Discover Top Posts Tagged with #zaford

Hodunk vs. Zaford Showdown

Dad: *Walks in while I’m playing Borderlands 2* Me: Putting an end to a clan war. Dad: Fun. Zaford: They crashed me son’s wake! Me: I crashed the his son’s wake. Hodunk: They burned down our homes! Me: I burned down their homes! Hodunks: Kill them! Zaford: Kill them! Me: Dad? Dad: Keep the drunk Irishmen. They are a lot more fun. Me: Fair enough. Dad: Are we going to kill Hyperion later? Me: After I kill the redneck bacon people.

#borderlands #hodunks #zaford #silliness #gaming #g plays borderlands 2

Two aliens sat at a bar, and no, this is not the beginning of a very bad joke.

If you're imaginative enough, that isn't strictly true, but the humor is purely situational, and the punchline is a bit lacking in forced puns. Such is the way with Life, or at least the lives of these particular aliens, and they find themselves stifling smiles over their drinks at the irony of it all.

Well, one of the aliens does. The other is wearing a shit eating grin that looks like it would better suit a tiger shark.This alien goes by the name Ford Prefect most of the time. He is enjoying his first paid vacation in years with the company of an old, rather intimate, acquaintance. At least, in theory. He's actually staring out the window at a spectacular view with the look of someone who's seen enough vistas exactly the same to be a bit unimpressed by the workmanship that went into this one, and thinking about his current situation as if he's mentally narrating it for a book that would never sell.

Funny thing, reunions. You spend weeks packing, booking tickets, arranging it all so no one notices you leaving the planet without a proper license, and when you check into your hotel, it's nostalgic alright, but not really in a good way. Same gold spandex, same bone-crushing hug to greet you, same talk about the same things. You can't quite decide if you enjoy the familiarity, or if it's just a little too shabby for comfort.

The second alien, who is running no such mental narrative at the moment, is sitting across from Ford in a haphazard sprawl on his seat, a glass of something teal-colored in one hand, chuckling quietly to himself. His name is Zaphod Beeblebrox, and he's just hopped four galaxies to catch up with one of his best pals. He could care less about the four suns setting in the distance, after all, he commissioned them, and is instead trying wholeheartedly to stare a hole into the side of Ford's head to get at his thoughts. He flicks his shades a bit lower on the bridge of his nose, raising one eyebrow and hoping the new look will intensify his stare.

"You've gone native," he says after a long moment, sitting back and slapping the table with a decisive smirk. He calls the waitress over for another round of Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters. "Completely lunatic," he adds after he's thoroughly chatted up the young girl serving them. "I'm three hundred percent certain earth is making you stupid."

Ford spares him a glance and notices that the scar where his second head was for a while is finally starting to fade. "And you still put most hatters to shame," he replied, and polished off his glass with a shudder. "Zarkin' mad. How's the pen business?" He couldn't care less about the pen business. He's heard everything there is to hear about the pen business. He crosses his fingers under the table and hopes Zaphod has finally given up the pen business.

"Man, that's ancient history! I haven't touched a ballpoint in years!" Still had boxes of them piled up in a storeroom somewhere on his ship, but he had not laid hands on a single one. "I'm in accounting now." Insert a set of wobbly air quotes around 'accounting'.

Probably another illegal endeavor, Ford suspected, but then again, he would be genuinely shocked if Zaphod wasn't sticking his nose in something nefarious for once. Still, his shoulders sag in relief. The effects of the drink are still stinging, and he wipes a single tear with the back of his hand and thinks of how pleasant an eyeful of earth's green grass would be right now.

Zaphod is just itching to get the customary diplomacy of drinks on him out of the way, and he's sorely tempted to duck out to check his reflection, or fiddle with the cash register to lighten his tab, or something.

Ford sighs. Zaphod settles for dismantling a watch he found in his pocket a few minutes ago. An Oglaroonian cover of The Times They Are a-Changin' crackles over the radio, and they glance at each other simultaneously, both realizing, also simultaneously, that yes, indeed, they are, and that playful banter over drinks followed by adventures that are seldom remembered in the morning just aren't all that fun anymore. Zaphod laughs and cracks the watch face with a screwdriver, Ford orders another drink, and they don't have to say anything to ascertain that certain things have come to an end at last.