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

Now and again I have a look at Nighthoovers personal space. Still unchanged. But whatever he/she may be, a true researcher for certain: (-1+8 )*(3+4+5-6)=42 !

can any body tell me what is the story of this formula (-1+8 )*(3+4+5-6)=42

All is explained herein.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/h2g2/guide/A530560

Don't worry Venus, you're safe - U((1+8+2)*5)-(7+6)=42...

King Philip II stared at his plate. "What," he said to his wife, "do you call this?" He knew what he called it - foreign muck. God knows what else she had shipped over from England. "Well? Did you hear me? Speak up!"

"What is this?" said Queen Mary. "An inquisition?"
Philip banged his fork on the table.
"Kippers," she said. "Taste ever so nice. My father - oh, he was a wonderful man - ate them every morning of his life. 'You'll be wanting your kippers again, Henry,' mother always said, as did his next five wives.

Philip once more stared at his plate: a kipper and the King of Spain met each other's eye. Repulsed, he stood up quickly from the table. He was so hungry that he could eat a horse. Fried in olive oil, garlic, onions, red peppers ... my kingdom for a pinto, he thought. Not a bad swap, when you considered it. He looked at his wife. Kipper grease dripped down her Tudor chin, but she ignored it and continued her knitting. O, Dios! He turned away, and gazed over the courtyard to his palace garden, where he saw his son running in circles.

"Don Carlos seems in high spirits today," he said.
Mary looked up from her wool. "He has his britches on his head," she said.
"Wheee! " said Don Carlos.
"His mother was the same," said Philip, smiling.
"What was she like?" asked Mary.
"We were very close."
"You loved her, I suppose."
"No, I didn't say that. I meant we were very closely related."
"Wheee! " said Don Carlos.
"It shows," said Mary.

Philip sighed. "It's his 16th birthday next week. What shall I get him?"
"How about a cage?"
"Caramba! What would you have me do with the poor boy? Poison him?"
"You said it, dear, not me."
"At least I know what would do the trick," said Philip, and nodded at his untouched plate of kippers.
"Wheee! said Don Carlos.

aliens
potatos
broad street
castle stairs east
exit west
three
devine
value added
lair
lyre
carato-cavinous fistula
expound
legs
explode
peanuts
window
bridal
cantancerous

fan
desart
trilogy
pelvis
divergent
codominant
owner
wolf
dog collar
cola
spam
spam
spam
spam
spam
spam
spam
spam
spam
spam
sausage
spam
spam
spam
spam
aliens.

"Play nice!" shouted his father. Don Carlos had caught one of the gardeners, and was stoving in his head with a rake. Philip had no problem with that but shooed his son away when the youth grabbed at his cojones and began to climb on the dead gardener's back. Mary was right, of course: the boy was loco. He shuddered at the memory of that day last year with the chambermaid - mind you, it was all her fault. She led him on. She said so herself, under gentle questioning, while placed on the rack.

He sat down again. If only there was something to eat! He looked at a white rounded object on the table. "What d you call that again?" he asked Mary.
"A potato, dear. Very trendy."
"Si, el spud. I hear my conquistadors swear by it." He bit into the raw flesh and spat it out. "Merde! "
"Watch your French!" said Mary.
"Wheee! " said Don Carlos.

"Shut up, you moron!" yelled Philip. Now the boy was skinning a cat. Who would possibly ever agree to marry him? Mary, Queen of Scots, had seemed keen - she understood the politics, she could see the advantages of power and a long life. But gossip had reached her of Don Carlos's behaviour. The boy might have been a very important moron, but the fact remained that he was still a moron.

"Stop looking at him," said Mary. "You only encourage him."
"You're right. I think it best if I send him away."
"But where? Holland?"
"No, I was thinking of planning a massacre there."
"France?"
"Same."
"England, then?"
"No son of none will have to eat kippers."
"Well, where? Is there anywhere he belongs?"

"I have heard tell of a small settlement in my own country that would suit his antics down to the ground. Somewhere quiet, and tolerant, and discrete."
"Where is this place?"
"It is called," said Philip, "h2g2."
"Wheee! " said Don Carlos.

Waterhouse.

This posting renders every other posting in this thread of no merit or significance whatsoever. It does so solely on the sheer
metaphysical and idealogical power of the reference made below.

All postings to follow this one will be regarded by all who read it with similar displeasure, and will be regarded in perpituity as nothing compared to the sheer depth of the magnanimity, breadth of scope and height of cognitive prowess of those words, those precious, cherished words, words that will echo across the hearts of all humanity and will lift us to our place as gods for as long as they remain.


Oh crap. It was on the tip of my tongue.

is.

Holding the water
held by it -
the dark mud

really is

perpetuity?

circularity

is?

or at least until nighthoover gets back.

The government's decision to bring in legislation to ban discrimination against dull and boring members of society has been greeted with intense tedium by the Society for the Promotion of the Positive Aspects of Dullness.

"I used to be an actuary," said Norman Drone, boresperson for the SPPAD, "but I found it was too exciting."

After a deep sigh, he continued: "It's what we've been saying for years, but nobody ever seemed to take any notice. Just look at almost any job outside the accountancy profession and you'll see that the entire selection procedure works against the best interests of dull people.

"And it's so blatant. They just go for interesting, stimulating, versatile people. We dullards don't stand a chance."

I hated to interrupt him in mid-bore, but felt obliged to ask one question: "Forgive me for asking, but what precisely do boring people have to offer?"

"Oh for goodness sake," he said. "That's just the sort of prejudice we run into all the time. We bores are a huge asset to any company. We don't waste other people's time by chatting to them because we haven't anything interesting to say; we guard against recklessness and impetuosity because we're utterly resistant to change; we're always on time because we haven't any outside interests; and we're content doing uninspiring, repetitive tasks because we haven't the imagination to conceive of anything better. In short, we're the perfect employees.

"And yet," he whined, before I had a chance to take advantage of his getting to the end of a paragraph to squeeze a word in, "nobody will employ us. I used to think it was because of the innate unfairness of interviews, but more recently I've found it extends to other forms of selection. Only the other day, one of our members rang to tell us about a personality test which had lost him a job. The very first question was clearly loaded against him: 'Would you rather spend an evening at a party or sitting alone in a cold, dank attic listening to a recording of the Best Of Marcel Marceau?'

"Well, our man was caught in a bit of a quandary because, appealing though the second alternative was, he felt he couldn't legitimately tick it because his Marcel Marceau records are currently at the local record shop - well I call it a record shop, although it prefers to refer to itself as a 'Home Entertainment Centre', which I suppose you could say was a better description if you find such things as videos, MP3s and DVDs, whatever they may be, entertaining, which I personally do not - being transcribed, that's his Marcel Marceau records, on to tape because of the increasing difficulty in getting styluses, some people would say styli, I suppose, for his gramophone."

He paused to draw breath and I seized my chance. "My goodness," I said. "Is that really the time? I must be going."

The Meaning of Liff:
Part XXIII
"Saying more by saying .."



Hurry, it's starting again!

pin in tissue

I wish I knew why I spent the last hour reading this...


....eerrrmmm...no I don't, actually!

NM