April Fools Party!

Hi Penguins!

The April Fools Party is now here, even though it was accidentally put on before! Its really great, check out the decorations! But unfortunately he Blue propellor hat (one of my favourite items) came back…Anyway.

The free item is a Blue Propellor Hat which is in the Mine. It came back! 😦

blue-free-item

Check out the Snow Forts, there is a Box Store for members only, check it out on the outside…

box-store

And the inside!

box-store-inside

Chuck snowballs at the screen to paint a picture!

painting

You can buy boxes! Click on the box at the bottom right of the screen or waddle over to the box. Heres what you can buy:

buy

If you buy the Portal Box you can enter a special room! Even non members can enter if you go into a members igloo’s portal box! Check out the Box Dimension:

box-dimension

Also, at the Beacon, there is a teleporting box which teleports you to a random room in Club Penguin!

teleporting

Make sure you waddle around Club Penguin to look at the boxes and decorations around! What do you think of the party? Which rooms do you like? I like the Dojo, Box Store and the Box Dimension the best!

Happy April Fools Day! 😆

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  3. Arthur was still lying in the curve of the floor where he had fallen. He didn’t look up. He just lay panting. In order that some sense of mystery should still be preserved, no revelation will yet be made concerning whose upper arm sustained the bruise. “This is Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council,” the voice continued. “As you will no doubt be aware, the plans for development of the outlying regions of the Galaxy require the building of a hyperspatial express route through your star system, and regrettably your planet is one of those scheduled for demolition. The process will take slightly less that two of your Earth minutes. Thank you.” Scarcely pausing for breath, Vroomfondel shouted, “We don’t demand solid facts! What we demand is a total absence of solid facts. I demand that I may or may not be Vroomfondel!” “Which one?” The barman cleared his throat. He heard himself say: “Because they left their initials burnt into the cauterized synapses. They left them there for me to see.” Their early attempts at composition had been part of bludgeoning insistence that they be accepted as a properly evolved and cultured race, but now the only thing that kept them going was sheer bloodymindedness. “We didn’t enjoy doing that at all,” shouted the other cop. He looked at the old man, his face illuminated by the dull glow of tiny lights on the instrument panel. “Oh, Zaphod, this is a friend of mine, Arthur Dent,” he said, “I saved him when his planet blew up.” First he wiped a couple of windows and charged me a fiver. Then he told me.” “Very probably, I’m afraid,” she said. 15 “Well?” she said. “I suppose you want to see the aliens now,” he said. “Do you want me to sit in a corner and rust, or just fall apart where I’m standing?” “Stop, you vandals! You home wreckers!” bawled Arthur. “You half crazed Visigoths, stop will you!” “Seven and a half million years…!” they cried in chorus. “Ugh!” he said. “There are mice on the table!” Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards.
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    “Why hello there!” they said (ticker tape, ticker tape). “All I want to do is make your day nicer and nicer and nicer…” Zaphod hit him and he shut up. “Welcome,” said Slartibartfast as the tiny speck that was the aircar, travelling now at three times the speed of sound, crept imperceptibly forward into the mindboggling space, “welcome,” he said, “to our factory floor.” Gone.” He paused. Benji considered this for a moment. And so the problem remained; lots of the people were mean, and most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital watches. The voice was annoyed. It said: “For lots of money,” said Zaphod. Zaphod scrambled down into the passage, followed by Trillian and Ford. “Zaphod,” he drawled, “great to see you, you’re looking well, the extra arm suits you. Nice ship you’ve stolen.” “Shut up,” said Zaphod, “and show up the screens.” “Oh no…” “Tell me,” inquired Arthur, “do you get on well with other robots?” Twenty yards away he could dimly see through the smoke the spacesuited figure of one of the cops. He was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. Twenty yards in the other direction lay the second man. No one else was anywhere to be seen. As they approached the ridge of higher ground they became aware that it seemed to be circular — a crater about a hundred and fifty yards wide. The wind stung Arthur’s eyes and ears, and the stale thin air clasped his throat. However, the thing stung most was his mind. “So what you’re saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved,” he said. “A simple one!” wailed Arthur. “Well we are aren’t we?”

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  5. The peculiar man waved a lazy wave at Ford and with an appalling affectation of nonchalance said, “Ford, hi, how are you? Glad you could drop in.” He tossed over The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and then curled himself up into a foetal ball to prepare himself for the jump. “Treated,” said Benji. Ford Prefect’s original name is only pronuncible in an obscure Betelgeusian dialect, now virtually extinct since the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster of Gal./Sid./Year 03758 which wiped out all the old Praxibetel communities on Betelgeuse Seven. Ford’s father was the only man on the entire planet to survive the Great Collapsing Hrung disaster, by an extraordinary coincidence that he was never able satisfactorily to explain. The whole episode is shrouded in deep mystery: in fact no one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven particularly. Ford’s father, magnanimously waving aside the clouds of suspicion that had inevitably settled around him, came to live on Betelgeuse Five where he both fathered and uncled Ford; in memory of his now dead race he christened him in the ancient Praxibetel tongue. “Listen old friend, if you want to…” started Ford eventually. “It’s not as if it’s a particularly nice house,” he said. “Forty-two,” said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm. 29 “You think we’re in trouble!” “Oh yes, we’d have to, no question,” the other one called back. The two mice scuttled impatiently around in their glass transports. Finally they composed themselves, and Benji moved forward to address Arthur. Trillian interrupted. “I’m game,” he said, “we’ll see who rusts first.” “Well, you know, it’s just Everything… Everything…” offered Phouchg weakly. “We’re in the Horsehead Nebula. One whole vast dark cloud.” For a moment it seemed that nothing was happening, then a brightness glowed at the edge of the huge screen. A red star the size of a small plate crept across it followed quickly by another one — a binary system. Then a vast crescent sliced into the corner of the picture — a red glare shading away into the deep black, the night side of the planet. Scarcely pausing for breath, Vroomfondel shouted, “We don’t demand solid facts! What we demand is a total absence of solid facts. I demand that I may or may not be Vroomfondel!” “No, I was only fooling,” said Ford, “we are going to die after all.” But it was not in any way a coincidence that today, the day of culmination of the project, the great day of unveiling, the day that the Heart of Gold was finally to be introduced to a marvelling Galaxy, was also a great day of culmination for Zaphod Beeblebrox. It was for the sake of this day that he had first decided to run for the Presidency, a decision which had sent waves of astonishment throughout the Imperial Galaxy — Zaphod Beeblebrox? President? Not the Zaphod Beeblebrox? “I don’t know,” yelled Ford, “I don’t know. It sounded like a measurement of probability.”
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    “The Great Hyperlobic Omni-Cognate Neutron Wrangler,” said Deep Thought thoroughly rolling the r’s, “could talk all four legs off an Arcturan MegaDonkey — but only I could persuade it to go for a walk afterwards.” Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards. They performed a scampering dance in their excitement. “Oh, just some five-million-year-old tape that’s being broadcast at us.” “And he can’t because you’re lying in front of the bulldozers?” Hurrahs burst from the ecstatic crowd. “Forty-two,” said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm. 29 Trillian interrupted. “I thought you said they were called Vogons or something.” “Well, if you’re resigned to doing that anyway, you don’t actually need him to lie here all the time do you?” At intervals along the walls the tiles gave way to large mosaics — simple angular patterns in bright colours. Trillian stopped and studied one of them but could not interpret any sense in them. She called to Zaphod. Arthur stared round him wildly. A motor whirred. “You press this button here you see and the screen lights up giving you the index.” “Yes well so I expect were the dogs and cats and duckbilled platypuses, but…” And to this end they built themselves a stupendous super computer which was so amazingly intelligent that even before the data banks had been connected up it had started from I think therefore I am and got as far as the existence of rice pudding and income tax before anyone managed to turn it off. “So there you have it,” said Slartibartfast, making a feeble and perfunctory attempt to clear away some of the appalling mess of his study. He picked up a paper from the top of a pile, but then couldn’t think of anywhere else to put it, so he but it back on top of the original pile which promptly fell over. “Deep Thought designed the Earth, we built it and you lived on it.” “Yes,” said Trillian firmly. “Understand that!” shouted Arthur. “Understand that!”

  6. He went back down into the crater. He woke the robot up because even a manically depressed robot is better to talk to than nobody. Trillian burst in through the door from her cabin. “What, are you crazy?” “Yes…!” “Drink up,” said Ford, “you’ve got three pints to get through.” “OK, sure thing, guys,” said the computer. With a subtle roar the engines cut back in, the ship smoothly flattened out of its dive and headed back towards the missiles again. “That man wants to knock my house down!” For instance, at the very moment that Arthur said “I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle,” a freak wormhole opened up in the fabric of the space-time continuum and carried his words far far back in time across almost infinite reaches of space to a distant Galaxy where strange and warlike beings were poised on the brink of frightful interstellar battle. “Dunno, do you want to go and ask them?” Add an olive. “We’re trapped now aren’t we?” “What’s so great about being stuck in a dust cloud?” said Ford. “Who?” “Buzz them?” Arthur began to feel that Ford was enjoying making life difficult for him. “Yeah”, said Ford, “they buzz them. They find some isolated spot with very few people around, then land right by some poor soul whom no one’s ever going to believe and then strut up and down in front of him wearing silly antennae on their heads and making beep beep noises. Rather childish really.” Ford leant back on the mattress with his hands behind his head and looked infuriatingly pleased with himself. Those who study the complex interplay of cause and effect in the history of the Universe say that this sort of thing is going on all the time, but that we are powerless to prevent it. In a few seconds they had disappeared from view. The sweat stood out cold on Ford Prefect’s brow, and slid round the electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of electronic equipment — imagery intensifiers, rhythmic modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dumpers — all designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the poet’s thought was lost. The flash came again, and this time there could be no doubt. He glanced round at the others.
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    Zaphod Beeblebrox paced nervously up and down the cabin, brushing his hands over pieces of gleaming equipment and giggling with excitement. The car shot forward straight into the circle of light, and suddenly Arthur had a fairly clear idea of what infinity looked like. They both licked their dry lips. Fook glanced impatiently at his watch. She sighed and punched up a star map on the visiscreen so she could make it simple for him, whatever his reasons for wanting it to be that way. “Yes, but apart from that.” “Marvin!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing?” “What’s the problem?” said Lunkwill. “And then I’ll do it again!” yelled Arthur. “And when I’ve finished I will take all the little bits, and I will jump on them!” The principle of generating small amounts of finite improbability by simply hooking the logic circuits of a Bambleweeny 57 SubMeson Brain to an atomic vector plotter suspended in a strong Brownian Motion producer (say a nice hot cup of tea) were of course well understood — and such generators were often used to break the ice at parties by making all the molecules in the hostess’s undergarments leap simultaneously one foot to the left, in accordance with the Theory of Indeterminacy. “Don’t blame you,” said Marvin and counted five hundred and ninetyseven thousand million sheep before falling asleep again a second later. “Look,” said Ford, “you reckon this is Magrathea…” The Vogon guard dragged them on. He gestured Arthur towards a chair which looked as if it had been made out of the rib cage of a stegosaurus. The only person for whom the house was in any way special was Arthur Dent, and that was only because it happened to be the one he lived in. He had lived in it for about three years, ever since he had moved out of London because it made him nervous and irritable. He was about thirty as well, dark haired and neverquite at ease with himself. The thing that used to worry him most was the fact that people always used to ask him what he was looking so worried about. He worked in local radio which he always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than they probably thought. It was, too — most of his friends worked in advertising. Somewhere on the wall a small white light flashed. “Why?” It is possible that her remark would have commanded greater attention had it been generally realized that human beings were only the third most intelligent life form present on the planet Earth, instead of (as was generally thought by most independent observers) the second. And to this end they built themselves a stupendous super computer which was so amazingly intelligent that even before the data banks had been connected up it had started from I think therefore I am and got as far as the existence of rice pudding and income tax before anyone managed to turn it off.

  7. Stomping around, shouting, pushing people out of spaceships…” “My name is not important,” he said. Ford shouted out, “Hey listen! I think we’ve got enough problems on our own having you shooting at us, so if you could avoid laying your problems on us as well, I think we’d all find it easier to cope!” The voice snapped off. A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitch hiker can have. Partly it has great practical value — you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-tohand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you — daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough. A small voice said, “Welcome to lunch, Earth creature.” It’s a big effort to talk about it.” Silently the aircar coasted through the cold darkness, a single soft glow of light that was utterly alone in the deep Magrathean night. It sped swiftly. Arthur’s companion seemed sunk in his own thoughts, and when Arthur tried on a couple of occasions to engage him in conversation again he would simply reply by asking if he was comfortable enough, and then left it at that. “What computer is this of which you speak?” he asked. Everyone beamed at him, or, at least, nearly everyone. He singled out Trillian from the crowd. Trillian was a gird that Zaphod had picked up recently whilst visiting a planet, just for fun, incognito. She was slim, darkish, humanoid, with long waves of black hair, a full mouth, an odd little nob of a nose and ridiculously brown eyes. With her red head scarf knotted in that particular way and her long flowing silky brown dress she looked vaguely Arabic. Not that anyone there had ever heard of an Arab of course. The Arabs had very recently ceased to exist, and even when they had existed they were five hundred thousand light years from Damogran. Trillian wasn’t anybody in particular, or so Zaphod claimed. She just went around with him rather a lot and told him what she thought of him. “Hey,” he cooed to himself, “you’re a real cool boy you.” But his nerves sang a song shriller than a dog whistle. The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy sells rather better than the Encyclopedia Galactica. “How soon can we get off it?” Several large desk panels slid open and banks of control consoles sprang up out of them, showering the crew with bits of expanded polystyrene packaging and balls of rolled-up cellophane: these controls had never been used before. “We’ve arrived at another of those doors.” He experienced a moment’s panic as he sailed straight through towards the window, which passed when a second or so later he found he had gone right through the solid glass without apparently touching it. This struck Ford as being extremely odd. “Meanwhile, the poor Babel fish, by effectively removing all barriers to communication between different races and cultures, has caused more and bloddier wars than anything else in the history of creation.” “Does that matter at this stage?” shouted Arthur.
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    “Ancient history,” said Ford, “when we were kids together on Betelgeuse. The Arcturan megafreighters used to carry most of the bulky trade between the Galactic Centre and the outlying regions The Betelgeuse trading scouts used to find the markets and the Arcturans would supply them. There was a lot of trouble with space pirates before they were wiped out in the Dordellis wars, and the megafreighters had to be equipped with the most fantastic defence shields known to Galactic science. They were real brutes of ships, and huge. In orbit round a planet they would eclipse the sun. Benji considered this for a moment. “I thought,” he said, “that if the world was going to end we were meant to lie down or put a paper bag over our head or something.” “But why?” The other two nodded in agreement. Ford Prefect’s original name is only pronuncible in an obscure Betelgeusian dialect, now virtually extinct since the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster of Gal./Sid./Year 03758 which wiped out all the old Praxibetel communities on Betelgeuse Seven. Ford’s father was the only man on the entire planet to survive the Great Collapsing Hrung disaster, by an extraordinary coincidence that he was never able satisfactorily to explain. The whole episode is shrouded in deep mystery: in fact no one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven particularly. Ford’s father, magnanimously waving aside the clouds of suspicion that had inevitably settled around him, came to live on Betelgeuse Five where he both fathered and uncled Ford; in memory of his now dead race he christened him in the ancient Praxibetel tongue. Many men of course became extremely rich, but this was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of because no one was really poor — at least no one worth speaking of. And for all the richest and most successful merchants life inevitably became rather dull and niggly, and they began to imagine that this was therefore the fault of the worlds they’d settled on — none of them was entirely satisfactory: either the climate wasn’t quite right in the later part of the afternoon, or the day was half an hour too long, or the sea was exactly the wrong shade of pink. “Can you fly her?” asked Ford pleasantly. “Alright,” said Ford, “I’ll try to explain. How long have we known each other?” “I beg your pardon?” said the old man mildly. Finally: “No,” he said firmly. The aircar was empty, but Arthur recognized it as belonging to Slartibartfast. The pub was silent for a moment longer, and then, embarrassingly enough, the man with the raucous laugh did it again. The girl he had dragged along to the pub with him had grown to loathe him dearly over the last hour or so, and it would probably have been a great satisfaction to her to know that in a minute and a half or so he would suddenly evaporate into a whiff of hydrogen, ozone and carbon monoxide. However, when the moment came she would be too busy evaporating herself to notice it. “Now?” “Into whatever it was the poem was about!” he yelled. Out of the corner of his mouth: “Well done, Arthur, that was very good.” The others followed quickly and the door slit back into place with pleased little clicks and whirrs. “That is but the first half of the story Earthman,” said the old man. “Haaaauuurrgghhh…” said Arthur as he felt his body softening and bending in unusual directions. “Southend seems to be melting away… “Am I?” said Arthur, rather startled. “Oh good.”

  8. “Treated,” said Benji. Bulges appeared in the fabric of space-time. Great ugly bulges. Whatever it was raced across the sky in monstrous yellowness, tore the sky apart with mind-buggering noise and leapt off into the distance leaving the gaping air to shut behind it with a bang that drove your ears six feet into your skull. “You don’t need to. Just put that fish in your ear.” “What are you talking about?” said Arthur, but Ford nudged him with his shoe to be quiet. “The couple of guys we picked up.” “And the Vogons came and destroyed it five minutes before the program was completed,” added Arthur, not unbitterly. Arthur’s voice tailed off. “I mean, don’t you have any inkling of the reasons for all this?” asked Ford. He got no further before the ship’s intercom buzzed into life. The barman reeled for a moment, hit by a shocking, incomprehensible sense of distance. He didn’t know what it meant, but he looked at Ford Prefect with a new sense of respect, almost awe. The Universe jumped, froze, quivered and splayed out in several unexpected directions. “Aaaaaaarggggghhhhhh!” went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back as lumps of pain thumped through it. He could dimly see beside him Arthur lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his teeth. Arthur felt extraordinarily lonely stuck up in the air above it all without so much as a body to his name, but before he had time to reflect on this a voice rang out across the square and called for everyone’s attention. “And stop talking,” said Zaphod, “it’s hard enough trying to sleep anyway. What’s the matter with the ground? It’s all cold and hard.” “Then what’s happened to the missiles?” he said. “A five-week sand blizzard?” said Deep Thought haughtily. “You ask this of me who have contemplated the very vectors of the atoms in the Big Bang itself? Molest me not with this pocket calculator stuff.” They had swung round now on to a direct homing course so that all that could be seen of them now was the warheads, head on. “No,” said the guard, “not really. But I’ll mention it to my aunt.”
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    “Terribly unfortunate,” he said, “a diode blew in one of the life-support computers. When we tried to revive our cleaning staff we discovered they’d been dead for nearly thirty thousand years. Who’s going to clear away the bodies, that’s what I want to know. Look why don’t you sit yourself down over there and let me plug you in?” “I’ve found it!” cried Zaphod, thumping the console. “I’ve found it!” Arthur stared round him wildly. “No no, good heavens no,” exclaimed the old man, “no, the Galaxy isn’t nearly rich enough to support us yet. No, we’ve been awakened to perform just one extraordinary commission for very… special clients from another dimension. It may interest you… there in the distance in front of us.” Now. We’ll go to the pub in the village.” You want to check your legal position you do mate. Under law the Quest for Ultimate Truth is quite clearly the inalienable prerogative of your working thinkers. Any bloody machine goes and actually finds it and we’re straight out of a job aren’t we? I mean what’s the use of our sitting up half the night arguing that there may or may not be a God if this machine only goes and gives us his bleeding phone number the next morning?” “What!” shouted Ford. “Yeah? Worth interrupting a news bulletin about me for?” “Ford!” he said, “there’s an infinite number of monkeys outside who want to talk to us about this script for Hamlet they’ve worked out.” 11 “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.” Zaphod glanced away from the mirror screens which presented a panoramic view of the blighted landscape on which the Heart of Gold had now landed. Do you know?” He turned hopelessly on his heel and lugged himself out of the cabin. “That’s it,” said Zaphod with the sort of grin that would get most people locked away in a room with soft walls. The Encyclopaedia Galactica defines a robot as a mechanical apparatus designed to do the work of a man. The marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation defines a robot as “Your Plastic Pal Who’s Fun To Be With.” The pink cubicle had winked out of existence, the monkeys had sunk away to a better dimension. Ford and Arthur found themselves in the embarkation area of the ship. It was rather smart. “We didn’t wake you earlier,” said Trillian. “The last planet was knee deep in fish.” Add an olive. He twisted the wheel sharply, the boat slewed round in a wild scything skid beneath the cliff face and dropped to rest lightly on the rocking waves.

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