A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, hitchhiking was commonplace.

The following is a pre-Covid 19 tale, which would explain the unsettling naiveté. The social distancing exemplified is pure happenstance and not mandated by law. Sadly, stupidity remains consistent through crisis as well as normal times.

And now:

The Galaxy’s Guide To The Hitchhiker

He glared at his stupid hitchhiking thumb for sixteen long minutes and finally blurted, “You stupid, stupid worthless son of a bitch hitchhiking thumb.”

He meant it. For the first time “ever” in his imbecilic existence, he heard his own words. It was not good; it sucked. Truth was proving to be that asshole who borrowed a lot of money at a premium high interest rate to buy scratch off lottery tickets.

Perhaps, and most likely, probably, it was he, Edmund Plummington, who was the stupid, stupid one. For by the definition of anatomy, isn’t his thumb merely a part of himself?

Instead of flowing down the logical course of self-realization, followed shortly by self-devastation, he pondered, index finger held up to his chapped pursed lips. His stare occupied by the empty road he had just travelled. Somewhere, back there, his piece of crap car, hood up, spewing radiator steam, exhaling life, dying, not unlike Edmund himself.

This was surely a ponderous moment. He threw back his head and screamed in absolute agony, “You stupid, stupid thumb. I will bite you off, spit you into the wind, and stomp you into the ground with my vengeful heel.”

An eerie sound emerged from Edmund’s stomach. It was the audible gulp of his liver, for it knew it was next.