Everybody needs a good slap upside the head from time to time. I sure as hell need one. Almost constantly. If I didn’t hit myself, I don’t know what I would do. You’d find me on a street corner, giving away Bernie Sanders bumper stickers, and taking pictures of people’s feet as they walked by. The world descends into chaos without the slap.
Vogon poetry, is of course, the third worst in the universe.
The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal hemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off.
You can tell that he hasn’t been doing this for very long because he still has all of his fingers, limbs, and appendages. Naturally, I’m impressed by his ability to identify and handle large turtles, but I’m a little wary of his flawless appearance. Yes, I see that he has a few little cuts, scuffs, and scratches, but where are his gaping wounds? I don’t think he’s ever been mauled by a tiger, or had his leg bitten off by a shark. What a rank amateur.
Way out East there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of Spence Peppard. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. Spence Peppard, he called himself Spence Peppard. Now,Spence Peppard — he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.