God morgen, godt folk. I dag har jeg tenkt å si litt om veier. Jeg hater norske veier. De svingete, smale veiene som tiltrekker seg snegle- og porselenssjåfører. Veier som tilsynelatende aldri søker å bringe deg korteste vei mellom A og B, men minst dobler reisetida di. Hovedvei? Europavei? Nei, mer som kjerreveier fra det forrige årtusen.

Jeg har kjørt over 1000km på disse nevnte veiene siden sist, og føler jeg har grunnlag for å uttale meg. Jeg lurer på hva slags folk det er som sitter og tegner det norske veinettet. Grønlandsområdet, og Skien spesielt har jeg dårlig erfaring med. For å være helt ærlig ser jeg for meg at det må være demoner som Crowley (les: «Good Omens» av Terry Prachett og Neil Gaiman) som sitter med et ondskapsfullt glis og gul fråde rundt munnen og tegner disse veiene. Det kan (nesten) ikke være noen annen forklaring:

«Many Phenomena — wars, plagues, sudden audits — have been advanced as evidence for the hidden hand of Satan in the affairs of Man, but whenever students of demonology get together the M25 London orbital motorway is generally agreed to be among the top contenders for Exhibit A. Where they go wrong, of course, is in assuming that the wretched road is evil simply because of the incredible carnage and frustration it engenders every day. In fact, very few people on the face of the planet know that the very shape of the M25 forms the sigil odegra in the language of the Black Priesthood of Ancient Mu, and means «Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds». The thousands of motorists who daily fume their way around its serpentine lengths have the same effect as water on a prayer wheel, grinding out an endless fog of low-grade evil to pollute the metaphysical atmosphere for scores of miles around. It was one of Crowley’s better achievements. It had taken years to achieve, and had involved three computer hacks, two break-ins, one minor bribery and, on one wet night when all else had failed, two hours in a squelchy field shifting the marker pegs a few but occultly incredibly significant meters. When Crowley had watched the first thirty-mile-long tailback he’d experienced the lovely warm feeling of a bad job well done. It had earned him a commendation.»