"The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" About the Foreword: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is such a classic that it's not even necessary to use the full title any more. We faithful refer to it as Hitchhiker's or The Guide or even H2G2. Sometimes all it takes is a thumb gesture in a library to have the entire sci-fi section collapse in fits of forbidden giggles. It is a difficult thing to write a foreword for a book like this, because it is so weird and wonderful that nothing can really prepare the reader for the experience of reading it. Imagine trying to describe to a five-year-old how it feels to be struck by lightning, using words of one syllable or less. You can give it a go, but you know before you start that, no matter how hard you try, when that five-year-old finally does get hit by lightning he is going to be totally flabbergasted, and will probably use a few one-syllable words of his own. All I can really do is try to warn you about a few of the more hilarious characters you will meet, in case you happen to be operating a strimmer or juggling beakers of piranhas when you first encounter them. Look out for Arthur Dent. Arthur lands himself in more doo-doo than the average doo-doo diver (the doo-doo diver being a tan, plumed, flightless bird that hurls itself into steaming piles of mammaloid droppings just to justify being depressed). Arthur is a trouble-magnet of electro proportions and on an average day even having his home planet destroyed wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to him. Arthur's Betelgeusean friend, Ford Prefect, is never far behind when trouble rears its ugly and often green head, but at least Ford can offer some possible solutions. Unfortunately, these solutions invariably aggravate the troublemakers and land Arthur and Co. in doo-doo so deep it would even make a doo-doo bird crack the tiniest of smiles. Zaphod Beeblebrox has two heads – there's no clearer way to say it. If you know that going in, then the whole Galactic-president-on-the-run thing will only be a single whammy. Reading about Zaphod is the literary equivalent of strapping oneself to the roof of a nuclear train that has jumped the rails and is running down a plasma tunnel with only a wedge of lemon to use as a brake. Obviously one would be naked with a tiny demon jabbing a trident into one's rear end while this is going on. The bad guys are Vogons. You are not going to like these guys, but that's OK, they don't even like themselves. Vogons are so ugly that not even spaceport border-control officials bother them for photo ID in case the photos were taken before the surgery. And also because the Vogons might blast their entire planet out of existence. Remember the number forty-two. This is vitally important to your journey through the Galaxy. If you don't know this number, then all the other knowledge you have accrued in your short life is about as much use to you as a blocked sinus to a.......
