doctor.klingensmith:  +wistfully stares at fedora++begrudgingly starts to walk out from hiding spot+
+places fedora on your head, and adjusts it just so+
^_________^

 me:  Thaaaat's it. Don't want you destroying the fabric of reality with your hat lustings.
:3

 doctor.klingensmith:  Hmmph. You know, I would have given you a trade...you could even have had my good hat Claudia, if you wished!

 me: But I do not want Claudia! My hat is lovely and delightful and has been good to me for countless aeons!
Claudia is yours and you should not trivialise her loyalties by threatening to trade her off like noblemen sunken in gambling might do to their daughters!

 doctor.klingensmith:  ...you have insulted me by comparing me to a nobleman sunken in gambling. Harrumph. Also, you're quite right about your fedora, by the way - it does look quite charming. +adjusts it again+

 me:  I merely compared your offer.

 doctor.klingensmith:  True, true...but you really are a strange sort if you equate trading off a hat to trading off one's own daughter. :3

 me:  What, your hats do not offer your their undying fealty? You have never known the bond between man and head-accoutrement? Dear dear dear me!
Poor creature! I should buy you soup.
And give you cuddlings.

 doctor.klingensmith:  (NOT STRAWBERRY. I'm a subhuman, remember?) And since the world has shown me only bleakness and despair, dearest, would you mind teaching me to play lawn bowls? Really, that flamingo you so cleverly named Wesley has not been much help for me - it seems he particularly enjoys speaking Klingon, but never English. Occasionally he'll speak a mixture of both.
It's getting on my nerves, just a bit.
Cuddlings can come afterwards.

 me:  Oh come now. Strawberry cupcakes scarcely taste like strawberry at all!
But yes, certainly. Posthaste. And oh dear, Wesley. I did give him to you in hopes that he'd be a linguistic marvel, really, a help in dealings with various peculiarities strange and foreign, but he seems to be conducting himself more like a novelty act! I know quite good and well that he can speak seventeen different languages and also translate sign language! (he has no hands, so he can merely interpret.) Wesley, really !

 doctor.klingensmith:  He does seem a bit full of himself sometimes, but he's adorable, all the same. I do appreciate him as a gift...but I would like to learn lawn bowls, really. ^_^

 me:  Well! Then! First you take a bowl, and then you take a lawn . . .

 doctor.klingensmith:  You mean you forcefully seize a person's lawn so you can play this game?!
Oh, Viktor! This is completely delightful!
8D
...or did I misinterpret you?
T_T

 me:  Of course! Did you not know that this was invented upon the windswept plateaus of Mongolia by our dear Ghengis Khan himself to keep his troops' morale up and their conquering skills honed to a point?

 me:  It was merely reappropriated as a bland social-gatherings game for the hopeless and the tailcoat-clad. Its true nature is often forgotten, strangely enough.

 doctor.klingensmith:  ...do you realize that you are the first human that I've ever allowed to court me? ...look at what you just told me about this game, and you shall understand why. +smiles smugly+ I'm proud of you, deary, for knowing so very much! So! Whose lawn shall we choose?

 me:  Hmm . . . ah! Do you see over there, behind that black fence and in front of that large white house? I'm sure the President wouldn't mind us doing a wee spot of conquering, now would he.

 doctor.klingensmith:  (Sorry I disappeared there, for a moment. I'm back now!) Are you too terribly sure? All right then. When I place the bowl on his lawn, does that make it somehow...conquered?
Then what?

 me:  Oh no no no, not at all! For we have to decide what to put in the bowl. Gazpacho soup? Eels' eyes? Sand? A small chihuahua named Henry? The strategy in the game lies in the symbolism , my dear, it is a game of wit and skill and pulling dramatic plot twists out of one's behind. We wouldn't just leave upon a lawn of such magnitude something like, say, a bowl of chicken curry! We must ponder, look to the heavens and the astronomy-towers . . . what would Alexander the Great have done? Split-pea soup and three rose petals, that's how he ever got out of Macedonia . . .

 doctor.klingensmith:  ....you are just pulling this all out of your arse, aren't you Viktor? And yet, that doesn't matter, because I love your version of lawn bowls, because it's simply brilliant!

 me:  Well I did say it was a game of pulling things out of one's arse, yes.
[goes slightly red]

 doctor.klingensmith:  What shall we put in the bowls, eh? Indeed, it must be menacing...tell me, what is your favorite novel, in your entire library, that you love and cherish above all other books?
+chuckles at the going red bit+
+hair ruffle+

 me:  [is this an actual question or are you asking Viktor?]

 doctor.klingensmith:  +...they're kind of the same person, considering that Viktor seems to be a self-insert, similar to Coppelia, but I'm asking Viktor+

 me:  Well, if I was to honestly pick a favourite we would likely spend the entire day sitting here with you enduring my hmming and chin-scratching, and by then I'm certain the Secret Service'd catch on and send out a preemptive strike of liquorice allsorts and the game'd be over in a flash. But something menacing, perhaps? Twilight. The mere sight of that peeking out of a bowl'd send everyone in the district limits packing.

 doctor.klingensmith:  No! No! That's not the point! The point was to pick a lovely, exquisite and classical book, and then build a fire inside the bowl and burn all the copies that we could find of it! Now that would be terrifying and horrible, I tell you.
That would be a lovely way to terrify any sane population.
If, of course, you can stand the thought of book-burning, and considering that you've gone from red to pale green in about thirty seconds, I'd say that you apparently cannot.

 me:  [passes out]

 doctor.klingensmith:  +catches you+ Viktor? Are you awake? Viktor? +fans you+
Oh dear...

 me:  Mnffggg.

 doctor.klingensmith:  Signs of life, egads!

 me:  —aah! C—C—Oh Coppelia! It was horrid! I had the most terrible nightmare, you were suggesting to me that we build a pyre of literature on the President's lawn! I—oh goodness, I swear, 'twas just a dream of fevered madness I assure you, my true self does not find you capable of such things!
-------
We also decided that we are going to open up a icosahedronal bookshop that is also a space-time portal in an alleyway in 1800s London someday. Hence my new journal title. Melanie bwarghf why do you have to live at the other edge of the time-zone. I want to see you before this winter. D: