Of Deceased Mattresses, Low-budget Spaceflight and Over-built Seaside Resorts...

Waypoint

...Due to the inherently fractal nature of all creation, the arrangement of available galactic hyperspatial connector points is of course somewhat chaotic as well. And in order to get around, one inevitably must travel in a convoluted Ikenaga/Henon-like path to get from say, the hypermandel slipgate nexus in the busy, dog-eat-dog New York giga-urboplex to the softly singing, crystalline waves and a nice cool sierpinski-colada on the voronoi-plaz beaches of Lyapunov IX. Which, unless one is part of the uber-class of not so idle rich like the scions of the heirs of the inventor of the Ultrafractal 4.4208 hyperspace flightpath generator, F. Slijkerman VIII, could neccessitate overnight stays in some fairly hellish and definitely unsexy locations like the Cosmo-tel 6 here on a minor moon of Arrakeen IV.......we'll leave the light on.

Lyapunov IX

...And at last we come to the be all and end all of every galactic citizen's aspirations and dreams - the fabled voronoi-plaz beaches of Lyapunov IX! Aaahhh, to bathe in the crystalline vibrations of the waves, carefully modulated by the serendipitous result of a random Pyotr III Apo-matic flame-o-sys batch adapted from the old Kowabunga Bonzai-shred wave maker parameters that were first implemented on the public beaches of the "Denver" urbo-plex in the first century after the Global Warming of a planet with the decidely self-absorbed name, "Earth", had stabilized.



Oddly enough, this would never have occured but for the election of a particularly and adamantly ignorant leader in the planet's most industrialized socio-political geographical construct apparently called "US" or "US-A". (It is presumed by scholars at Big Think specializing in the study of that temporal period that the remaining areas of the planet went by the name of "Them"). It is surmised that he couldn't fathom the large amount of consternation in the scientific community about "Gerbil Warming" and considered it at worst a religio-personal affront to his deity and sensibilities, at the least very inconsiderate treatment of small defenseless rodents, and so he ignored it by and large, fought it when he could or hoped it would just be a passing fad like swallowing goldfish and so no programs were implemented early enough that might have lessened the amount of climate change and commensurate rise in sea levels.

(From the Inter-Galactic Thumber's Guide: Apparently, the denizens of this nondescript little world adamantly believed their's to be the only sentiently inhabited planet in the cosmos and hence gave their home-world the name meaning "ground" in their most widely used tongue. Predictably, there was much gnashing of dentalware and rending of housecoats by teachers of semantics and language after the malfunction and forced detour to their planet by the trans-galactic tour ship belonging to the hyper-neural zydeco/rock art band, Ziggy and the Arachnids, when it became painfully evident that their's was not the only "earth" one might set foot, hoof, motile protuberance, or otherwise like-functioning appendage upon. And that the security detail at the Waldorf-Astoria was woefully inadequate to prevent trashing of the premises by a determined band of drug-crazed, trans-pubescent Rigellian hermaphro-mollusks freshly in the throes of hormonal gender phasing. Thereafter, when speaking to other galactic citizens, they wistfully referred to their homeworld as "Terry"... or something akin)





Lyapunov IX was originally settled by Msr Peapod Bobblebrix esq, the half step-brother's cousin's grandfather of our illustrious Galactic President, His Puissant Hip-ness, Zaphod Beeblebrox. Concerning the provenance of Msr Bobblebrix's considerable fortune - It seems that, somewhere in antiquity, his great great great great great (enough already, nimrod!) .....grand-dad, one Rykkyrick Fracspix, a native of planet Terry, was the winner of a planet-wide "Who's Yo Daddy???" lottery that sought to determine the paternal lineage of the infant offspring of a demised female pleasure-drone named Analee Nickle-Smut and the disposition of approx. a half billion "dollars" from the residual estate of said deceased mattress. Actually, Mr. Fracspix vociferously asserted his compleat and utter innocence and uninvolvement in the whole "affair" - or lack thereof - to the world and to his apopleptic and heavily armed wife but the funds were given him anyhow and the lad sent on his way in order to clear time slots in the major "news" media for the display of odd somethings called "talking heads" who needed to get on with justification and promotion of the next batch of socially deviant candidates in an upcoming leadership selection ritual.


Oddly enough, again, (One begins to develop the distinct impression that almost EVERYTHING about the history of this "Earth" or "Terry" planet seems, well.... odd...) the matching of Mr. Fracspix's DNA to that of the offspring of Ms Nickle-Smut was again attributable to the same President (Yes, we know - The title sounds quite like a brand of toothpaste to us as well - or tuskpaste for you Vogons whom might be viewing - smile!) whose misunderstanding brought on the rise in sea level on his planet. Seems the duly appointed dividecider had little patience for such things as reading or thinking without boxes or other supporting constructs and whiled away the time he held office by being on vacation, playing with small toy soldiers in his oval play-room or by watching the planet's rather crude form of tellyvid. For the sake of expediency and to accommodate the man's woeful grasp of events, he had two cheerily blinking red buttons installed on his desk. One to launch a "thermo-nookyooler" strike upon a socio-religio-politico construct locus labelled "I-ran" (Assumed to be a location somewhere within the other main geographic area, "Them") and the other to view his favorite tellyvid broadcast, Imus-in-the-Morn, labelled "I-man".

("Thermo-nookyooler": The Thumber's Guide is a bit at a loss as to the meaning of this word but it is widely supposed that it had either to do with a small temperature controlled storage space for teapots or possibly something concerning enthusiastic Eskimo sex and the resultant ambient temperature rise within an igloo)



One ill-fated morning, the leader's second in command rang up to ask permission to pretty-please, huh?huh?, can we?can we?, launch a strike on "I-ran" as he did weekly - having forgot he'd asked already the week before, and the week before, and the week before... - and directed his superior to "just push the button" on his desk if this was acceptable. On his way to not push the button, the poor man was distracted by an intern returning a bit of cranial adornment or chapeau, his "cowboy" hat, from the local cleaner's. He thought,"cowboy hat .... ranch .... Imus Ranch .... ooh,ooh, time to watch the I-man!" and pushed the "I-man" button on his desk. Immediately, a small-yield thermo-nookyooler missile was launched, impacting at the NBC studios in downtown Manhattan in the mega-urboplex of New York City. Much to the chagrin of the City Fathers, who were quite very cranked off by this turn of events to say the least and, it is presumed, also the cleanup crew who had to possibly sop up a very large amount of pekoe tea in the streets or, alternatively, the City Mothers who didn't want their children, nor the city fathers, to witness what the Eskimos may have been doing in full view on the corner of Broadway and 5th Ave.



Twentysome-odd (there's that odd oddness, again...) miles away across a large river, the DNA sample from Ms Nickle-Smut's infant daughter was being systematically compared to that of each and every male currently residing in the "US" socio-political geographical construct. The samples were in protected storage excepting Mr. Fracspix's sample which, as Freülein Lück would have it, was being scanned at that precise moment and was consequently slightly mutated by the flood of gamma and beta rays spreading out from the bomb's impact locus. This caused the technicians to register a positive match of the sample on file for poor - or subsequently "not-so-poor" - Mr. Fx. to the DNA sample from the child. And the rest is, as they say, "history".


Lyapunov IX (again...)

Uuuhhhmmmm....right, then.... so.... the place seems to have grown up just a wee bit since it was listed in the Thumber's Guide with some appealingly buccolic and rustic pictures....Ah well, progress marches ever orthogonally and temporally in the suh-weeeeeetest galaxy this side of Andromeda, don'tcha know! This has created a particularly sullen and ill-mannered form of quasi-insurgency on the part of lesser mammon-blessed citizens who spent their nest-eggs and braved the vagaries of low-budget hypermandel slipgate travel and actually arrived intact - and in their life-times. In place of calming solitude, the slow cavorting of floopily contented mattresses and sleek porphins gliding majestically amid the flarpy-work, they are met with THIS madness and have, typically, exhausted their funds - not to mention a goodly portion of their lives - navigating the galaxy's maddeningly fractally positioned hypermandel connector nexii with the Ultrafractal 4.4208 Hyperspace Flight-path Generator - the "Huff-Gee". Fortunately, their ire is typically manifested by relatively harmless sabotage such as loosening the lids of salt shakers and placing "Willy-Washer" signs over the bidets in the first-class suites.



In addition to more than its share of five-star Cosmo-tels, condominia and go-go clubs, Lyapunov IX sports the galaxy's one and only intra-orbital roller-coaster ride, the crowning engineering accomplishment of Prof. Cuziac Mihai, for those adventurous souls who'd rather not wait for the merriment to begin and wish to arrive suitably chuffed and enervated rather than taking some sedate shuttle hop down from the hypermandel nexus. Since the design of the coaster was also plotted fractally with an early beta version of F. Slijkerman VIII's Huff-Gee, some small number of guests may never arrive planet-side due to their orbits occasionally being trapped within infinitely recursive improbability branches of whirly-brew algorithms but hey, what is life without just a LITTLE bit of mystery and adventure, eh? That's the spirit! Be off with you now - and enjoy your stay!



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I've always liked to make fractal art - or maybe "art with fractals"? - that "tells a story" and so thought I'd inflict upon you all the story that these two pix told me......If you actually got to the end of this blurb without clicking off in disgust, I commend your fortitude but lament your "warped mind" may resemble mine. lol j/k



Got caught up in trying some "creative writing" and sought to emulate the style of Douglas Adams' "Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy" books ... and interleave a bit of political and current events satire. Please - It's just play, don't shoot the liberal... :-)



Rick