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‘Oh don’t give me none more of that Old Janx Spirit / No, don’t you give me none more of that Old Janx Spirit / For my head will fly, my tongue will lie, my eyes will fry and I may die / Won’t you pour me one more of that sinful Old Janx Spirit’
Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.
Take the juice from one bottle of that Ol’ Janx Spirit, it says. Pour into it one measure of water from the seas of Santraginus V – Oh, that Santraginean sea water, it says. Oh those Santraginean fish!!! Allow three cubes of Arcturan Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or the benzine is lost). Allow four litres of Fallian marsh gas to bubble through it, in memory of all those happy Hikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Fallia. Over the back of a silver spoon float a measure of Qualactin Hypermint extract, redolent of all the heady odours of the dark
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(Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.)
The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don’t.
“I refuse to prove that I exist,” says God, “for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.” ‘“But,” says Man, “the Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don’t. QED.” ‘“Oh dear,” says God, “I hadn’t thought of that,” and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic. ‘“Oh, that was easy,” says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing. ‘Most leading theologians claim that this argument is a load of dingo’s kidneys, but
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Trillian had come to suspect that the main reason why he had had such a wild and successful life was that he never really understood the significance of anything he did.
Isn’t it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?
