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Before I record my true adventures with a real honest-to-goodness time machine, I want to mention one little fact. It may seem irrelevant and unimportant, but here goes. Have you ever heard of R.H. Patterson? No, of course not. Well, Richie P. had what we call a monster cock, a substantial masculine gland. As for the size of his nuts, beh, who knows?
Well, long story short. R.H.'s cazzo (dick) was long and wide. His girlfriend, a sweet Mexican lady, had the kindly habit of sucking the older gent's cock and sticking her finger in his ass if he failed to shoot on time, to give him that slight edge that old-timers may need-- the infamous pinky in the prostate.
That morning, the Señora was having a grand time blowing Gabriel's horn when his damn prick lodged in her throat, and she spasmed. The old guy, sensing her difficulty, tried to pull out, but the dick was locked in and refused to budge. Thirty seconds without oxygen was enough to send the sweet lady to the promised land. When she arrived at the pearly gates, her heavenly reception due to the cause of her demise--death by cock sucking, remains unknown. Hopefully, no angel snickered.
Richie, when his dick went limp allowing his release, with some delay, called the cops to report the unlikely event. The police, disrespectful of the romance that the two older folks had going on, gleefully charged Richard with murder. A jury examined the murder weapon behind closed doors, debated the issue for five hours, and returned a not guilty "ver-dick." R.H. was acquitted.
Several female jurors, and one male wearing a chartreuse shirt, asked the Judge if they might have the defendant's phone number. Why? I have no idea. You tell me.
The Judge ordered Mr. Patterson's cock to be declared an unlawful unregistered weapon and forbade Richie from ever having another blow job in the county. But why? Does lightning strike twice?
In a thoughtful gesture, the Judge gave Richie, on his triumphant exit from the courthouse, a Kleenex box, a jar of cold cream, and a Hustler magazine. In case you are wondering, my name is Ralph, not Richard.
Nuff said, on with the story!
Most people are unaware, unless they read one of the few announcements in the Nation Record, that Patent Models, the actual machines or devices submitted with blueprints to obtain the protection that a patent provides for the inventor, are auctioned off whenever the storage facilities of the Patent Office are overflowing.
Out of curiosity, several years ago, I attended the Patent Model Auction held on April 1st at the Patent Office Museum, Madison Building, 600 Dulany St. Alexandria, Virginia. Of course, my brother-in-law insisted on coming. Since he was the one with a car, how could I refuse?
The two of us had previously toured the Museum, so we were aware of its nearby location. We weren't aware that the rear part of the building housed the storage center where inventions were cataloged. It was by accident that I spotted an announcement in the business section of the D.C. Gazette, a business publication with minimal circulation, served primarily for legal notices,
When I mentioned the auction to my brother-in-law, Isaac, he said,
"It sounds like fun. Knowing the idiots who work for the Feds, maybe they will make a mistake and auction off something of value for a few dollars."
"Not much chance of that," I said, " but I like auctions for entertainment and education. Let's see what happens."
Off we went. We got there a half-hour before the start when the doors were still locked. There was a gaggle of bidders conferring with each other outside. Just before 9:00 AM, an older man opened the door, and as we filed in, he handed each of us a small pamphlet listing the items to be auctioned and the terms of purchase, cash, or credit card.
A middle-aged man, standing next to me in the crowd, asked me what items I was interested in. After taking a quick look at the list, I responded,
"Oh, the Time Machine, that sounds useful."
"There is no such thing, that's an April Fool's joke."
"No, it's listed right here."
"Well, there is no such thing. Someone is pulling your leg, the man said."
We took our seats and the same man followed me in and sat to my right.
The patent models offered for sale that morning numbered eighty-two items. A quick scan of the catalog brochure revealed a variety of exciting things; a machine that removed cherry pits, an atomic clock, a horse riding saddle without cinches, an electronic bra guaranteed to increase your breast size, an electronic baseball cap to cure baldness and, yes, there then the item that struck my interest, the listing for a Time Machine.
The auction finally started. A young man carried an item, showing it to the audience. The bidders took appropriate action, in some cases going with frenzied bidding. I bid on a few things but was quickly overtaken by other bidders. Before the auctioneer got to the Time Machine, my sister called to say the basement water heater was leaking and the basement was filling up with water. My brother-in-law insisted we rush home.
Before leaving, I gave the man sitting next to me my paddle and asked him to bid up to $35 on the object that piqued my interest. I had not even seen it. If I had realized it was a colossal chair seated on top of a large electronic black box with various controls on the armrests, I never would have bothered. Not only was it oversized, but it turned out to be heavy as hell. I bid thinking there was no chance I'd win. It turned out I was the only person with an interest in the abandoned carcass. It was no dainty loveseat.
A postcard arrived a few days later, giving me the surprising notification that I'd won. On the yellow card were the hours when one could claim their item. There was even a penalty if the winner did not pick up his purchase. I asked my brother-in-law, Isaac Potee, to come to help me. He was the only guy I knew who had a truck, a rusty old Ford F150 that I was embarrassed to be seen inside. If I could have afforded a moving company, I'd have hired them. Unfortunately, I had little more than gas money, and a few bucks to buy lunch for Isaac, and then the $32 for the Time Machine.
I checked in at the office. The clerk was a good-looking woman, about twenty-five years old. There was a sign on her desk with the name Tina Dove She had a large pair of tits that gave me a hard-on as soon as she got up from her desk. I could tell by the way they giggled, that they were natural. I wondered if she pronounced her name, Dove or Do-vay?
"Yes, sir, can I help."
I handed her the postcard.
"You're Mr. Humingquat."
"Yes, that's me."
"I wondered who the guy was who bought that wrecked chair. I figured some hippy weirdo."
"You are?"
"Tina Dove, sir."
"Since you mentioned it, I was wondering who I'd have to deal with to get my Time Machine. I didn't think it would be someone as attractive as you, Miss?
"Dove, Miss Tina Dove."
"I don't know where the Dove's nest is, but I'm ready to go there.
"Well, that's a nice compliment. If you are going to continue making passes at me, I'll call security and have you escorted out of here."
"Oh, excuse me, I meant no offense. Is this a 'me too' moment?"
