Vogon Poetry


I sat there, with a pen in one hand, a notebook in the other.  I determined that I should write something, not type, but actually write, something.  Use the penmanship skills that had gotten me Straight C’s in grammar school.  I had the pen at the ready.  I had the paper.  I sat down and proceeded to…

…fall asleep.

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“Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits
On a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
With crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
See if I don’t!”

Douglas Adams, as Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz, Hitchhikers guide to the galaxy, courtesy of fuzzyface
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Viddy of the day:  The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy Episode 2 part1.  Vogon Poetry. From the BBC television series from nineteen eighty something or other.  Joy!

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Just great.  I woke up, after about 20 minutes or so, or I should say that I was awoken, because I would have slept longer without the interruption.  The interruption was one of the two cats my wife and I live with, Roddy, gently patting me on the head with one of his forepaws, and mewing.  He looked at me in a way that could only be considered funny. If I didn’t know better, i’d have thought the boy was trying to say “Dude, you alright?”

Did I forget to mention that all this happened in the tub?  Or that I only just managed to not drop the pen and paper in the tub?

I was there to soak my very, Very, VERY sore right calf.  I had gone out running, as is my wont, at about 1:30 pm, and fourteen minutes, eleven point thirteen seconds into the run, I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my right calf.  I stopped after slowing down somewhat to see if just the act of slowing down would help.  It didn’t so I stopped, rubbed it a bit, stretched it a little.  Seemed tight, but a little better, so I started up again. Maybe 100 steps later, it happened again.  Only worse.  There was no slowing down this time.  The pain was so sharp, so intense this time that I pulled up short in a single step.  Not something that one is prone to do during a run. 

So I had to walk home. Uphill.  In 17 degree weather.  On a leg that I found I could barely walk on. 

Hence me in a tub.  The pen and paper thing was more an idea to stoke the creative juices, to write whenever and wherever I have the chance.  I’m gonna go for it, even with the less than auspicious start.  And I am sure that I am a horrible writer, similar one would presume to the Vogons who populate the late great Douglas Adams writing.  You know the ones.  They attempted to be cultured and civilized and wrote poetry.  Really, really, bad poetry.  Read up on it. 

Maybe my falling asleep was a good thing.  Who knows.  Maybe it kept me from writing Vogon Poetry.

Not that it’ll stop me from writing.  I still have that pen at the ready, it’s sitting on the floor, next to the bed, along with a dozen or so books and magazines that are open to some page or other, that I was or am in the process of reading. I have Heinlein’s “The Moon is a Harsh Mistress” there, along with Jack London’s “Call of the Wild”, John Stuart Mill “On Liberty” a print out version of Erasmus’ “In Praise of Folly”, Adam Smith’s “Wealth of Nations” one or two older copies of Runner’s world magazine, a copy of Guitar world magazine.

Maybe I need to clean up that area.  Might get to it.  Might not.

So maybe, possibly, I might actually get to use that pen, and maybe not.  With that amount of words to sift through it could be ages before I get to writing with an actual, honest to J.R. “Bob” Dobbs pen. But I have hopes that some semi non horrible Vogon poetry (or prose even) may well be in the works somewhere in the hopefully and possibly not too distant future.

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That’s it from here, my foonting turlingdromes.  I’ll write again tomorrow!

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