im bored. hello bloblings. (some would say put that the other way around, but i dunno, it sorta sets the tone early on this way).
naturally iv sought out help for this condition. thanks pitabread. i think i see the light: boredom is best alleviated by being exposed to incidents so peculiar that they induce nightmares. im not going to scare you all too. never let pitabread try to alleviate boredom.
so yea, i just thought: hey, why do so few poeple know about the spoon? i mean, i say "there is no spoon, but we do have a range of handy sporks", and what reaction do i get? generally along the lines of "wtf?!" or "okkkkkkk" or possibly something even more typically dismissive. fun, eh? i guess the spork bit would perturb even the Enlightened... but still!
so yes. the reference to spoons is from The Matrix. that is, the first one. i.e. the decent one... *steers away from critiquing films*
in the movie, the main character sees a little kid bending spoons with his mind. when he cannot comprehend how the kid does such freaky stuff (as might safely be expected), he asks. and the kid says that he must realise the truth, namely that "there is no spoon".
deep.
savour the cathartic experience. i no i am.
*ahem*
newayz, back to spoons. a lot of people dont get how u can apply the spoon scene to such an incredibly diverse arrays of real life situation. see if you can spot the reason in each of these easy to follow and fun examples:
1) *dufus has just been recognised as the next prophet of maths. here is a conversation shortly after.*
random priest: verily and forsooth, hail she who was spoken to by the Great Abacus of the Sky him/herself! and the Abacus spaketh thusly: "there is no spoon".
dufus: that would mean that there are zero spoons... iv rediscovered zero! huzzah!
random priest: and all this time i thought the name was a (cruel) coincidence...
ok fine. example (singular). given that "there is no spoon" was in inverted commas, uv got no excuse for *missing* the reference. but for now il leave u to ponder on a few things (namely: how is that a real life situation, and other conundrums) until we continue this epic quest onnnnnnnn...
*dramatic pause*
*still pausing*
whatever the hell u call the next instalment of a completely pointless post!!!
i no, the suspense is killing me too...
* * * * * some time later... * * * * *
so yea. meaning of the spoon. *ahem*
here is an oppurtunity to say many profound things.but dont worry, i wont. the reason i wont is similar to the reason given by douglas adams in "a hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy". for those who havent read it, the circumstances are: two of the main characters have been threatened with the reading of poetry by the group of beings who produce the third worst poetry in the multiverse. they have been strapped into chairs that ghoulishly accentuate the impact of every line:
* * *
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.
"Oh frettled gruntbuggly ..." he began. Spasms wracked Ford's body - this was worse than ever he'd been prepared for.
"... thy micturations are to me | As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee."
"Aaaaaaarggggghhhhhh!" 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.
"Groop I implore thee," continued the merciless Vogon, "my foonting turlingdromes."
His 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!"
"Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggggghhhhh!" 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.
Arthur lolled.
"Now Earthlings ..." whirred the Vogon (he didn't know that Ford Prefect was in fact from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and wouldn't have cared if he had) "I present you with a simple choice! Either die in the vacuum of space, or ..." he paused for melodramatic effect, "tell me how good you thought my poem was!"
He threw himself backwards into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and watched them. He did the smile again.
Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his parched mouth and moaned. Arthur said brightly: "Actually I quite liked it."
Ford turned and gaped. Here was an approach that had quite simply not occurred to him.
The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his nose and was therefore no bad thing.
"Oh good ..." he whirred, in considerable astonishment.
"Oh yes," said Arthur, "I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective."
Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around this totally new concept. Were they really going to be able to bareface their way out of this?
"Yes, do continue ..." invited the Vogon.
"Oh ... and er ... interesting rhythmic devices too," continued Arthur, "which seemed to counterpoint the ... er ... er ..." He floundered.
Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding "counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the ... er ..." He floundered too, but Arthur was ready again.
"... humanity of the ..."
"Vogonity," Ford hissed at him.
"Ah yes, Vogonity (sorry) of the poet's compassionate soul," Arthur felt he was on a home stretch now, "which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other," (he was reaching a triumphant crescendo ...) "and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into ... into ... er ..." (... which suddenly gave out on him.) Ford leaped in with the coup de grace:
"Into whatever it was the poem was about!" he yelled. Out of the corner of his mouth: "Well done, Arthur, that was very good."
* * *
oh, so it all seems good doesnt it, right? you want me to talk about counterpointing the surreal metaphors of the spoon's vogonity now, eh? but look what happens to these poeple:
* * *
The Vogon perused them. For a moment his embittered racial soul had been touched, but he thought no - too little too late. His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon.
"So what you're saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved," he said. He paused. "Is that right?"
Ford laughed a nervous laugh. "Well I mean yes," he said, "don't we all, deep down, you know ... er ..."
The Vogon stood up.
"No, well you're completely wrong," he said, "I just write poetry to throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I'm going to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out!"
* * *
now naturally a spoon will never have the chance to throw you off a ship deep in space, where your doom is assured. but it just goes to show.
show what, you ask?
just show. or maybe there is none. because after all, there is no spoon. | 
