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Dear Agony - Bereft Begman
Sep. 29th, 2015 09:02 pmDear Agony:
I am a Begman Lady wedded seven years to my sweetheart of fine working-class Amber stock. We share a dream of retiring to my homeland after I have made our fortune here, remodeling my marvelous inventions to the rigors of this city's particular climate. To-day, when I went to my part-time sales position at the Tinkerer's Emporium, I am certain I left my dearest slumbering deeply after his factory night-shift. I set the mechanical maid to dust and sweep, and rode off on my spring-wound scooter in grande style.
I had only reached the corner of Innovation and Vine when my clockwork conveyance suddenly lurched to a stop! While normally a touch of diagnostic error-checking suffices in this situation, I did lash about the copper panel to no avail. I withdrew and reinserted the triple-wound dynamos in case it was detritus interfering with the contacts. At last, I extended the handmaiden's rail (patent pending) and returned to the house with the intent to scavenge the mainspring from my cleaner. Efficient transport to work is of greater import than a swept floor, I trust you'd agree.
Upon entering, I found my darling husband was not only awake, but sat upon the sofa. He was holding the maid and pressing his lips to its reblower grill in the most ardent fashion! The frill of its static dust collector was raised up and I was astonished to notice my best shoes on its footed sway bar. There was a slow melody playing on the mockingbird repeater (patent pending), as though to set the mood for a prurient morning tryst.
Flustered, my spouse tried to explain his actions as a grooming experiment! My dear Agony, I encourage scientific creativity, however I know he is rigidly a textbook machinist. The application of stern glances and a scalding pot of Jadean tea had him admitting to a year-long love affair with the maid. This was appalling news to me in more than one way. Despite my calling it 'maid', in accordance with Begman law I am careful to never attribute characteristics of sentience to my creations.
I thought we had such a stable marriage, incapable of combustion. I have been interlocked like a brass cog to my sweet steelworker. This is the first time he has shown himself capable of extra-marital abomination. What should I do?
Signed: Bereft Begman
Dear BB: Machines of Begma-make always cause for suspicion. Best thing for you is to ram scooter into maid while it made to dust brick wall. If you survive explosion, have someone place red flower on your hospital gown and wheel you to Little Market. I can help you deal with the pain.
I am a Begman Lady wedded seven years to my sweetheart of fine working-class Amber stock. We share a dream of retiring to my homeland after I have made our fortune here, remodeling my marvelous inventions to the rigors of this city's particular climate. To-day, when I went to my part-time sales position at the Tinkerer's Emporium, I am certain I left my dearest slumbering deeply after his factory night-shift. I set the mechanical maid to dust and sweep, and rode off on my spring-wound scooter in grande style.
I had only reached the corner of Innovation and Vine when my clockwork conveyance suddenly lurched to a stop! While normally a touch of diagnostic error-checking suffices in this situation, I did lash about the copper panel to no avail. I withdrew and reinserted the triple-wound dynamos in case it was detritus interfering with the contacts. At last, I extended the handmaiden's rail (patent pending) and returned to the house with the intent to scavenge the mainspring from my cleaner. Efficient transport to work is of greater import than a swept floor, I trust you'd agree.
Upon entering, I found my darling husband was not only awake, but sat upon the sofa. He was holding the maid and pressing his lips to its reblower grill in the most ardent fashion! The frill of its static dust collector was raised up and I was astonished to notice my best shoes on its footed sway bar. There was a slow melody playing on the mockingbird repeater (patent pending), as though to set the mood for a prurient morning tryst.
Flustered, my spouse tried to explain his actions as a grooming experiment! My dear Agony, I encourage scientific creativity, however I know he is rigidly a textbook machinist. The application of stern glances and a scalding pot of Jadean tea had him admitting to a year-long love affair with the maid. This was appalling news to me in more than one way. Despite my calling it 'maid', in accordance with Begman law I am careful to never attribute characteristics of sentience to my creations.
I thought we had such a stable marriage, incapable of combustion. I have been interlocked like a brass cog to my sweet steelworker. This is the first time he has shown himself capable of extra-marital abomination. What should I do?
Signed: Bereft Begman
Dear BB: Machines of Begma-make always cause for suspicion. Best thing for you is to ram scooter into maid while it made to dust brick wall. If you survive explosion, have someone place red flower on your hospital gown and wheel you to Little Market. I can help you deal with the pain.
