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

music in the heavens,
music in the stars,
stars at night,
in the dark,
music in the dark,
the soft motorised whirr
the music of the night tortureous souls and hoovers stride

oh night hoover and high priest 2 legs i am sorry i have not been here recently to say my thrilys what nots

No probs for nighthooverites must follow a many manafold and mythrily winding path to true nighthooverability and from time to time this dost involve a lot of dutiful time in pubs and non h2G2 occupations to find and search out the true straight path that thriley leadet through the wicket gate to teh nighthooverly path n i g h t h o o v e r lettuce thrily spry

tru so thrily ho

Oh yea aa aa aaa aaa aaa aaa its a minnow! don't know what came over me there, perhaps it was devine intervention praise be thrily and grift turnipful one of nighthoover

And Lo the old knackered profit did spake thus of devine upon which degrapes most bountiously did come forth and fifth and sixth unto a bumper stringvest whenst the misticks from the land of the roo didst squeeze their juice unto oak and it came to pass that a great softmentation didst take place in said oak and a great wailing from the multitude did spake thus bring us plonk of misticks for we must gargoyle and thence they all did quoff of the plonk and fall over. Here stopeth the lesson. All kale to the most turnipful. Our hen and wormhen.

Yea, thrily so the gifrty nonstich to the turnipful most mhrily in grifty rounds of manafold magnificence oh yea lettuce spry thrily soet to the mighel nighthoover

Nighthoover was not in Amman or Petra or Ma'an (as far as I could tell) or Madaba or Mount Nebo, probably not in Irbid too, and definitely nowhere to be seen in the Beit She'an bus station. Where are you nighthoover?!

Presumably because he has his own home. He likes it there. He told me so. And no amount of ineffectual typed warbling will change this so just stop it now.
Even on the offchance the divine hoover of the dark reads all this junk he will be so bemused that he wont bother coming back again, so please, I ask all of you: If it aint sensible, it isnt a good form of worship, so dont even bother.
This means you 2legs especially. Grr.

And Lo the knackered old testicle profit did spake thus and it shall come to pass that one shall come forth and fifth and possibly sixth and he shall be from the house of gran and his four bears shall be your four bears and he shall be known as Bob's your uncle. Lettuce spray, all kale to the most turnipful, our hen and worm hen.

Bunnyfrog:

We're mad and we like it, so pfffffffffftt to you!

Traveller in Time still searching for the lost postings
"> He told me so.

You must be the holy messagesr of divertions, send to test us in our strength.

\ \ \ \ \ | | | / / / / /

-N-I-G-H-T- -H-O-O-V-E-R-

/ / / / / | | | \ \ \ \ \

"

Un missed stick L bunnyfrog, ru stuck here?

4 variably, they hoo Art knot able to leaf r able to go butt stillurk.

Lettuce spry.

Holy Messenger of Diversions eh? *muses* I quite like that actually. Every religious canon requires at least one.
So thus and thenceforth, quit and be quitting, lest your life quit upon you. Quit the quitness and quit thy forgotten selves. Quit this place, returning not for you have quit.
Thus did not spaketh Nighthoover, but we know what he meant.

iu tegm yeh ria dea turnipful! yea for though mhrilly we attept to quit we is stuck here eternatiful in our insanity and most lampost like in our turnipification lettuce beat ourselves liberally about our personages with hoover attachments

So, O Bunnyfrog the Doubtful, how come you yourself have not quit yet?

All hail! all hail! all hail! Lady P the first lady of the hooverable channel nighthoover hath spoken Children, breetherin, sisters and brothers, lettuce go insaine loudly and spryly and mhrily and grifty as we go

And the trees were talking amongst themselves, he could hear them, mumble mumble mumble all night, like glass shards on the edge of understanding, floating in and out of his sleep before he could open his eyes and catch that slippery eel of dark dawn, of dull dreary dreams, of the stuff that trees are made of, before he could throw off his deep down duvet and face the truth of his infallible humanity, he could sense it crouching in the dusty corners of his room and waiting for the right moment to spring upon his soul and drown him in an ocean of glittering broken possibilities. Can you hear the wind howling? Can you hear the words in the trees? Can you stand your own in the deep dawn and drown your sorrow in dark drinks? It is only a matter of skipping to the other side, barefoot, over the top, way over the top, but not enough, never enough, because the trees will always look at you and snigger.

Curse the trees! Curse the Trees! you shout, leaping coldly from teh dark bed, 'Curse the threes!' 'Curse the turees!' and then the darkness hits, the eternal light of the darkened night, the eternal flame of the cold burnging emptyness of the night, the cold night, the dark night, the loneley night, all alone, and you stand. You stand all alone, in teh dark, in the gaze of the trees, and the dust about you does gather.
And as from out of the abyss of the darkness itself, the voices, the endless voices, their endless demands their endless chatter, like myriad breaking mirrors, like endless pebbles ganging on a tin roof, like millions of derranged voices scremaing in your head, like voices, but like no voices you've ever heard before.
They scream.
They shout, they say incomprehensible things, and comprehensivle thigns that make even less sense, and they shout, scream and whisper like gossamer threads on the breeze of a waterfall, continually coming and going and comign and going and all at once and all indivdiually, and all alone and alltogether, in teh alltogether.
and still they come, the voices from beyond the trees, as of one with the trees, yet not the trees.

*Whispers* Nighthoover!

It's out in the hills, can you hear it?