Parallel-o-Gram
March 25th 2008 01:08
I want you to listen carefully (or read carefully, unless a friend is reading this to you out loud, in which case I should tell you that I slept with your partner or significant other... no really, I'm not reading this bit out, I stopped reading after the first half sentence... I know it still looks like I'm reading, but I'm actually being serious, I totally slept with your partner or significant other and I'm very much in love with him and/or her... now that you know, I'm going to continue reading to you), because I've found a way to make an absolute arseload of cash without having to really do anything. I don't want this to get out, so you've got to promise me that you're not going to tell anyone about this. Shhhh.
The first thing you need to do is realise that parallel universes actually exist. I'm not being facetious. American physicist Hugh Everett first proposed the Many-Worlds Interpretation of quantum physics, and, though he was largely ignored by the scientific community in his lifetime, in 2007 physicist David Deutsch produced mathematics showing that a large portion of quantum mechanics can only really be explained if the Many-Worlds theory is true. So parallel universes exist, and there's maths to prove it. But how do they work?
The popular theory is that every decision we, as humans, make somehow splits the universe off into a whole new one. This is a great theory for any author who wants to try their own hand at the ol' "What if Belgium had won World War Two?" scenario, but doesn't hold up to any kind of real scrutiny. What type of decision are we talking about? Are you talking about my decision to stop at the orange light instead of speed through it, thus creating a me that gets to my destination sooner, overhears a phone call that I otherwise wouldn't have, uses that information to garner good will from a friend, and that friend buys me a lottery ticket, and so on and so forth? How does the Universe (or the part of it that knows it's time to "split off") distinguish that choice from whether or not I scratch my cheek as I wait at the lights? That particular choice may have no differing consequences whatsoever, but hey, we got a backup universe out of it, so yay us.
Regardless of my apparently logical evisceration of the "every choice leads to new universe" theory, that's the one that Hugh Everett subscribed to, and given he was vastly more qualified than I am, and now appears to be well ahead of his time, I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, who's to say there isn't an identical universe in which the only difference is I scratched my cheek at the lights? Given there's a certain amount of the infinite to space and time, why can't there be infinite worlds?
Now, while most people are going to bemoan the fact that they're not living in the universe where they're incredibly wealthy and married to Olivia Judson, I'm actually going to do something about it. Getting wealthy, I mean. I presume Ms Judson will eventually succumb to my charms in her own time.
Seeing as the whole point of the parallel universe suggests infinite alternatives, it is with heavy heart that I must reveal to you that a book has been written about me. A terrible, scandalous, lie-ridden book that takes the structure of my life -- leaving all places, names and events basically intact -- and adds the most horrendous tales of illegal drugs and illicit debauchery and secret murder contracts that make me out to be a complete monster.
None of these things are true, of course. I'm a complete angel. I would never do anything remotely bad, and yet, still, this book was written.
Ideally, I'd travel to the universe in which it was written and sue the pants off the author. (Note: I'd have to make sure I travelled to the right one, because if I accidentally arrive in the universe where there's no such thing as libel laws or pants, I have no case.) Sadly, the ability to travel to alternate universes is not possessed by this particular version of me, and so I must make other plans.
This is where our flawless legal system comes into play. You see, after glancing at the headlines in the newspaper and avoiding the substance of the article itself, I have discovered that it is possible to try somebody without them being there. It happened recently with a criminal who had fled to Europe; the court simply had the trial without him. Eventually, he turned up, was extradited, and is now in prison, so it all worked out. It's like going ahead with a date even though the other person hasn't shown up, and you turn up on their doorstep at the end of the evening (where you would normally have walked them home), and you knock on the door and they open it and you tell them that the date went ahead anyway, so you're required to make out.
I can only assume that it is therefore also possible to sue someone in their absence, and since the defendant isn't likely to show up (have you tried subpoenaing someone from another world?), I must move ahead regardless.
Now, given that there are infinite universes out there, it stands to reason that everybody in the world has, in some version of themselves, written the book of which I speak. I can therefore choose to sue any one of them (or, actually, all of them, if I want to devote my entire life to the courtroom, which I don't). Who is my complaint against? Co-authors Bill Gates and Richard Branson. Yes, these two worked together closely in, let's say, universe #01374691826-HBPAL%qff-02834a -102931-10294 to write this book, and they did pretty well out of it. They made a bloody fortune, regardless of what it did to my reputation, how it affected my life, or how chapters three-through-seven mean I can never legally work in a library. No, they didn't care about any of that, and wrote the book anyway.
Is it at this point that I will make the case to the court that seeing as the Bill Gates and Richard Branson of our world share identical DNA with the Gates and Branson of the other world, they are legally the same people, and should therefore be brought in for the trial. You've heard of surprise witnesses? These guys are surprise defendants.
Naturally, it's an open and shut case. The jury finds in favour of me because it's quite clear that I can never get a job in a library in universe #01374691826-HBPAL%qff-02834a -102931-10294 (which is totally what I wanted to do in my gap year after high school after I spent three months backpacking around the Belgium Empire), and must therefore award me a reasonable sum. Because we don't have proper figures on how well the book sold in the universe in which it was released, we only have one barometer to go by in order to estimate its success: the amount that Gates and Branson have made in our universe.
Because this argument is so logical, the jury has no choice but to agree with my lawyers, and billions upon billions of dollars are placed in my bank account.
Politicians quickly amend the law so that nobody can ever sue anybody for this sort of thing again, and -- before Gates and Branson cleverly sue me for the exact same reason -- my newly-made fortune in secure.
This all seems well and good, but sadly, I can also foresee my downfall as well. Some bright spark will sue me because their alternate universe persona wrote that same book before I was even born, and the life that I led actually infringed upon their copyrighted work, and they sue me not only for my money, but for all things I received and achieved in the course of my life, including my friends, family, girlfriends and opinions. (Because they, too, have an airtight case and the stupid politicians never thought of this particular permutation of law, the case in successful.)
Sorry to anyone who was disappointed with the ironic ending, but trust me, there's a version of me out there who wrote a version of this piece that had a happy ending, and the version of you that read it was quite amused. Now, I'm off to sue the pants off both of them.
The first thing you need to do is realise that parallel universes actually exist. I'm not being facetious. American physicist Hugh Everett first proposed the Many-Worlds Interpretation of quantum physics, and, though he was largely ignored by the scientific community in his lifetime, in 2007 physicist David Deutsch produced mathematics showing that a large portion of quantum mechanics can only really be explained if the Many-Worlds theory is true. So parallel universes exist, and there's maths to prove it. But how do they work?
The popular theory is that every decision we, as humans, make somehow splits the universe off into a whole new one. This is a great theory for any author who wants to try their own hand at the ol' "What if Belgium had won World War Two?" scenario, but doesn't hold up to any kind of real scrutiny. What type of decision are we talking about? Are you talking about my decision to stop at the orange light instead of speed through it, thus creating a me that gets to my destination sooner, overhears a phone call that I otherwise wouldn't have, uses that information to garner good will from a friend, and that friend buys me a lottery ticket, and so on and so forth? How does the Universe (or the part of it that knows it's time to "split off") distinguish that choice from whether or not I scratch my cheek as I wait at the lights? That particular choice may have no differing consequences whatsoever, but hey, we got a backup universe out of it, so yay us.
Regardless of my apparently logical evisceration of the "every choice leads to new universe" theory, that's the one that Hugh Everett subscribed to, and given he was vastly more qualified than I am, and now appears to be well ahead of his time, I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, who's to say there isn't an identical universe in which the only difference is I scratched my cheek at the lights? Given there's a certain amount of the infinite to space and time, why can't there be infinite worlds?
Now, while most people are going to bemoan the fact that they're not living in the universe where they're incredibly wealthy and married to Olivia Judson, I'm actually going to do something about it. Getting wealthy, I mean. I presume Ms Judson will eventually succumb to my charms in her own time.
Seeing as the whole point of the parallel universe suggests infinite alternatives, it is with heavy heart that I must reveal to you that a book has been written about me. A terrible, scandalous, lie-ridden book that takes the structure of my life -- leaving all places, names and events basically intact -- and adds the most horrendous tales of illegal drugs and illicit debauchery and secret murder contracts that make me out to be a complete monster.
None of these things are true, of course. I'm a complete angel. I would never do anything remotely bad, and yet, still, this book was written.
Ideally, I'd travel to the universe in which it was written and sue the pants off the author. (Note: I'd have to make sure I travelled to the right one, because if I accidentally arrive in the universe where there's no such thing as libel laws or pants, I have no case.) Sadly, the ability to travel to alternate universes is not possessed by this particular version of me, and so I must make other plans.
This is where our flawless legal system comes into play. You see, after glancing at the headlines in the newspaper and avoiding the substance of the article itself, I have discovered that it is possible to try somebody without them being there. It happened recently with a criminal who had fled to Europe; the court simply had the trial without him. Eventually, he turned up, was extradited, and is now in prison, so it all worked out. It's like going ahead with a date even though the other person hasn't shown up, and you turn up on their doorstep at the end of the evening (where you would normally have walked them home), and you knock on the door and they open it and you tell them that the date went ahead anyway, so you're required to make out.
I can only assume that it is therefore also possible to sue someone in their absence, and since the defendant isn't likely to show up (have you tried subpoenaing someone from another world?), I must move ahead regardless.
Now, given that there are infinite universes out there, it stands to reason that everybody in the world has, in some version of themselves, written the book of which I speak. I can therefore choose to sue any one of them (or, actually, all of them, if I want to devote my entire life to the courtroom, which I don't). Who is my complaint against? Co-authors Bill Gates and Richard Branson. Yes, these two worked together closely in, let's say, universe #01374691826-HBPAL%qff-02834a -102931-10294 to write this book, and they did pretty well out of it. They made a bloody fortune, regardless of what it did to my reputation, how it affected my life, or how chapters three-through-seven mean I can never legally work in a library. No, they didn't care about any of that, and wrote the book anyway.
Is it at this point that I will make the case to the court that seeing as the Bill Gates and Richard Branson of our world share identical DNA with the Gates and Branson of the other world, they are legally the same people, and should therefore be brought in for the trial. You've heard of surprise witnesses? These guys are surprise defendants.
Naturally, it's an open and shut case. The jury finds in favour of me because it's quite clear that I can never get a job in a library in universe #01374691826-HBPAL%qff-02834a -102931-10294 (which is totally what I wanted to do in my gap year after high school after I spent three months backpacking around the Belgium Empire), and must therefore award me a reasonable sum. Because we don't have proper figures on how well the book sold in the universe in which it was released, we only have one barometer to go by in order to estimate its success: the amount that Gates and Branson have made in our universe.
Because this argument is so logical, the jury has no choice but to agree with my lawyers, and billions upon billions of dollars are placed in my bank account.
Politicians quickly amend the law so that nobody can ever sue anybody for this sort of thing again, and -- before Gates and Branson cleverly sue me for the exact same reason -- my newly-made fortune in secure.
This all seems well and good, but sadly, I can also foresee my downfall as well. Some bright spark will sue me because their alternate universe persona wrote that same book before I was even born, and the life that I led actually infringed upon their copyrighted work, and they sue me not only for my money, but for all things I received and achieved in the course of my life, including my friends, family, girlfriends and opinions. (Because they, too, have an airtight case and the stupid politicians never thought of this particular permutation of law, the case in successful.)
Sorry to anyone who was disappointed with the ironic ending, but trust me, there's a version of me out there who wrote a version of this piece that had a happy ending, and the version of you that read it was quite amused. Now, I'm off to sue the pants off both of them.
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Comment by It's Dom!
Good reading, but still, packed full of ads..