Surgeon General's Warning
My sense of humor has at times been subtle enough to not communicate the best, and this work is a satire on one layer and a parody on another. It is not, in any sense, intended to be good poetry. The parody is of a passage from Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. And I might gently remind the reader that a good writer who is trying to write badly will write something much worse than someone who merely doesn't get writing. That's why presumably competent editors are so well-represented among Bulwer-Lytton contest winners.
The original passage occurs after the guidebook says, "On no account allow a Vogon to read poetry at you," and will go on to talk about a poet who was going to "embark on a reading of his 12-book epic, "when his own major intestine, in a desparate attempt to save humanity," killed him.
The Original
The sweat stood out cold on Ford Prefect's brow, and slid round the electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of electronic equipment—imagery intensifiers, rhythmic modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dumpers—all designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the poet's thought was lost.
Arthur Dent sat and quivered. He had no idea what he was in for, but he knew that he hadn't liked anything that had happened so far and didn't think things were likely to change.
The Vogon began to read—a fetid little passage of his own devising.
"O Freddled Gnutbuggly . . ." he began. Spasms wracked Ford's body—this was worse than even he'd been prepared for.
"? . . . thy micturcations are to me / As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee."
Aaaaaaarggggghhhhh!" went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head as lumps of pain thumped through it. He could only see beside him Arthur lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his teeth.
Groop I implore thee, continued the merciless Vogon, "my foonting turlingdromes."
Their voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned stridency. "And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles, / Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don't!"
"Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyuuuuuuurrrrrrggggggghhhhh!" cried Ford Prefect and threw one final spasm as the electronic enhancement of the last line caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp.
The Parody
The sweat stood out on Ford Prefect's brow, and slid round the electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of cybernetic equipment—imagery intensifiers, rhythmic modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dumpers—all designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the poet's thought was lost.
Arthur Dent sat and quivered. He had no idea what he was in for, but he knew that he hadn't liked anything that had happened so far and didn't think things were likely to change.
The Woke-on began to read—a fetid little passage of Their own devising.
"O Implied Other . . ." he began. Spasms wracked Ford's body—this was worse than even he'd been prepared for.
"? . . . your microaggressions are to Us / As transphobic racism assuming colonial Orientalism."
"Aaaaaaargggggvvvvv!" went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back as lumps of pain thumped through it. He could dimly see beside him Arthur lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his teeth.
"We are going to sue you," continued the merciless Woke-on, "O rebel against the Imago DEI."
Their voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned stridency. "And oust you from this Woke Studies department. / Or We will embarrass you by listing genitalia over and over, see if We don't."
"Nnnnoooonnnnneeee ooooofffff yyyyoooouuuuurrrr bbbbuuussssiiiiinnnneeeesssss!" cried Ford Prefect and threw one final spasm as the cybernetic enhancement of the last line caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp.