If (and grant me some leeway with spelling, it’s not easy to translate singularly Gooba-Gooba words into phonetically satisfactory English), if thirteen Pharsonic Schmeebadoos purchase a bushel of, um, water. Just call it water. It’s close enough, albeit purple. If thirteen Phar Schmees purchase a bushel of water from me while I’m sitting on the edge of an abyss, gazing out as the two suns of Yar Yar Ten set on opposite sides of the world, and if I think, My God, was my planet just a prison? and then I slip, and fall, and I never hit the bottom, I just keep falling, forever, eventually dying of dehydration in midair, then, since I ran out of time to figure it out on my own, I have three questions for you: What is the scourge of my nights? Who is the love of my life? And, assuming I sold the water at the legally mandated price, how much change is needed in exchange for what translates to English as a revelation?