I didn’t go out of my way to be a scientist: it just sort of happened. I’ve never had much interest in things like snails and worms or developing new kinds of rubber, so it’s surprising that I should find myself now, approaching middle age – hair shooting madly from every cavity; eyebrows with an agenda of their own; undergarments in a state of open revolution – standing at my bench in the laboratory, about to discover the meaning of life.
It’s been a long and arduous journey that has taken me from the backstreets of Bombay to the open sewers of Calcutta; from the Rocky Mountains to the Great Plains. I have been a man obsessed. I have neglected my children – they are nothing but a memory – and my wife is welded to the settee.
You may think me cold and heartless, but it’s not like that, really. When I discovered that the meaning of life lay within my reach I had no option but to pursue it with single-pointed determination. At times I thought I was going quite mad. The police tried to bust into my lab. I disguised myself as a hippopotamus to evade capture. The government and their psychiatrists have spent considerable time and effort trying to keep me incarcerated, but I am a master of escape. The lengths to which I have gone are extreme.
And yet humankind will remember me with fondness, as the man who bottled the Truth.
And the Truth can be yours if you want it, for just $100 plus tax. Grape or blueberry.