Goo-glued Bladderball as dictated by the Spirit of D Adams to the Medium M Thydell the 8th of February 2011 _____________________ According to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, there lies, in one of the less inspiring parts of the galaxy, a streak of completely meaningless and dull industrial areas where the main export product is semi-porous sand, poor of minerals. Should we imagine the Earth not being vaporized by the cancelled Vogon intergalactic highway construction project, but hypothetically, a prosperous economy with interstellar trade contacts; well, then the Earth might have been an important importer of this sand, as it has great similarities with the so called "cat litter", that was so frequently sold in the markets in the more well-off areas of the now completely destroyed planet. As the story goes in the galaxy at the present, without Earth and, of course, cats, the market of mineral poor sand is, to say the least, rather limited. In this industrial area, is the lunch restaurant situated, which serves the most awfully tasting course the Guide has been able to present: the Goo-glued Bladder Ball. The luncheonette is not presented with its name, however, referring to security reasons and, in the case of the Guide, quite an uncommon respect towards the physical health of the reader. In other words: if the reader feels a strong urge to, contrary to the following words of warning, try out the Goo-glued Bladder Ball, he/she/it must try to ask for the way (or follow the smell). Consuming a Goo-glued Bladder Ball would follow a rather predictable process, described by the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy as follows: The Guest is being served a plate with a yellowish, brownish ball the size of a so called walnut and of an undetermined texture. The Guest is however, immediately demanded of full payment, which often may be perceived as a bit odd (and perhaps a bad omen). Anyway, the Ball is lifted with the fork (or other suitable cutlery) and, after due payment, most often happily and quickly consumed. The guest: “Well, this wasn’t that... AAAAaaaaaahhhh! Oh GOD! AAaarrrgghhhh!” The guest is now occupying the complete and utter attention from the other guests with the screams and spastic bodily movements for some minutes, before they realize what’s going on and return to minding their own business. The invocation of Mr God seems oddly enough to go for all the guests, regardless their cosmic belongings; a strange fact that has initiated the production of quite a few academic essays and interesting scientific literature (i.e. “Goo-glued Bladder Ball, a road to cosmic enlightment?” by Dr Scholl Fussbett or “Religious Revelations in Fast Food” by Götterblatt & Spit”.) The Guest: “Muuummy, help me!” Depending on the descent of the Guest, this cry of course may allude to larvae-servant on duty, mitosis- or meiosis-partner or any other important being in the Guest’s early childhood (but strangely enough, never father figures). The Guest: “Death, Death, DEATH!” A visitor who in this stage of the poor Guest's agony and terror, might stumble into the lunch restaurant, could quite easily picture a scenario that the above described Lunch Guest now projects an immediate danger towards the other guests and, perhaps mainly, the staff. It would not be very farfetched to assume that the cries means threats of immediate mortally and unnecessary brutal violence against anyone who might be seated within the walls of the place. The fact of the matter is that the Lunch Guest only wishes his own quickly death; the only imaginable way out from this unimaginably loathsome experience which the guest in question is going through at this point. The Guest: “Gurgle, gurgle, pant, pant, aaaaaaahhhhhh....” (Deep exhalation and then, unexpected and disturbing silence). The Lunch Guest will now lie, seemingly #lifeless on the, poorly cleaned floor (to say the least), soiled by the bodily fluids that was at the Lunch Guest’s disposal, mixed with spicy sauce and food substances from the restaurant which the guest happened to bring down with his uncontrollable spasms and in the inevitable and relieving fall into unconsciousness (and onto the tiles). One might believe that the Lunch Guest would be deceased by now, but this is mostly not the case; more likely the Guest has entered a very deep state of comatose, from which he, with a little support by the local health services, probably will be restored from within a few days or months. In one respect one might say that the choice of the Lunch Restaurant to cook and serve the Goo-glued Bladder Ball, still fulfils its purpose: the Lunch Guest will not feel hungry for a long, long time. In fact, most of those who have tasted this dish will not express any feelings of appetite whatsoever for many weeks (or decades). As usual, the only ones equipped with any kind of metabolism stable enough (or lack thereof) that may help them survive the Goo-glued Bladder Ball are the sporadic visitors who actually come from the planet Earth. Or, like George Hoverfield from Slough, (who through an unfortunate combination of strong sneeze, constipation and a stroke by lightning, in 1956 happened to be teleported to the Lunch Restaurant) expressed it: “Rather OK actually. Perhaps not a gourmet experience, but quite OK. Can someone please pass the ketchup?”