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

beneath his

[Evening CG! What ARe we going to do about this poor monk? We haven't managed to get him a decent drink yet (he's got my sympathy on that!) never mind wide eyed & legless!

Peter, help us put this young monk in harm's - sorry - fun's way!]

trembling...


are you ready for it? ok, here we go...
[Once upon a time there was a gorgeously sexy Japanese monk who calmly slipped a tenner into the receptive antiquated velvety smooth hand of a sooth-sayer who told whopping porkies about his serpentine proclivities, while sipping noisily from a foul-tasting, greenish coloured yet somehow deliciously intoxicating potion prescribed partly by chance when all of the bells were a-clanging furiously in the belfry, towering threateningly over a small but splendidly appointed gazeebo fashioned entirely of tiny fragments which glistened surprisingly brightly as thoughts turned homewards with a secret yet happy glow eminating from the rememberance of Madelaine's ample library of unspeakable subconscious images of the orange librarian whose lack of perspicacity endeared him to all and left-handedly attacked Mrs. Mitsubishi-Forsythe's hampster who drank a fulsome fetid draught from his 'ittle bitty trough over by the shadey peach blossom scented tree-like multi-faceted yet strangely smooth sort of rounded bush which unexpectedly uttered a cry of great joy before finally turning around & starting down the crooked lane, which resulted in a severe case of mistaken identity and so, although overcome by a sudden longing, he bravely ran away into the loving and welcoming Jaws of Death, a pub where sheep and goats were hard to tell apart in the gloom which often gave rise to various misunderstandings based on erroneous reports that the goats were game for a laugh and a story about capricious Welshmen who interfere with things they don't understand because they're unable teachers to be trusted with machinery or anything appertaining to medical equipment. Their talents should be regarded with care and all due to John's unfortunate habit for Bolivian cherry-pickers and Scandanavian stevedores lifting heavy metal statuettes fashioned out of glistening shards of platinum sheeting, which were warm to the touch yet somehow strangely chilling and somehow 'alive' beneath his trembling....]

lips

comma the monk

[how's that?]

, faint from thirst

[like someone else I know ... ...]

and feeling

[ooh, don't. antibiotics until next weekend. no alcohol, no fun]

like Seannachie & Akira100

[Your plight is shared, Peter. Wish I could count on a jar by next week-end ..]

fumbled under the counter for dusty bottle of malt.....



I know I've overdone the no. of words - but I was just feeling so sorry for you all - and the monk - (let's just hope it's not malt vinegar!)

but finding

with

instead

a pair of

[- or do I mean pear? I'm mixing up my threads here!]

dark, mysterious bottles of

Wishful thinking here ...

pine scented

Retsina which



Well Akira and OOV, that was a close one wasn't it - I was very tempted to opt for bubble bath!

smelt uncannily like


[Morning everyone]

gnats

pee. [full stop]

Once upon a time there was a gorgeously sexy Japanese monk who calmly slipped a tenner into the receptive antiquated velvety smooth hand of a sooth-sayer who told whopping porkies about his serpentine proclivities, while sipping noisily from a foul-tasting, greenish coloured yet somehow deliciously intoxicating potion prescribed partly by chance when all of the bells were a-clanging furiously in the belfry, towering threateningly over a small but splendidly appointed gazeebo fashioned entirely of tiny fragments which glistened surprisingly brightly as thoughts turned homewards with a secret yet happy glow eminating from the rememberance of Madelaine's ample library of unspeakable subconscious images of the orange librarian whose lack of perspicacity endeared him to all and left-handedly attacked Mrs. Mitsubishi-Forsythe's hampster who drank a fulsome fetid draught from his 'ittle bitty trough over by the shadey peach blossom scented tree-like multi-faceted yet strangely smooth sort of rounded bush which unexpectedly uttered a cry of great joy before finally turning around & starting down the crooked lane, which resulted in a severe case of mistaken identity and so, although overcome by a sudden longing, he bravely ran away into the loving and welcoming Jaws of Death, a pub where sheep and goats were hard to tell apart in the gloom which often gave rise to various misunderstandings based on erroneous reports that the goats were game for a laugh and a story about capricious Welshmen who interfere with things they don't understand because they're unable teachers to be trusted with machinery or anything appertaining to medical equipment - their talents should be regarded with care and all due to John's unfortunate habit for Bolivian cherry-pickers and Scandanavian stevedores lifting heavy metal statuettes fashioned out of glistening shards of platinum sheeting, which were warm to the touch yet somehow strangely chilling and somehow 'alive' beneath his trembling lips, the monk, faint from thirst and feeling like Seannachie & Akira100, fumbled under the counter for a bottle of malt, but finding instead a pair of dark, mysterious bottles of pine scented Retsina which smelt uncannily like gnat's pee.

let's see what happens to our monk on his way home from the 'Jaws'.

While.....

sauntering gayly

along