In twenty-three twenty-six, beneath a neon sky,
My bionic father drove where silver hovercars fly.
From Neo Reno’s towers to Neo Sunnyvale’s glow,
His autonomous cruiser hummed along below.
But halfway through the desert, with a sudden fearful frown,
He said, “Son, I need a stop—I must put this vehicle down!”
He found a gleaming rest stop, all chrome and violet light,
And hurried to the washroom in a most undignified flight.
The emergency was handled; he emerged relieved and proud,
Until he saw no toilet paper anywhere to be found.
Instead there hung a towel, in a looping metal frame—
An endless rolling fabric, clean-ish all the same.
“It went around forever,” Father said with solemn dread,
“Fed from one bright roller and returned the way it sped.
I made a desperate choice, son—necessity was king;
I used that looping towel for an unsuitable thing.”
He left, his spirits lifted, thinking all had gone quite well,
When a Venusian AstroLord approached the restroom cell.
The purple noble entered, with a regal face to dry,
And reached for Father’s towel beneath the humming sky.
A scream rang through the station; a saucer squadron rose;
The AstroLord demanded vengeance from his cosmic foes.
From Venus came the warships, from Earth the fleets replied—
All over one revolving cloth that should have been denied.
So heed this tale, my bionic dad declared with grave concern:
“Before you touch a towel loop, observe which way it turns.”
For empires may have lasers, dreadnoughts, planets, pride—
But peace can fail because of what a bathroom towel has dried.
About the author : The RomeDome is on his Time Traveler Retirement Tour and claims the above is a true story from the future. He is the grown up bionic son we’re talking about here.
PLANET MAGAZINE 