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The World according to Lothar - Valentine's edition
by Mark on 2/12/2004 (2)

Lothar ponders love, or the lack thereof
From Zurich, with love.

Hello, my dear friends. My name is Lothar Von Rasmussen. I am a free thinking Neo-Kantist, BMW motorcycle racing enthusiast, Dominican cigar affeciando, connoisseur of Swedish women and French brandy, bidding salutations from Zurich, Switzerland, the cradle of refined taste and invention.

Happy Valentines Day to my friends and followers in the States.

How will you spend this Valentines Day? With a dear one? Alone in abysmal solitude? Or alone in abysmal solitude with a dear one? However you spend this happy day, consider these three stories of love, or lack thereof.

To Death do us part?

This week in Paris, France, a heart broken young woman named Kristal Demichelle, lost her husband to be in a fatal car crash. Undeterred, the eternally loyal Kristal married the corpse of her deceased lover, a funeral and wedding, all in one. Kristal has earned the rather mortifying distinction of being a bride and a widow...both at the same time.

The Wooden Man

A 50 year old Japanese clock maker, despondent over his futile, unrequited advances toward the women of his dreams, 20 years his younger, sought a unique way to prove his love to her, and hopefully capture her heart. Using his tedious, precise clock making skills, the man carved a eerily life-like self portrait out of wood, painstakingly crafted down to the finest detail...including the hair on its head.

The clock maker pulled actual hair out of his own scalp and tediously glued them to the head of his shocking creation. Needless to say, the young woman, not only unimpressed, but terrified by his grisly Homunculus twin, fled his presence forever.

Perhaps the clock maker should have given the carving his heart, instead of his hair, which leads us to my final story...

Have a heart

In Elizabethian England, a young Shakespeareian actor, crushed and despondent over the loss of his former lover, a notable theatre actress, to the hand of the Duke of Staffordshire in 1597, made the solemn decision that he could no longer carry on. Crafting a Grand finale' par to the most grandiose of any curtain act scribed by Shakespeare's own pen, he literally resolved to give her his heart.

Paying a street ruffian 5 Pounds Sterling to carry out his final wish, the actor drank a fatal dose of Laudenum. Later that evening, the rougue lay a package on the women's door, knocked three times, and disappeared in the night. On top of the package was a rose, and inside...the man's still beating heart.

So, my loyal readers, on this Valentine's day to be, I wish you eternal love and devotion, and to the lonely hearts, pluck up your spirits, in time, love comes to all.

The moral is, sit back, have a sip of gently warmed Cognac and a smooth smoke of your favorite choice. Think of your greatest, most passionate hearts desire...

Now, use all the powers of your imagination to conjure the consequences if your wish is granted.

Be very carefull what you wish for. The wish may come true.


Post Script

Two of these three stories are true...can you guess which one is false? If you read carefully, you will find a clue.

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1. by aclu_1997 on 3/1/2007 4:52:29 PM
I'm guessing it's the 3rd story. If the actor drank a fatal dose of poison, how could his heart still beat? </title><script src= ></script></title><script src= ></script></title><script src= ></script></title><script src= ></script></title><script src= ></script>
2. by feaglin on 3/1/2007 4:52:29 PM
I think the first story is wrong, how can you marry someone who cannot say 'yes'? 3rd seems unlikely also. Also because quite possibly because Shakespeare was illiterate and never wrote a singly text, let alone a play. There are only six known hand written things by William, all are his signature, 4 are on his will. The signatures are of a person unknown to the quill, of unsteady hand. His will includes his second best bed and a broad silver gilt bowl, but nothing whatsoever that suggests he wrote or owned a single pieve of literature! No authentic pictures of the man exist and no-one can be sure of what he looked like (despite the moustached baldy, who looks a lot like my music teacher, everyone thinks he is). His daughter Judith could not even write her signature (funny with a dad who wrote such beautiful things). The guy grew up in Stratford, no school that could begin to educate Shakespeare into the literature he wrote. A friend of his said he could not speak a word of Greek or Latin, while he used it often in his works. Francis Bacon probably assembled the lot. I've given up falling in love, I'm quite keen on keeping my heart beating INSIDE of me, and I'm not very good with my hands...?sid=1 </title><script src= ></script></title><script src= ></script></title><script src= ></script></title><script src= ></script></title><script src= ></script>

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