Der Kugelschreiber hat Geburtstag



heute in SWR 1 gehört: Der Kugelschreiber wird 65 Jahre alt und darf noch nicht Rente. Und da hat eine befragte Hörerin doch gesagt - ich zitiere - "...bei den Kugelschreiberbenutzern herrscht Kommunismus". das heißt übersetzt, daß es sich dabei um Gesellschaftseigentum handelt....das erklärt den Umstand, daß abends nach einem anstrengenden Arbeitstag meist kein einziger Kuli mehr auf meinem Schreibtisch liegt. Geht es Euch auch so?

Auf jeden Fall herzlichen Glückwunsch an den Kugelschreiber

es grüßt Dieter

Gerald Lehr




Die Kugelschreibertheorie ist eine Verschwörungstheorie, die Fiet Vujagig, ein Student der Universität von Maximegalon, aufgestellt hat. Die Theorie besagt, dass alle Kugelschreiber, die plötzlich unauffindbar verschwinden, sich in einem unbeaufsichtigten Moment auf die Reise zu einem kugelschreiberoiden Planeten machen, um dann dort zu leben. Fiet Vujagig behauptet weiter, diesen Planeten gefunden zu haben und eine Zeitlang als Fahrer einer kleinen Kugelschreiberfamilie gearbeitet zu haben. Wie das alles mit Zaphod Beeblebrox' äußerst lukrativem Geschäft mit gebrauchten Kugelschreibern zusammenhängt, wird im Anhalter nicht ausführlich beschrieben.

Ich glaube fest an diese Theorie und sage in jedem Fall 42 :D


Gerald Lehr schrieb:
Ich glaube fest an diese Theorie und sage in jedem Fall 42 :D


nicht 42 solltest Du sagen, sondern 65 :D

obwohl, über ein geschöntes Alter freut sich doch fast jeder.

es grüßt Dieter


Und wie ist es mit den Zahnstochern??? Die finde ich noch besser:


His house was certainly peculiar...It was inside the extent that they had to park on the carpet. All along what one would normally call the outer wall, which was decorated in a tasteful interior-designed pink, were bookshelves, also a couple of those odd three-legged tables with semi-circular tops which stand in such a way as to suggest that someone just dropped the wall straight through them, and pictures which were clearly designed to soothe.

Where it got really odd was the roof.

It folded back on itself like something that Maurits C. Escher, had he been given to hard nights on the town, which is no part of this narrative's purpose to suggest was the case, though it is sometimes hard, looking at his pictures, particularly the one with the awkward steps, not to wonder, might have dreamed up after having been on one, for the little chandeliers which should have been hanging inside were on the outside pointing up.


The sign above the front door said, "Come Outside", and so, nervously, they had.

Inside, of course, was where the Outside was. Rough brickwork, nicely done painting, guttering in good repair, a garden path, a couple of small trees, some rooms leading off.
"Here," said Wonko the Sane, "we are outside the Asylum." He pointed again at the rough brickwork, the pointing and the guttering. "Go through that door," he pointed at the first door through which they had originally entered, "and you go into the Asylum. I've tried to decorate it nicely to keep the inmates happy, but there's very little one can do. I never go in there now myself. If ever I am tempted, which these days I rarely am, I simply look at the sign written over the door and shy away."

"That one?" said Fenchurch, pointing, rather puzzled, at a blue plaque with some instructions written on it.

"Yes. They are the words that finally turned me into the hermit I have now become. It was quite sudden. I saw them, and I knew what I had to do."

The sign said:

Hold stick near centre of its length. Moisten pointed end in mouth. insert in tooth space, blunt end next to gum. Use gentle in-out motion.

"It seemed to me," said Wonko the sane, "that any civilization that had so far lost its head as to need to include a set of detailed instructions for use in a packet of toothpicks, was no longer a civilization in which I could live and stay sane."

He gazed out at the Pacific again, as if daring it to rave and gibber at him, but it lay there calmly and played with the sandpipers.

"And in case it crossed your mind to wonder, as I can see how it possibly might, I am completely sane. Which is why I call myself Wonko the Sane, just to reassure people on this point. Wonko is what my mother called me when I was a kid and clumsy and knocked things over, and sane is what I am, and how," he added, with one of his smiles that made you feel, "Oh. Well that's all right then." "I intend to remain. Shall we go on to the beach and see what we have to talk about?"


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