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} Despite what you say in your grovel, you forget that
} I am the omniscient one here. You *don't* smash into
} the canyon floor, as it turns out.
}
} The anvil unaccountably *bounces* off the canyon floor,
} heading back up incongruously faster than it went down.
} A look of perplexity replaces the terror on your face
} as the anvil passes you on its way back up. If it had
} hands, it would wave to you, but we don't do that with
} anvils, and I don't think it would make sense for Bugs
} to suddenly be riding on the anvil. Though if this was
} one of those damned Wackyland things we'd do either (or
} both) in a heartbeat.
}
} Your terrified expression returns as you near the canyon
} floor. As you brace for impact, the parachute ropes
} tauten with a "sproing" from the sound effects crew -
} probably the G string of a cello, though that's their
} call. But instead of your spinal column being shattered
} to pieces, you do that Chuck Jones-ey voodoo that you
} do so well, and strrrrretch your body so that you gently
} stop, inches from the surface and your imminent demise.
} (As if!)
}
} Unfortunately, you mis-time your stretch, and the tip
} of your rubbery black nose makes the barest of contact
} with the lowest arm of the only cactus within miles of
} your anticipated landing spot. The air goes out of it
} like a balloon, and in fact your entire muzzle loses
} air and thus its integrity, the bottom half of your face
} drooping like some horrific Halloween monster mask.
} Your look of despair as you stare straight into the
} "camera", appealing to the audience for sympathy, with
} those great big bloodshot eyes, is priceless and of
} course represents this particular "gag" sequence's
} payoff.
}
} Nutty stuff so far, practically British in its layering,
} eh wot?
}
} With another stretch, off you go back into the air,
} as the anvil drags you upward to the stratosphere. By
} the time the anvil, and you, reach the apex of your
} trajectory, or should I perhaps say the acme, heh heh,
} our "camera" draws back and we see the North American
} continent, complete with lines demarcating these forty
} eight United States. (N.b., actual visible lines do
} not exist in real life, this is just another of our
} wild sight "gags". Also, the states of Alaska and
} Hawai'i have not been admitted yet. Also, by now your
} nose is somehow back to normal.)
}
} Back down, down, down, you and the anvil plummet,
} heading for Texas. You land safe and sound, in the
} ludicrously overly-cushioned top chair of a ferris
} wheel at a county fair. Why is the chair cushioned?
} Because I always thought the furniture at my maiden
} Aunt Mildred's house was the funniest thing ever.
} Don't you find old-lady furniture funny? Oh, and the
} anvil is by this point forgotten, probably having
} landed on someone but we won't show that. Unless we
} figure out a way to make it funny of course. Hm, two
} babies who look like Tracy and Hepburn? Squish! Nah,
} never mind, come back to that later.
}
} The wheel brings you down, and you emerge from the ride,
} woozy and staggering, but unharmed. Whereupon the good
} citizenry at the fair set upon you and beat you to a
} bloody pulp, led by Porky in an outsized cowboy hat,
} who shouts "I told ya, don't mess with us, th-th-that's
} all folks, yee effin' haw". The censor board may pitch
} a fit over the final phrase, but we're prepared to go
} to the mat on this one.
}
} You owe the Oracle a business card reading "The I. Oracle,
} Super-Genius". And don't worry, you'll come back again,
} as yourself. Just like last time. Just like next time.
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![[IO]](https://kinzler.com/picons/db/domains/org/internetoracle/unknown/face.gif){kind=small}
