ďThe Demands of ScienceĒ


I am Tyrone Bunklemen and given the importance of my employment I will just say that I work for a well known scientific lab, detecting lost deuterium particles and newly formed neutron stars, both of which are among the most difficult, painstaking jobs in science, however, I prefer either to a night out with Mrs. Bunklemen.


When a rascally, spry little deuterium decides to be mischievous and play the microscopic version of hide and seek it becomes a cumbersome, time consuming task to locate it and I must first prepare by asking the important question: latte or straight black roast? Then I must put on the proper attire, a suit that makes space walking look like Russian ballet. Itís hard enough wearing something that Ronald Reagan would have mistaken for the head of a nuclear missile but it becomes even more demanding when the coffee catches up to me and I need a restroom break. If my bladder is feeling uncooperative, as it has the mind to do at just a time, I look like an offensive linemen wearing a Halloween costume honoring the team that quarantined ET, appearing tipsy and stumbling any way but straight as if late for the subway in my quest for the restroom.


To make matters worse, some deuterium decide they want to relocate to the comfort of relatives and I find myself wallowing in the staff swimming pool trying to concentrate with my microscope while avoiding the avid swimmers, eager on completing their laps with the determination of a stock broker near solvency. It often takes me up to one year to locate Mr. Deuterium and when I do I give him a good talking to. He, with appropriate and self serving apropos, reminds me that I may have won this round but the game is never over. At this point I use my pointy equipment to keep him at bay, which, to the eyes of a passerby, probably looks more like a self-contained exhibition of kendo than the scolding of a deuterium particle.


Then it is back to detecting those neutron stars and what darlings they can be! I once burst into joy upon a great discovery, a star which I named Henry 123, before I was shattered with disbelief to realize the eccentric clicking noise I heard was that of a hip-hop beat emanating from the I Pod of the bossís son, a young curly haired hell-breaker that goes by the unenviable name of Huckleberry 4000. To say the least, I was mentally devastated but regrouped upon the news of yet another vagrant deuterium deciding to go AWOL, and Iím sure he was finding solace in the knowledge that Iíd be getting dressed for the chase. True to form I retrieved a map, which I have fastidiously drawn based on past adventures, earning me no less than an honorary degree in calligraphy, and set to the task of tracking the old boy down!