So I was reading Hitchhiker's...
There is nothing extraordinary about most ordinary things. However, there are in fact so few ordinary things in existence that the number of them is extraordinary itself, which perhaps imparts a degree of less (or more) ordinariness upon these ordinary things. Really the most extraordinary thing that ever happened to Jeran Rain was his encounter with the most ordinary of ordinary things, which is perhaps really extraordinary if anyone had ever thought to think about it, which they have not, so the point is moot and should be passed so that things that are not so ordinary can be contemplated. Or as they say in some circles (but not squares strangely enough, or triangles, I do like triangles, equilateral ones to be specific…) that is a tale for another time.
This story, which also includes a fellow/person/humanoid by the name of Jeran Rain, is contrary to the story that was just hinted at in that it is not related to anything ordinary in the least. Ordinary things had of course spawned everything else in the Universe through what can only be described as interstellar intermaterial sub-atomic overprotonic incest of the most prodigious sort. In fact, that is basically the understanding Earth descended scientists (all terribly inbred by this point) had arrived at in what they called “Not-Einstein’s Theory of Relativity”, so named because the person who came up with it was Alfred Weinstein and because college students began to commit mass suicide at having to differentiate the two and remember when the battle of Hastings was without using an external memory source.
There was also a war over it, but that is not worth mentioning because it actually included two of the 42 ordinary things in existence, and given that high ratio of ordinary things to other-than-ordinary things it was found to be so boring a conflict that every historian who has ever contemplated writing about it has slipped into a catatonic state. The only record of it contains only this small description:
"The year was the most ordinary year ever, it lasted from the first ordinary day of the most ordinary month to the last ordinary hour of the same month, an ordinary 50 billion people died terribly ordinary deaths, and their corpses were ejected into the Sun (which was the most ordinary corpse disposal method of the time), and after the war things became less ordinary because…"
The description ends there and it has been speculated that the person who wrote it died the very ordinary death of having his ordinary ball-point pen rammed through his temple, probably at his request.
“Hey!”
“Hmm? What?”
“What the hell are you writing?”
“Nothing, what, why?”
“You’re doing it again aren’t you?”
“No! I mean, wait what?”
"Dammit boy, don’t think, you’ve gotten this far without it, start now and you’re doomed.”
“I’m thinking of…”
“Ha, nice bluff.”
“A place to shove…”
“Your boot, and it’s my ass where you’re thinking about shoving it.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you’re not thinking, you’re saying what someone else said and you thought you thought it was clever, but it wasn’t and you aren’t.”
“You’re an asshole Rain,” said Avrem Dayus with a sigh.
“That also happens to be a matter of public record, so no, you’re still not thinking, at least not anymore than that mechanical parakeet from that last rock we were on,” said Jeran Rain in his self-righteous opinionated way, the only way he ever seemed to talk.
“Do you ever cease to be so…”
“Damn smug? No never,” spat Rain in a harsh tone.
In truth this is not a story of humor, though even the most serious and sad figure of it would find a lot of this funny. He is that sort of person, and has been for longer than even he could remember.
This story, which also includes a fellow/person/humanoid by the name of Jeran Rain, is contrary to the story that was just hinted at in that it is not related to anything ordinary in the least. Ordinary things had of course spawned everything else in the Universe through what can only be described as interstellar intermaterial sub-atomic overprotonic incest of the most prodigious sort. In fact, that is basically the understanding Earth descended scientists (all terribly inbred by this point) had arrived at in what they called “Not-Einstein’s Theory of Relativity”, so named because the person who came up with it was Alfred Weinstein and because college students began to commit mass suicide at having to differentiate the two and remember when the battle of Hastings was without using an external memory source.
There was also a war over it, but that is not worth mentioning because it actually included two of the 42 ordinary things in existence, and given that high ratio of ordinary things to other-than-ordinary things it was found to be so boring a conflict that every historian who has ever contemplated writing about it has slipped into a catatonic state. The only record of it contains only this small description:
"The year was the most ordinary year ever, it lasted from the first ordinary day of the most ordinary month to the last ordinary hour of the same month, an ordinary 50 billion people died terribly ordinary deaths, and their corpses were ejected into the Sun (which was the most ordinary corpse disposal method of the time), and after the war things became less ordinary because…"
The description ends there and it has been speculated that the person who wrote it died the very ordinary death of having his ordinary ball-point pen rammed through his temple, probably at his request.
“Hey!”
“Hmm? What?”
“What the hell are you writing?”
“Nothing, what, why?”
“You’re doing it again aren’t you?”
“No! I mean, wait what?”
"Dammit boy, don’t think, you’ve gotten this far without it, start now and you’re doomed.”
“I’m thinking of…”
“Ha, nice bluff.”
“A place to shove…”
“Your boot, and it’s my ass where you’re thinking about shoving it.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you’re not thinking, you’re saying what someone else said and you thought you thought it was clever, but it wasn’t and you aren’t.”
“You’re an asshole Rain,” said Avrem Dayus with a sigh.
“That also happens to be a matter of public record, so no, you’re still not thinking, at least not anymore than that mechanical parakeet from that last rock we were on,” said Jeran Rain in his self-righteous opinionated way, the only way he ever seemed to talk.
“Do you ever cease to be so…”
“Damn smug? No never,” spat Rain in a harsh tone.
In truth this is not a story of humor, though even the most serious and sad figure of it would find a lot of this funny. He is that sort of person, and has been for longer than even he could remember.