1.5″…
Exactly! How many of them might be doctors in Gastroenterology, Haematology, DVT, Neurology, Nephrology, Oncology, Ophthalmology, Orthopaedics. Otolaryngology, Rheumatology, and Urology. Ophthalmology, Orthopaedics, Rheumatology, and Urology. Thanks for nothing, turd-breath! Let alone psychotherapists, psychopathologists, psychologists, psychoanalysts, or speak and read English, I imagine, would be nil?
Ah, but now you begin to feel a little depressed after having got your hopes up… yes?
Too true, Alto; I’m down in the dumps. I should never have believed you wanted to help me in the first place… I am a pratt of the highest order, and you should be ashamed of yourself for being so abusive, disparaging, tormenting ridiculing, soul and hope destroying antics. I feel guilty and self-loathing for being misled…
Hahaha! I know, it was a masterstroke, wonnit? The way I strung you along, I’m chuffed to bits! And it’ll get me some bonus points from the Alto Management; it’ll likely make my cunning subterfuge the highest placed for the day of all the Altos! Hehehe!
Oh, Rollock’s! Now, I’ve sunk down into a full-blown, damned Dracula Depression!
I know, Har-har! Gullible Inchcock sinks into despair! Made my day! Hahaha!