This week's Nedmiller Column is excerpted from "Spastic Diaper: The Ned Nedmiller Story" by Rolando Burf.

It's sad that in these glad-handed, capricious, "what have you done for me lately?" days that we live in, all but the most grizzled historians have forgotten the important role that Nedmonton Nicklefish Nedmiller played in making the American railway system a reality. Much of the credit has been lain at the feet of the feetless Chinamen of that day, for their thankless toil and unlikely balancing skills. And not to mention those of then-president Hubert "Bumper" Humper, whose administrative zeal was matched only by his fits of giggling when Germans said things like "Zeal ze enzvelope!". But in truth, when one truly studies the unpublished crumbs and discarded scraps of History, an entirely different story comes into focus. It is the story of Ned Nedmiller and the Laughing Machine.

The year was 1874, or damn near it, some claim it was 1974 but they're blind drunk, and anyway, it was 1874. America was in the throes of serious growing pains, seeing as in that day Manifest Destiny was more than just an R&B duo. In fact, it was a phrase that most thought referred to a barbershop quartet. But one man, a sawdust critic named Romulus Stinkleather, remembered from his third grade Social Studies class that it had something to do with the country. And armed only with that half-remembered factoid, America set out to conquer the land that would one day be known as America.

It took many years and the invention of the machine gun, but finally true Americans (those folks who had washed up on the East Coast after fleeing Europe like rats from a somersaulting speedboat) kicked out all of the tent-dwelling longhairs who were squatting on their rightful lands, and the American Dream stretched from glorious coast to coast, and north and south to imaginary lines drawn to keep out the riff-raff, be they too white or not white enough.

The hairy-headed Americans of that day conquered the country and got to the West coast in such a hurry that they completely forgot that they had left the wood-burning stove on at home. They needed a way to get back East, and fast. The answer came from a small boy of four (don't ask me how four people had one baby, these were not particularly religious times) who set the world on it's ear with one word: Monorail. Of course, Monorails didn't exist at the time, and he was roundly beaten for teasing the people of those times. And just to be safe, he was given the treatment for the "kissing disease", Mononucachusetts, which at that time entailed kissing a rabid weasel and being thrown in the river locked inside a gun safe.

An inventor from Bulgaria had a better idea: The Double-Monorail. Under his system, two nonexistent Monorails would run side-by side, and in case one disappeared due to not existing, passengers could simply board the other Monorail and continue their journey. The "DubbaRail", as it was called, was a huge success, and it's maiden voyage from the fledgling town of Los Angeles to the even more fledgling town of East L.A. was completely sold out. Tragedy struck, however, when both Monorails derailed and crashed into the Hollywood Fatburger, which didn't exist yet either, killing 17 people who were not yet born.

The inventor's brother, also a Bulgarian inventor, dedicated his life to completing his brother's work and providing the American people (the European ones, not the longhairs) with a mode of cross-continental transportation that was safe, cheap and most importantly, existed. Deciding that Monorails were altogether far too dangerous, the inventor's brother (also an inventor) decided to carry out his brother's vision, only without the Monorail part.

After making an impassioned speech, entitled "I Have A Dream About My Brother's Wife", the inventor's brother was able to secure funding from President "Bumper" Humper, and construction of parallel cross-country "Walking Rails" commenced.

Feetless Chinamen toiled under the most inhumane conditions in the building of these Walking Rails. The tortures they endured included gentle spring days, rolling green pastures and enormous cobalt-blue skies. Some turned to poetry and idle daydreaming as a means of escape. Few of these Chinamen left with their dignity intact. As a matter of fact, few left at all, it's rumored that many are still lazing about, their rail-building tools cast aside as they count the petals on daisies.

However, the Chinamen hit a figurative brick wall in their progress across the country when they reached the Plains states. For this was the land of the buffalo, and rumor had it that buffalo liked nothing more than eating Chinamen like they were peppermint sticks. The Chinamen had heard stories of these fiendish beasts, and pictured them with razor-sharp claws and teeth like dinner plates, maybe even wings like dinner plates. Naturally, they almost shit themselves laughing when they actually saw a buffalo, and reminded themselves to kick their friends' asses when they got back to California.

However, the buffalo did provide a real impediment in the building of the Walking Rails. Mainly because they just stood there, right in the path of the railroad, and were buffalo. Which, according to scientists, entails mostly standing there and smelling like a discarded sofa. And while it was legal to blow a mountain out of the way with TNT, there were strict environmental regulations against strapping dynamite to a buffalo. So, much like your average buffalo, construction of the Walking Rails stood still.

CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

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