Theory Ball

I have a pet theory.

It states that the universe exists ultimately in the form of a bicycle. This is no laughing matter. I keep my pet theory in my front pocket. There are those who would seek to kill it by disproving it. They're competent physicists, for the record. They would hold my bicycle theory up to the light, and puncture it with shards of logic. And they'd succeed, for my theory is not yet fact. It's too new. That's why it must stay in my front pocket to incubate, except for at night, when I take it out and fondle it.

Night time is the best time to work on it. I roll it around in my hands, concentrating on the universe as I do so. It feels like a warm egg, but it's more like an ornate Christmas tree bulb, with little peep holes. Technically, it's an infinitely thin, super massive Yule ovoid with portals.1 If you look through them, you can see its physical nature: lots of little crispy copper bugs spinning on their backs, with their spastic legs reaching up, then passing through exquisitely jeweled micro worm-holes, and back down again toward themselves, so they can manufacture themselves by manipulating the symbols on their backs which represent what they are. Such is the look of a young theory, not to be confused with its content. On the backs of those bugs is the stuff of bicycles. I theorize effervescently into the night.

Recently, it's been changing. It's a rolling down-hill idea. Each night it becomes more willful, less and less like a reflection of the universe, and more and more like a blueprint for it. It is becoming the de facto source of the universe: as its tires revolve, it grinds out reality like fine sausage. Its handle bars slowly pivot, and space-time changes direction accordingly. Its bell goes 'ding' and soothing axiomatic waves are delivered to the cosmos.

I don't believe in the Big Bang. I believe in the Little Ding.

Without this refinement, you just have massive forces pounding away at each other, as per those other scientists' theories, with all their dust and gas and spewing. My theory doesn't have any such unpleasantness. My theory is a nice theory. It has a bell.

My little gizmo is growing so quickly these days. It demands to see the light of day. My front pocket will soon burst. I've been going to a tailor regularly. Each alteration is more challenging than the last. He looks at me through his monocle (yes, monocle.) But he never asks questions. I always pay in cash.

When the final explosion comes, a jangling tangle of spokes and sprockets and gears and round things will be transmitted throughout the universe, and the universe will read these as instructions, reorganizing itself so as to conform. Gladly will the heavens crank and jangle with foolish delight, for they have had to endure eons of ponderous gravitational theory. They have even grown weary of relativity. Of course, it is only my theory that the universe will act upon these instructions. This is itself a side theory. I'm keeping it in my side pocket.

Nothing can stop me, assuming we don't entertain the possibility of my front pocket being detected by a rare Theory Ball Recognizer Telescope (or, "TBRT").

Let me explain: I'm not the only player in the industry. There is a small, underground group of interstellar researchers who use theory ball telescopes to detect rival theories. They, like I, believe in the theory that reality follows theory, and not the other way around. We deal in the theory of theory. We call our field, "Theory-Theory." Many of them have clusters of their own, incubating in their pockets. I myself created these other theoreticians long ago, by positing their existence. (I remember it well: it was a fragrant, humid night.) They, sadly, labor under the delusion that they created me. Fortunately, there are too few of them to stop me. Anywhoo, that's the down side of this business.

Now, it's imperative that I stop thinking about them and their TBRTs. Imperative. But I don't think I can stop. I keep rolling and fidgeting and thinking. So it keeps growing.

In fact, it is now a small lump in my BACK pocket, a new and dangerous theory ball, the worst kind of theory ball: a theory-theory theory ball! As it grows, more and more theory ball telescopes are popping into existence, along with hordes of new theoreticians to man them. I sit here machinating, while galaxies are being filled with theororizing rabble. Sooner or later, one of them will discover me. Then he'll try to defeat my plan by inventing some ad hoc, half-baked, anti-bicycle postulate. I've been so obsessed with my front pocket's debut, I've failed to notice this new back lump. Now it too is about to burst. (BTW, did I mention how much I hate that monocle?)

A good egg and a bad egg are in a deadly race to be hatched. The one that blows first will annihilate the memory of the other. Soon now, one of them is about to explode. If you like bicycles, pray it's the one in front! - The End