Fahour - Perhaps your mind is too highly trained?

This script some how seems familiar. I have seen it all before. Another Time, Another Dimension

The  Hitch  Hiker's  Guide  to  the  Galaxy 

Douglas Adams

The hum level in the room suddenly increased as several ancillary bass
driver units, mounted in sedately carved and varnished cabinet speakers
around the room, cut in to give Deep Thought’s voice a little more power.
”All I wanted to say,” bellowed the computer, ”is that my circuits are now
irrevocably committed to calculating the answer to the Ultimate Question of
Life, the Universe, and Everything –” he paused and satisfied himself that
he now had everyone’s attention, before continuing more quietly, ”but the
programme will take me a little while to run.”

Fook glanced impatiently at his watch.

”How long?” he said.

”Seven and a half million years,” said Deep Thought.

Lunkwill and Fook blinked at each other.

”Seven and a half million years . . . !” they cried in chorus.

”Yes,” declaimed Deep Thought, ”I said I’d have to think about it, didn’t
I? And it occurs to me that running a programme like this is bound to create
an enormous amount of popular publicity for the whole area of philosophy
in general.

Everyone’s going to have their own theories about what answer
I’m eventually to come up with, and who better to capitalize on that media
market than you yourself? So long as you can keep disagreeing with each
other violently enough and slagging each other off in the popular press, you
can keep yourself on the gravy train for life. How does that sound?”

The two philosophers gaped at him.

”Bloody hell,” said Majikthise, ”now that is what I call thinking. Here
Vroomfondel, why do we never think of things like that?”

”Dunno,” said Vroomfondel in an awed whisper, ”think our brains must
be too highly trained Majikthise.”

And

Slartibartfast coughed politely.

”Er, excuse me,” he said.

”Yes, thank you Slartibartfast,” said Benji mouse sharply, ”you may go.”
”What? Oh . . . er, very well,” said the old man, slightly taken aback, ”I’ll
just go and get on with some of my fjords then.”

”Ah, well in fact that won’t be necessary,” said Frankie mouse. ”It looks
very much as if we won’t be needing the new Earth any longer.” He swivelled
his pink little eyes. ”Not now that we have found a native of the planet who
was there seconds before it was destroyed.”

”What?” cried Slartibartfast, aghast. ”You can’t mean that! I’ve got a
thousand glaciers poised and ready to roll over Africa!”

”Well perhaps you can take a quick skiing holiday before you dismantle
them,” said Frankie, acidly.

”Skiing holiday!” cried the old man. ”Those glaciers are works of art!
Elegantly sculptured contours, soaring pinnacles of ice, deep majestic ravines!
It would be sacrilege to go skiing on high art!”

”Thank you Slartibartfast,” said Benji firmly. ”That will be all.”

”Yes sir,” said the old man coldly, ”thank you very much. Well, goodbye
Earthman,” he said to Arthur, ”hope the lifestyle comes together.”

With a brief nod to the rest of the company he turned and walked sadly
out of the room.

Arthur stared after him not knowing what to say.

”Now,” said Benji mouse, ”to business.”

Ford and Zaphod clinked their glasses together.

”To business!” they said. ”I beg your pardon?” said Benji.

Ford looked round.

”Sorry, I thought you were proposing a toast,” he said.

The two mice scuttled impatiently around in their glass transports. Fi-
nally they composed themselves, and Benji moved forward to address Arthur.

”Now, Earth creature,” he said, ”the situation we have in effect is this. We have, as you know, been more or less running your planet for the last ten million years in order to find this wretched thing called the Ultimate Question.”

”Why?” said Arthur, sharply.

”No – we already thought of that one,” said Frankie interrupting, ”but it
doesn’t fit the answer. Why? – Forty-Two . . . you see, it doesn’t work.”

”No,” said Arthur, ”I mean why have you been doing it?”

”Oh, I see,” said Frankie. ”Well, eventually just habit I think, to be
brutally honest.

And this is more or less the point – we’re sick to the teeth
with the whole thing, and the prospect of doing it all over again on account
of those whinnet-ridden Vogons quite frankly gives me the screaming heeby
jeebies, you know what I mean?

It was by the merest lucky chance that Benji
and I finished our particular job and left the planet early for a quick holiday,
and have since manipulated our way back to Magrathea by the good offices
of your friends.”

”Magrathea is a gateway back to our own dimension,” put in Benji.
”Since when,” continued his murine colleague, ”we have had an offer of
a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit
back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we’re very much inclined
to take it.”

”I would, wouldn’t you Ford?” said Zaphod promptingly.

”Oh yes,” said Ford, ”jump at it, like a shot.”

Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to.

”But we’ve got to have a product you see,” said Frankie, ”I mean ideally
we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other.”

Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur.

”You see,” he said, ”if they’re just sitting there in the studio looking
very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that they happen to know the
Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, and then eventually have to
admit that in fact it’s Forty-two, then the show’s probably quite short. No
follow-up, you see.”

”We have to have something that sounds good,” said Benji.

”Something that sounds good?” exclaimed Arthur. ”An Ultimate Ques-
tion that sounds good? From a couple of mice?”

The mice bristled.

”Well, I mean, yes idealism, yes the dignity of pure research, yes the
pursuit of truth in all its forms, but there comes a point I’m afraid where
you begin to suspect that if there’s any real truth, it’s that the entire multi-
dimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch
of maniacs.

And if it comes to a choice between spending yet another ten
million years finding that out, and on the other hand just taking the money
and running, then I for one could do with the exercise,” said Frankie.

And now the scam is up.

Fahour has slathered Australia with his creative accounting, it's time to get out the running boots and fuck off.