Google Mobile Team’s Matt Waddell has reached a place of distinction. His lyrical tribute to Google Local for mobile on the Google Blog has just replaced Vogon poetry as the third worst in the Universe. Congratulations on the development of a truly difficult skill.
Here’s a couple of the more excruciating stanzas, as found on the Google Blog.
Place Google Local in your hand —
first, you need a data plan.
Your phone must handle Java too.
It helps if it is somewhat new.
To download, here is what you do:
Browse Google dot com slash g-l-m on your desktop.
Tell us ’bout your phone,
and we’ll show you a link to the file in a blink
and you’re ready to start…
I wouldn’t dare expose you to more than this excerpt as the hemorrhaging has only just ceased for myself. And I care about my readers.
Compare this to a bit of Vogon poetry, and you’ll easily see why Waddell’s ode out-stinks them, third only to Grunthos the Flatulent and his “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning,” and Paul Neil Johnstone of Redbridge, England.
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits
On a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon
See if I don’t.
Obviously, the Vogons have been outclassed.
With the help of the Vogon poetry generator, I have attempted to create a poem of my own, hoping to reclaim third place. Here goes:
See, see the Googleable sky
Marvel at its big puce and taupe depths.
Tell me, Matt Waddell do you
Wonder why the possum ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel Googleplexed.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your googladoodlywoo facial growth
That looks like
A moldy cheese.
What’s more, it knows
Your font potting shed
Smells of stuff under Eric Schmidt’s toenails.
Everything under the big Googleable sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm the funk of 40,000 years.
Sincerely submitted with a wink and a poke in the ribs for your approval from your humble servant.
