I re-orient my dorsal portions for a glazed triviality, and upon my return, you have aged significantly (but not matured)

My lexica! Where-when-what-why did this new-found DaguerreoShoppe© come up from... up? Certainly, I did not commission this pugilistic assault on the Solar Perplexus!

Jibbers & Kane! This sage (being myself, your page-and-outre-buoy) was distracted from his duties for a nano-nonce by the passing pastry-cart. I had but cantilevered my demi-corpulent self from my mahogany roll-top, dangling at butter-knife lyke seat-edge from the accompanying buttock hammock only to extend an extremity and snatch at an attractive cup-cake as it whizzed by at maximal pastry-cart velocity--an uncomplicated & innocent activity by any conjecture--when within that motion-stuffed interval that dwelled between cup-cake desire and cup-cake triumph, the dials and gauges on my computing engine registered an electroniste zizz/zagg, and some perplexingly erratic  burpafurcation of the Spaced Tymed Continuundrum commenced. The anomaly catapulted my ever-intermittent Interknittal connection with your world of "Da Urth" far ahead in tyme and by many many years. I am, thusly, out of sync with my ink: seated here within the benign comfort of Erde, annum 2009, YET gazing (with no anticipated depletion of horreur & bewilderament) at your futuristical world of Urth, año del diablo 2012!  Judging by a hasty lookaround at your world of 2012, seemingly all has CHANGED (as well-promised by the--in 2009--newly-elected iMerikan Pez-head-ent, Barko Blama*), and no thing remains the same.

I must, therefore, instantly consult with Herr Doktor Leavander Fricke C.M., my fellow High Sachem here at the Mount Palomine Institute of Mysteries, and (in matters such as this here one now evilly eye-balling this-my-self) my not infrequent superior. I believe Fricke is having a trim at the Institute's primate tonsorial parlour, which is no lowly stroll from my office. Mercifully, the cup-cake will energize me for the awesome task.

*My computing engine's Translate-O-Tron yet still is contending with the proper transmutation of the modernistical iMerikan "language" of Gangsta-textmessagese (a wilde hybrid of over-offense and over-brevity) into something one may deem intelligible. Too often-times, the Translate-O-Tron alerts me that there exists nothing intelligible whatsoever to be located within any of the iMerikan linguistical raw materials themselves; most translations yield, as was once said in Olden Tymes, "less-than-a-mouse" (no offense to mice employees of the Institute). In turn, the Translate-O-Tron must place my world's Sense, Meaning, and Substance upon Procrustes' fabled chaise-lounge and attempt to trim it all down to the microscopic dimensions of a birdie-Tweet. Anatole Zliplitt, our institute's charm-drenched Director of Publick Assuagement, speculated that if the Urthine aboriginals' brain-puddings were overburdened with any-thing more substanceful than the equivalent of a roar or grunt, they would become rapidly dessicated and precariously implosive. Indeed, this depressing theory has been verified by our anthropologistical field-staff.