Don’t give me any of that clowns in the sewer business. A clown in the sewer isn’t horrifying. A clown in the sewer is just a smelly clown. Paying $22 to see a clown in a circus, now that’s horrifying. I’ll pass on being scared by a guy with a chainsaw living in a rundown house in the middle of nowhere, too. I’m a guy with a chainsaw living in a rundown house in the middle of nowhere. No one’s afraid of me. If you want to introduce horror into the equation, you’re going to have to tell it from my point of view. The chainsaw won’t start.
In many of the more relaxed civilizations on the Outer Eastern Rim of the Galaxy, the Hitch-Hiker’s Guide has already supplanted the great Encyclopaedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom, for though it has many omissions and contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate, it scores over the older, more pedestrian work in two important respects. First, it is slightly cheaper; and secondly it has the words DON’T PANIC inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover.
It is known that there are an infinite number of worlds, simply because there is an infinite amount of space for them to be in. However, not every one of them is inhabited. Therefore, there must be a finite number of inhabited worlds.
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-two million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.