h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Woke up at 11.30 after going to bed at 4.30am. South Africa has become a difficult place to live especially for believers, so they say.

Only believe, says the man on the radio.

It's a hot day out today. 26 degrees at the Airport.

Chappie on the radio. Peter Eksteen. Don't know who he is.

Got to go out and get electricity.

Had coffee; am about to have another one.

Feeling better than I have done for a while.

Phew, thank goodness for that, I've got it working again. Everything back to normal again. Wow, that was hairy.

Oh, it's gone from being white on dark, to being black on white again. I didn't want that. Never mind.

Things have been interesting this afternoon computerwise, but I think everything's back to normal now. I may have to change things on my machine in the Study as well, if I want to use FB in there... which isn't really very likely.

I wish I hadn't screwed things up with Madam. She's on the radio tomorrow morning for the rest of the week and I love listening to her because she has the most beautiful voice. She does the Scripture readings on Sean's show in the morning, and she enunciates really carefully, and it's so, so beautiful to listen to.

My Entz Machine started to blank the screen after a while, for no reason. I hope it has stopped doing it now that I have switched off the television which was feeding into a different input on the projector. Not very nice when things happen and you don't know the reason why. The display seems to be ... well let's wait and see. I hope it doesn't screw up again. It is pretty annoying when things happen and you don't know why. Pretty annoying. Bah.

I visited the house of a friend where their child sat in front of the television, its unformed brain pulsing to the electric orgasms of colour and sound dictating deaths from the black rectangular hole in reality.

I couldn't bear to watch the light going slowly out being replaced by the dirty yellow squirmings of Babylon's demonic brain, malicious with the sadism of despair.

I watched children's television and I screamed with an agony of pain in the face of the Worm of Hell, inflicting familiar torments, devouring, slimy with ooze and vomiting with the blood of the innocence of the helpless lost. Stupid with fears, it dribbled venom and juices and digested the mind of its unknowing victim, excreting hate and bile and dripping with foul, black, all-destroying ichors. Balefully it gaped and trembled with shame as it plugged into the socket of the electricities of the nocturnal horror of his soul. Its harlot mother Babylon belched with the stinking pus of unnameable diseases and, shuddering in the dull spasms of her perdition, threw the switch on the socket of the electricities of the horror of the nocturnal terror of his soul, and expectorating with grimful glee the expectorations and discharges of her contagion and of the screaming millennia of the vicious, bloody fears of a solitary death, slithered wetly through the wormhole of the hollow loneliness of the child's brain into her pit of unwholesome doom, and boiled in the fires of livid, pustulous eruptions of her virulent matter.

Could you put a child through that? I couldn't. I tried to explain. I tried to open their eyes to the stenches and agues emanating from the electric death-tool mongering wrongfulness into their child's doomed mind. They couldn't hear. The volume of the sound was too clamorous. It was as if Kim Jong Ew himself was squatting on the table before me, farting fatly into my face. Grimly I sat, waiting for death.