Recently a blogger at the Shakesville progressive feminist blog wrote a piece calling out Neil Gaiman on using upsetting language. Pelted with messages via Twitter and other mediums, Gaiman was unable to respond to the satisfaction of his critics on the matter, and a rather poor time of it was had by all. Little did they know that at the heart of the matter was nothing less sinister than a time travel plot whose ultimate goal is, in fact, not only the domination of this world - but of every permutation that may be, or will be.

Gaiman is the author of novels such as Neverwhere, a tale of a regular Joe stuck in cyclical corporate culture who is plunged into a modern, gritty, urban Wonderland, and graphic novels such as the Sandman series, in which an everyday, regular Anthropomorphic Personification at home amongst mystical otherworldly shennanigans makes some rather poor romantic decisions and is forced to change or die.

The aforementioned Shakesville post took umbrage over the use of the word 'bitch' quoted in an interview with Neil Gaiman in the New Yorker. The phrase "I'm nobody's bitch," was seen to be insensitive to those affected by rape culture, and by many a tweet and email sent his way Gaiman was informed in clear terms that as a Famous Person they were epecially disappointed as they would Expect More of him. Many points were made eloquently as why removing the phrase from Western culture could improve the attitude towards rape, and many eloquent points were made expressing the fact that there are perhaps better ways to go about reducing rape culture than this particular approach. Some less eloquent remarks were also apparent, of the sort that bring to the mind the idea that it is impossible to have a proper debate when neither side will entertain the fact that the other may have any rational reason behind their arguments.

Meanwhile, Mister Gaiman was involved directly in none of this, other than fielding the downpour of email and Twitter remarks criticizing him on his choice of language He was rather distracted given that he was dealing with the imminent loss of a treasured member of his family. His distress and distraction doubtless explains why he was not able to immediately identify the true nature of the unfortunate situation.

What none of them realised, in fact, was that the New Yorker post, the cause of all the kerfuffle, was, in fact, from the future.

I write this on a warm summer morning in a predominantly red and brown place commonly referred to as Australia, by those in the know. Such as people with atlases and Google Mappings and the like. Today is the twenty-third of January.

The original Shakesville post was written last Wednesday, that is to say, the twentieth of January.

One might ask how long the New Yorker post was around before Shakesville got wind of it. That is easy enough to do. Go check the date on the article.

The date that reads, and I quote, the twenty-fifth of January, 2010.

For those whose mathematics may be a little rusty, I must point out that this last date is, in fact, two days from now.

Which I must say is certainly making me feel the need to crack out the italics.

What can we make of this, fair readers? Nothing at all. Nothing at all... but the clear designs upon the world, nay, all of the possible worlds, by a time-traveler of no little skill.

Think about it. No, think about it some more, you aren't trying hard enough. That's it. Just a little more.

Ah, there. I see you are beginning to see the shape of my gibblets now, yes?

Gaiman is a veritable nexus of story and raw creative energy, with a strong focus on other worlds much like our own. His distress will only further stir up the maelstrom of ideas of which he is himself a pawn. He is, in fact, the ideal candidate for powering an unholy construction, a Device of such magnitude that the devil himself would be loathe to employ it. It is... ah, but I cannot name it. To do so would be to fall prey to its maker, a being of such compressed evil the black holes would be unable to shift it from its unwavering path.

Powered by a man such as Gaiman, this device could jump between all alternate interpretations of our world - from fairytale to scientific hypothesis - and infect them all with the schemes of the shadowy malevolent mastermind behind the cruel and nameless Device.

The New Yorker story has clearly been sent by this force from the future for the purposes of priming Gaiman in a time of distress so that he might, in a weak moment, be vulnerable to attack and absorption by the Device. His enviable power with thw written world and boundless imagination could therefore be used to do all sorts of imaginable things - which can, despite common belief, frequently be far worse than the unimaginable.

Consider the Yorker's interviewer, Dana Goodyear. Yet another pawn in the plan, and chosen for a reason. That's right. I can tell you see it already - the unescapable anagram, 'A Adored Agony'. Not grammatically correct, but the force of evil behind all of this never attended public school, you see, and can be forgiven a few grammatical stuffups, if not for its downright evil and terrifying ways. Note too the other anagram - 'Agenda Ya Door' - declaring the intention of the beast to open the door between worlds.

Yes. Indeed. It is all so clear now, isn't it?

Two days from now, the door will open. Two days from now, the Device will attempt to make its attack. All hangs in the balance. But wait. There is something we can do.

For, like every well-coded boss battle in games of yore, every evil villian has their weak point, and as stated in the Villain's Code of Ethics, all weak points must somewhere be declared in their plan, however subtly.

Which brings me to the final anagram - 'Adore Goad Nay'.

For what will stop theis apocalyptic event from occurring is a simple thing. But then, it always is, isn't it? Whether it's "Whack him on the tail with the Master Sword" or "Dodongo hates bombs" the answer is always, at essence, a simple one.

And the answer is this.

Neither adore nor goad Mister Gaiman. He may be an imaginative and talented writer, a creative and inventive thinker, but at the root of all this he is a human being. Human beings by their very nature are unable to live without regret or mistakes. Human beings, no matter how talented and impressive, are still unable to be everything to everyone, nor should they be. Mister Gaiman seems to do a rather astonishing job at connecting with fans of his work and sharing what he learns with others. It is not an easy thing to do, especially alongside the actual pursuits of living and authoring.

It is also not an easy thing to see someoen you admire so much do something you yourself do not approve of, and the initial response at Shakesville did a good job of discussing the issue without vilifying anyone. Such is the way things should be conducted. However, the number of less than eloquent or civil public messages sent to Gaiman, let alone the many private emails he reports having received, would be overwhelming for anyone. Yet still the criticism flows in ways that are not constructive. He is an intelligent man who considers what others say, but if these messages continue the neus will flood and Gaiman will be a sitting duck when the Device attempts to make contact with him through the ether. Because neither the device nor the great evil exist in this reality just yet (another reason why it never attended school) but with enough turmoil in the nexus, on this day significant in ancient texts which we shall not mention here in case you might look them up and see that I am pulling their names entirely out of my posterior, they have their chance.

What we must do is obvious. And that is to buy ice-cream. Ice-cream, being the essential ingredient of joy, alongside sunshine, excessive foliage, wireless reception and Friday afternoons, will allow the accrued power proceeding towards the nexus to diminish and fade, returning things to a relative state of equilibrium before Doom's Day, otherwise known as the 25th of January.

Also maybe a cup of tea and a sit-down. That is also a good option.

Endnotes
I wrote this entry in order to cheer myself up. I'm mostly upset that Gaiman's beautiful cat Zoe is nearing the end of her life rather than over the debate about the New Yorker article. I have lost treasured family pets myself and I feel sorry for Neil attempting to deal with his unintentional controversy during such an event. Making events like this farcical and fantastical cheers me up, and that's about it. If I actually edited my 'daily writing challenge' posts at all I'd probably go through now and re-name Gaiman and the Yorker/Shakesville with (terribly witty, naturally) pseudonyms just to add to the nonsense. But instead I think I'm going to have a cup of ice-cream and a sit-down.