“Set the diflugulator to maximum ungerscrunch.”
A booming hum throb of pulsation.
“Crank up the turdledonk slowly… slowly.”
A rainbow cascade conflagration.
“Now let me adjust the peddlequanch settings.”
“Methinks one more peddlequanch notch and it will reach the kloddflack peak.”
A whistling jet stream in exhalation.
“Good, very good.”
“Careful, we must not exceed the gumbletunt threshold.”
A squeal of steel for want of lubrication.
“Maybe a touch of oiggleflipoil?”
A few drips here and there for mollification.
A silence full of admiration.
“So what is it?”
“It’s a… it’s a…”
A frantic ruminate for stimulation.
“It’s an Iscranulder Vermantic Pasdockall Device!”
“How absolutely magnificent.”
A dual deep sigh of appreciation.
“So what does it do then, what is its purpose?”
“Is it not obvious?”
A desperate search for inspiration.
“Do you know yourself?”
“Unreservedly I do. Can you not deduce its function?”
A subtle state of indignation.
“How it works, yes; what it does, no. Please, a hint?”
“A hint! You are a Scientist and a Fellow of St Bartleby College, just as I am. You, Sir, should not need a hint!”
A barbed retort of professional assassination.
“Indeed, Sir, are you doubting my Fellowship of St Bartleby College?”
“I neither cast nor reel in aspersions.”
A charged air bursting with vexation.
“Cup of tea?”
A golden brew of conciliation.
“Nothing better than a fine sip of the Earl Grey.”
A so British response for social salvation.
“I see that you admire those old boots by the stove. They are a reminder from my discerning wife to keep my feet firmly planted upon the floor.”
“Aha, my good lady is also of the same mind set.”
A pause as each considered their spouses lack of appreciation.