‘Sup? So, I have this last little bit of time to goof off and be irresponsible (read: clean my house and do laundry) before checking in to the new place of employment Monday. So, in an effort to just absorb every last bit of free time, here’re some non-sensicals. I actually am conducting an interview in a few so I’m kinda working. Will have a link to that piece if it runs somewhere…Till then my lovelies:
This makes me want to get married. Just so I can have someone to pretend to be mad at, and legitimately should be, but instead spend my time fighting the urge to just crack up at their silliness. That sounds fun to me.
I’m in. It looks fantastic.
With no disrespect to my friends who have an interest here, this seems like it pretty much diplomatically nails it.
I want to go to there. Did I ever mention my absolute love and obsession with all things waterslide/waterpark related? It’s borderline pathological. And I haven’t had a good day at the waterpark in many, many years. Oh White Water in Atlanta, how I miss you. I need to find a water park here…
This cracked me up. And does every time I read it.
Finally, I just like this. Hope you do as well.
The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels.
A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitch hiker can have. Partly it has great practical value – you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you – daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.
More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have “lost”. What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.
Hence a phrase which has passed into hitch hiking slang, as in “Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There’s a frood who really knows where his towel is.” (Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.)
Nestling quietly on top of the towel in Ford Prefect’s satchel, the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic began to wink more quickly. Miles above the surface of the planet the huge yellow somethings began to fan out. At Jodrell Bank, someone decided it was time for a nice relaxing cup of tea.
“You got a towel with you?” said Ford Prefect suddenly to Arthur.
Arthur, struggling through his third pint, looked round at him.
“Why? What, no … should I have?” He had given up being surprised, there didn’t seem to be any point any longer.
Ford clicked his tongue in irritation.
“Drink up,” he urged.
They are also quite useful when needing to wipe the floor of the ridiculous amounts of sweat you shed during dance class warm up, technique and stretching so as not to break, nor cause anyone else to break, an ankle during turns across the floor. Just FYI.