Elf Girl wrote:
Anyone read "The Salmon of Doubt"?
No, not yet.
"And you spend the next six months thinking about lobsters..."
"If there's anything more important than my ego, I want it caught and shot now."
"Magrathea's been dead for five million years,' said Zaphod; 'Of course it's safe. Even the ghosts will have settled down and raised families by now."
"An expression of deep worry and concern failed to cross either of Zaphod's faces."
"Computer...' said Zaphod again, who had been trying to think of some subtle piece of reasoning to put the computer down with, and had decided not to bother competing with it on its own ground, 'if you don't open that exit hatch this moment I shall zap straight off to your major data banks and reprogram you with a very large ax, got that?"
"That's it,' said Zaphod with the sort of grin that would get most people locked away in a room with soft walls."
"The computer continued, brash and cheery, as if it were selling detergent."
"Hi there! This is Eddie, your shipboard computer, and I'm feeling just great, guys, and I know I'm just going to get a bundle of kicks out of any program you care to run through me."
"The Great Hyperbolic Omni-Cognate Neutron Wrangler,' said Deep Thought, thoroughly rolling the r's, 'could talk all four legs off an Arcturan Mega-Donkey -- but only I could persuade it to go for a walk afterward."
"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. Grunthos is reported to have been 'disappointed' by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled My Favorite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leaped straight up through his neck and throttled his brain."
"Oh freddled gruntbuggly...
...thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabblegotchits 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!"
"Suddenly, a violent noise leaped at them from no source that he could identify. He gasped in terror at what sounded like a man trying to gargle while fighting off a pack of wolves."
"His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon."
"Charming man,' he said. 'I wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry one...'
'You wouldn't need to,' said Ford. 'They've got as much sex appeal as a road accident."
"One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about humans was their habit of continually stating and repeating the very very obvious, as in It's a nice day, or You're very tall, or Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you all right?
"Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so."
"If human beings don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up. After a few months' consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favor of a new one. If they don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working."
"Arthur blinked at the screens and felt he was missing something important. Suddenly he realized what it was.
'Is there any tea on this spaceship?' he asked."
"Arthur slapped his arms about himself to try and get his circulation a little more enthusiastic about its job."
The waiter approached. "Would you like to see the menu?" he said, "or would you like to meet the Dish of the Day?" "Huh?" said Ford. "Huh?" said Arthur. "Huh?" said Trillian. "That's cool," said Zaphod, "we'll meet the meat."
"Good evening," it lowed and sat back heavily on its haunches, "I am the main Dish of the Day. May I interest you in parts of my body?"