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

[Well, Irma and Henry certainly did! ]

[..a page of manuscript, a heavily edited part of 'Richard III', reputedly in Shakespeare's hand, has been discovered amongst a collection of old papers...]

Herald: Arm, arm, my lord; the foe vaunts in the field.

Richard: What?

Herald: Arm, arm, my lord; the foe vaunts in the field.

Richard: What is that supposed to mean? The foe? Foe?

Herald: The enemy, my lord.

Richard: Is venting in a field?

Herald: Vaunts, vaunts! In the field, the field of battle!

Richard: Oh I see, the enemy vaunts in the area we are about to use for the upcoming fight. Oh well that's good then, isn't it. If I were about to face an army like mine lead by a King as magnificent as me, I would be doing a fair bit of vaunting myself.

Lord Essex: My lord, do we but set our battle on?

Richard: Indeed, what he said; but make sure we attack down wind.

Exuent all.

Since we've run out of celebrities and crazy non-celebrities,
today were going to bring our reality-show concept to the
[excuse the expression] real world.

It's nine a.m. in the office, but one chair is still vacant. Did Mathers forget to set his alarm clock? No, wait! Here he is--he had just been visiting Mr. Coffee.

Finch is already hard at work--office scuttlebut has it that he's aiming for a promotion.

There's Mathers again, heading for more java.

Ah, I see that Ditters and Dorfner are playing computer chess with
each other.

What? Mathers heading for *more* coffee? Now he has it, but he's
heading this way. Thank you, Mathers, that's very thoughtful.

SPLASH!

[..I swear to tell the whimsy, the whole whimsy, and nothing but the whimsy, so help me Douglas....]

Hey, what's all the excitement, neighbour.

Haven't you heard? They've arrested William Shakespeare and he has been charged with writing plays and poems.

That'll be a short trial, everyone knows the man is guilty.

Not so, neighbour; apparently the defence is confident that they have enough circumstantial evidence to get him off, a lot of folk believe that someone else done it.

Sounds like it could be a cracker then, where's the trial being held?

They haven't decided yet, either in Derby or maybe Oxford.

I'll come with you, neighbour, hold on a moment while I pack my kit and make some bacon sandwiches for the journey.

The Cheesecake Factory

Work has been very hard to get as employers are expecting unrealistic qualities in prospective employees and the only know way of standing out from the other job applicants is to have an inexhaustible and unending list of superhuman and magical powers that will allow me to teleport in any part of the globe and to be a polyglot as well as the ability to manipulate time and reality.

One job I got was in 'The Big Bang Theory' world where a group of eccentric young scientists spent their work and leisure time mainly trying to impress each other and their peers.

"Hi, I hear from the accent that you're not from around here," and which I replied to Leonard that I came from South Ockendon and that I am a Slytherin with 12 OWL's and 12 NEWT's all with Outstanding passes and that I every day I freeze time before teleporting over to the USA and manage to do a day's work in a second.

TT.

Have you ever considered applying for the 'Apprentice' show. I would love to see you wiping that smug look off Alan (call me Lord) Sugar's face

"Tell me a story about the Hobbits!" Little Alex exclaimed, sitting up in bed with bright eyes that were obviously not going to be ready for the Sandman any time soon.

"Fine! Nowadays, the Shire has three airports, six universities, and ten of the twenty tallest buildings in Middle Earth," I began.

"Why did they change?" Alex obviously was expecting more tales about Bilbo or Merry or Frodo. Airports were nowhere on his radar.

"They grew up, just as we all do," I explained. "They're like the little kids in my first grade class that I haven't seen in thirty-five years. They didn't stay the way they were then, and neither did I."

"Not even Frodo?"

"Especially not Frodo. He established a line of clever metalworkers who soon had so much business that they started a technical school to train apprentices. This became the Middle Earth Institutute of Technology, which today has 12,000 undergraduates from all over the Earth. Frodo's descendants chopped down half of Mirkwood, built highways and bridges everywhere, and currently run six gigantic theme parks..."

"I wanna see Elrond's house."

"Done! We'll book a flight tomorrow."

...I liked Rivendell so much better before they went public...

...but, I guess, after the NYC papparazzi invasion, I guess they had to keep order...

"The casket seems a bit light," one of the pallbearers observed.

"I'll check," promised O'Malley, the funeral director. Lifting up the top, he saw that the worst had happened: the departed had -- ahem -- departed. "He's probably wandering lost around the funeral parlor," the O'Malley said brightly, dispatching two student interns to check on the corpse's whereabouts. Thrown into disarray by this odd development, the small crowd of mourners whispered among themselves.

"Aha!" O'Malley exclaimed as the interns led the corpse out the door. "I see that death was only partial," he explained. "We don't have the legal right to finish the job, but we can place a retroactive block on the death itself, with the permission of the next of kin. This means you'll still have him to deal with in life, if that's a concern..."

The kin hastily agreed,so the next step was to trudge down the damp, cobwebby stairs to the basement of the funeral home. Two ancient cranks were there. O'Malley cranked the red one to roll time back to the hour of death. He then cranked the green one to roll back dacl death itself. He was sweating now from the unaccustomed exertion, so he sat down. This turned out to be a wise move, as the earth shook around him and lightning flashed in an otherwise blue sky.

But it all turned out well. Crulkin, the formerly deceased, went back to his heavy drinking and sedentary lifestyle. The casket was stored against the obvious need for its use later [possibly not much], and O'Malley sampled hors d'oeuvres at the celebratory luncheon that has started out as a wake.

[I apologise for the typos in the previous story ]

...Sheese!

What kind of a corner cutting establishment is that anyway?

Must be having trouble with competition from the Italians.

Skimping on the embalming fluid that way.

Half the purpose of embalming is to make sure the dear departed does not wake up from a cataleptic seizure buried in a coffin.



...or maybe, it was a problem with their supplier substituting fluosilicone synthetic blood for the embalming fluid by mistake.




(I hope you'll forgive me my "Mystery Science 2000" class heckling from the audience box. )

[They were using alcohol instead of embalming fluid. Little did they know that the deceased had snuck extra alcohol when no one was looking.]

Today, the Reality Witch is going to answer a question she received from a would-be poet: "How can I get my poems published?" This came with three sample poems.

The Reality Witch thanks the poet for calling them poems. It was hard to tell, as the poet has little or no sense of meter or rhythm, and a hit or miss sense of appropriate rhymes. Apparently, a friend of the poet thinks they're worth publishing.

Well, there are friends and there are friends. My guess is that the friend in question thinks it's okay to expose the poet to negative criticism from editors.

Here's the reality of getting poetry published, from one who has been down this sad road: as with any writing anywhere, you need to be a master of grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Good enough doesn't count. True, poetry can be more relaxed about grammar
than prose is. You still have to know how to deliver. Even if you send your very best poem, and you are lucky enough to hit an editor who spots potential, you are still likely to be told to rewrite. And rewrite. And rewrite.

I do know one or two published poets. They teach poetry-writing courses in colleges. If you take one of their courses, you're going to get serious feedback. It isn't likely that you'll enjoy it, but taking it seriously gives you a chance to grow and improve. If you're committed to that, go for it, but be prepared to say goodbye to the days when writing poetry was a fun hobby. The Reality Witch wishes you good luck, whatever path you choose.

thank you

The Positivity Witch responds to the Reality Witch.

"Want to get your poetry published? It's easy and no with worries about grammar, spelling; or even punctualityion.

I had my work published on a regular basis for many years without ever managing a proper rime and the only time my literary effort got anywhere close to scanning was when the printer photocopied them for the records.

Sadly, when my father died we sold the publishing house."

Once upon a time, in a long forgotten time and place, there lived three witches in a cozy little 10 room cottage in a shady wood by a crystal clear lake fed by a rippling stream in a sun dappled valley under a rolling hill that hosted a winding road that came from a charming village that was incorporated by a state of the country on an island in the deep blue sea. They were good witches even though one was a realist, one a positivist and one bipartisan. They edited poetry anthologies for a living and their treatments were mmmmmagical. All their collections were very popular. Everyone lived happily ever after and a Special Library was made to house all the poems.*



* F2606954?thread=5718865

>>> "Once upon a time, in a long forgotten time and place, there lived three witches in a cozy little 10 room cottage in a shady wood by a crystal clear lake fed by a rippling stream in a sun dappled valley under a rolling hill that hosted a winding road that came from a charming village that was incorporated by a state of the country on an island in the deep blue sea. They were good witches even though one was a realist, one a positivist and one bipartisan. They edited poetry anthologies for a living and their treatments were mmmmmagical. All their collections were very popular. Everyone lived happily ever after and a Special Library was made to house all the poems"

that's a very dark 'weltanshauung' - you couldn't lighten it up a tad, could you?

She sipped her late-afternoon coffee and watched the distant lightning stabbing Poet Town. The front door slammed. A moment later, a shadow loomed over her. "Dad, you're home earlier!" she exlaimed.

"I'm persona non grata in Poet Town now, thanks to your little stunt, Michaela," he scolded, sitting across from her.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said, not meeting his eyes.

"They've got some pretty good hackers downtown. They quickly figured out that *you* wrote that 'Reality Witch' article," he retorted. "A thousand coffee shops in Poet Town, and not one would serve me at lunch time. Tomorrow, it's poets with pitchforks time here. By then, we will have moved, my dear."

"Are we off to Balletville, then?"

"If we can find a house to rent."

"Wouldn't Piano prodigy estates be safer? I mean, I'm thinking of getting pecked to death by swans if Balletville turns against us."

"Honey, that's nothing compared to getting a piano dropped on you...."