Aliens Don't Get Stuck In

The Landscape Was Snow And Green Ice On Broken Mountains. These Weren't Old Mountains, Worn Down By Time And Weather And Full Of Gentle Ski Slopes, But Young, Sulky, Adolescent Mountains. They Held Secret Ravines And Merciless Crevices. One Yodel Out Of Place Would Attract, Not The Jolly Echo Of A Lonely Goatherd, But Fifty Tons Of Express-delivery Snow.

They May Have Been Ugly. They May Have Been Evil. But When It Came To Poetry In Motion, The Things Had All The Grace And Coordination Of A Deck-chair.

Technically, The City Of Ankh-morpork Is A Tyranny, Which Is Not Always The Same Thing As A Monarchy, And In Fact Even The Post Of Tyrant Has Been Somewhat Redefined By The Incumbent, Lord Vetinari, As The Only Form Of Democracy That Works. Everyone Is Entitled To Vote, Unless Disqualified By Reason Of Age Or Not Being Lord Vetinari.

No Matter What She Did With Her Hair It Took About Three Minutes For It To Tangle Itself Up Again, Like A Garden Hosepipe In A Shed [which, No Matter How Carefully Coiled, Will Always Uncoil Overnight And Tie The Lawnmower To The Bicycles].

No! Please! I'll Tell You Whatever You Want To Know!" The Man Yelled. "really?" Said Vimes. "what's The Orbital Velocity Of The Moon?" "what?" "oh, You'd Like Something Simpler?