Oh, is it Towel Day again?

Things haven’t turned out too badly, you know. This year I managed to read … And Another Thing, in which Eoin Colfer dared and surpassed most expectations. Of course, he isn’t you, but he wasn’t expected to be you.

As for the rest of it, I kept escaping the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal, though to be fair, it wasn’t much of a challenge, given its IQ level. Staying away from Vogon Poetry has been way more challenging. On the other hand, there has been no sighting of Eccentrica Gallumbits either, so it wasn’t really a win-win year for me.

May you outlive the Bowerick Wowbagger.

May there be Babel fish everywhere so that I don’t need to go around explaining what Towel Day is all about.

May deadlines keep whooshing by you.

May you be allowed to become President.

May you miss the ground every time you throw yourself at it.

And in hindsight, coming down from the trees was a big mistake in the first place. You see, not only is this wretched place big, hard, oily, dirty, and rainbow-hung, it is also a microscopic dot lost in the unimaginable infinity of the Universe.

And yes, common sense has slid from 79. It’s nowhere in plain sight anymore, and I’m not talking only New York here.