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

The last two days I've been scrolling backwards through my journal and guide entries, looking at what I've been writing in years gone by. Mostly I want to cull the best of my past writings so I can put them in files in my computer. When I get them the way want them, I might weed out some stuff on my personal space and substitute the cream of the crop.

God, how I have been writing and writing and writing on this site over the years. There's been some interesting a droll and perceptive stuff, but I do tend to run on and not get to the point very well.

My mind has always spewed out lots of thoughts and ideas.

A nice retrospective, and I found a piece I really liked: the one about the blind men who tried to describe an elephant. I may put that on my PS.

Here's the elephant poem, which I cherish:

THE ELEPHANT


Blind men seven try to explain
What an elephant's like. The first says, "The main
feature's a tube, rubb'ry and thick."
The second says, "No, it's more like a stick,
Or four sticks, that is. "The third says, "No way!
An elephant's pointed and sharp. That, I say!"
The fourth tells of rubbery leaves, broad and flat.
The fifth says, "A very broad back, where I sat."
The sixth says, "A belly! This elephant's fat!"
The seventh says "Rope! it's braided like tweed."
They argued for hours, and never agreed

Yes, the HooToo archive is a treasure trove of writing. Glad your trip down memory lane has provided you with useful insights. It's like Peer Review - other people can provide suggestions for improvement, and when you haven't looked at something for ages, you look at it with different eyes and can find improvements yourself.

Keep up the good work

I treasure your opinion that my work has been good.

I am annoying at times, constantly trying to look things up and verify them. I think I have annoyed Dmitri with some info that was new to me, but well-known to him. I never meant to be trying.

But the truth is, there is too much stuff there. Over 15 years I have produced a mind-boggling amount of writing. Even singling out the good stuff would be a mind-crushing experience.

I treasure the short entries more and more now.

Post 2

Bung it on "Sometime BC"

On a "philosophy note"

"we" might not outlive Hootoo, but "others" can still read our stuff in years to come

MY legacy = By eck! That bloke was a total idiot "etc"

Job done!

I'm sure some of our writings - maybe not many but some - will bring smiles to faces in times to come, paulh, Prof and all you others. Maybe even thought and afterthought?

Not that I care. As long as I live just as long in the memories of my children, grandchildren, friends and others as my parents and grandparents and so on live in mine it will be quite enough for me

I'm about to start culling some good poems from the nonsense verse thread.

I'm also very proud of the Crepuscular Meadows chapters, but with 120 of them, I doubt that anyone will have the stamina to read and appreciate them.

I told my therapist that I made them to make me happy, and give my mind a place to go when it needed some comfort.

He frowned on that idea. I think the man was warped.

Look at it another way Pierce

"terrorism/extremism etc" throughout history still happens "today" but that info etc is now passed about on "the internet"

SO! just think of the worlds security services CIA/MI5 etc etc having to go through "everything" on the internet

When they come to OUR stuff bloody good reading eh!

There's some good writing here. If it could be culled, and only the best stuff highlighted, we would have something to be proud of.

I started a Nonsense verse thread about ten years ago. Most of the poems I thought were clever look pretty bad now. I'm going backwards in time, back as far as early 2018. Here are the only good entries I've found:

NONSENSE VERSES

 I don't know where my sheep have gone.
I last saw them out on the lawn.
They're prob'ly cavorting.
I'll soon hear reporting
Of very strange carrying on.

I don't know why trees cannot fly.
I wish I could watch them fly by.
Their roots all would wiggle.
The children would giggle,
And we would eat all sorts of pie.

The elves gave old Santa a gift.
They hope it will give him a lift.
It keeps the blood warm,
Is good in a storm,
And melts the occasional drift.
(Hint: it contains some alcohol)

The oak leaves will fall from the tree.
They'll probably fall upon me.
I won't be forlorn
Unless an acorn
Should bop my head violently

 I wish my hen would lay an egg.
She won't, though I plead, curse, and beg.
A friend that I used ter
Have said. "That's a rooster.
To find out, just lift up his leg."

I don't know what gender I am.
At times I suspect I'm my Gram.
At times I'm a boy,
or a latte with soy.
I might have turned into a clam.

My father and mother are gone.
My brother's holed up in the john.
My. sister's a tree.
My nephew's a bee.
What kind of strange world am I on?

I never eat soup with a knife.
I've never done that in my life.
A spoon is the best
For soup eating, lest
It dribbles all over my wife.

This is the story of Beryl,
Who who spent all her time in a carrel.
Shed read all the day,
But at night she would bay
At moons, for you see she was feral.

Sir Andrew Parrott
Washed a carrot
Down with claret.
Then his ferret
Went to Beirut.


our neighbors are not very good.
Why not leave your neighborhood?
You'd surely find bliss
On an island like this: 
The catch is, it hasn't got food.


On Sunday, we'll get a Nor-easter.
'Twill knock our whole state on its kiester.
The winds will be strong,
And howl all day long.
The storm will continue 'til Easter.

[Oct. 11, 2019]


The factory that makes broken toys
Has closed, for it made too much noise.
The toys all complained,
But thenceforth it rained,
And now all you can see is buoys.

n your Easter bonnet,
With poison ivy on it,
You'll be the strangest fellow
In the Christmas parade.

My friend, I can offer a service.
I'm helpful, so please don't be nervous.
Your poems are usually long.
I'll summarize them for a song.

A comet was named after Halley,
Who lived in the Green Giant's valley.
He lived on fresh peas,
And wore dungarees,
And later retired to Bali

Last night I found Grandmother's teeth.
She lost them, poor dear, underneath
A blue holly bush.
She fell on her tush.
It's been forty years since her death

My diet of bread crumbs and beans
Was helping me fit in my jeans,
But when I passed gas,
My neighbors (en masse)
Departed for friendlier scenes.

I made an immense apple pie,
From apples that I had laid by.
It covered six blocks.
'Twas eaten by hawks,
And now it's just pie in the sky.





[Twenty decent poems in about 20 months. Not a terrible record, but, oh, the dreck I had to wade through.

Somewhere around mid-2018, the quality began to fade.

Here are some from late 2017 through mid-2018, when some witty stuff was written:



The chickens are chasing the foxes,
And storing their victims in boxes.
The corn's eating crows,
I'm eating at Joe's.
My toes, they are eating their sockses.

The Twilight Zone's fine for vacations,
But living there has implications
Of hopscotching seniors,
Carnivorous gardenias,
And tyrants who make allegations.

There once was a pub-crawling wizard
Who found he was lost in a blizzard.
"A cocktail," he thought,
"Is what I would have bought.
Instead I'm just stuck with the gizzard."

The aliens came by for tea,
Just aliens, Godzilla, and me.
My room was too small,
So we went to the mall,
And watched all the scared shoppers flee

I can't get a crown, life is tough!
My forebears weren't royal enough,
With horse thieves and bakers,
And candlestick makers,
And uncles who streaked in the buff.

The dinner gong brought me my tea.
"I'm now a bot," he said to me.
"I'll make you a waffle
That's good, bad, or awful,
But don't ask for Chef Boyardee."

Won't somebody teach me to rhyme?
I'll pay them quite well for their time.
It won't have to be a
onomatopoeia,
As long as it isn't a crime.


Coffee's the stuff of my dreams.
I serve it with very fine creams,
Plus rich cherry Danish.
My blues it will banish.
My blood with endorphins then teems.

In honor of coffee I write this ode.
It keeps me alert when I'm on the road.
I need to abstain on my way to my bed.
The following morning it goes to my head.

My vacuum became a tornado,
Which totally wrecked all my playdough.
It leveled my chairs
And then went downstairs
And ruined my pasta Alfredo.

Starfleet's convention will be
In my living room around 3:00.
I'll serve aliens roasted,
And some tribbles toasted,
Washed down with a pggb 

Your neighbor's creating a din?
Well, why not invite the girl in.
Just play a duet,
A sedate minuet,
Then throw a cream pie at her chin.

My bedding has penguins on skiis.
We've penguins clear up to our knees.
They ski across plates.
They do figure eights.
I'd like them removed, if you please

My dad has a vineyard in France.
He thinks it will give him his chance,
But I'm not so sure.
The soil there is poor,
And unicorns tromp on his plants.

I'm sending my trash to the Moon.
I hope we can send it there soon.
I've rinds from green cheese,
Some old BVD's,
And chili left over from June.

The telephone was first intended
To help you with those you've befriended.
Instead, all the ringing
Succeeded in bringing
The wrath of those whose sleep was ended.