Well kids, check this out.
Amazon will sell you ebooks to teach you how to to cancel your Amazon Prime membership. I guess for people who don’t know how to use Google.
Wow, that’s pretty clever. Let’s say you are part of the unwashed horde overwhelming our borders. Just think how convenient this is:
- First off they steal your $2/hr tomato picking job.
- Then they sell you drugs.
- While you’re high, they rape you.
- Afterwards they murder you, and take the rest of your stuff.
- Then they steal a car, go downtown and vote for democrats using your voter id.
- After that they do some more raping and murdering, they go collect thousands, if not millions, of dollars that we hand out to everyone on SNAP. You know how rich all those people are as a result.
- …and they spend it all on Taco Trucks.
The horrible truth must be told!
Imagine the power we could generate with a Bacon / Anti-Bacon collider!
Meanwhile…
If Holly Hobby had a hobby, what would Holly Hobby hobby?
…and if she had a Hobby Lobby…?
With one arm he had me shoved against the bulkhead and with the other he held the shiv uncomfortably close to my throat. “You are going to help me get to that supply ship? Or…”
“Or what?” I hissed through clenched teeth. He dropped his arms and stepped back . “Or you’re never getting your chocolate bars, smart guy.”
I looked out the porthole towards the mid-flight supply ship appearing to float serenely a bare 100 meters off the bow as we slowly rotated to maintain an appearance of gravity.
“You, are nucking futz you nucking futzer!” My mind spun crazy, the Captain, Trilla, that space-mad fat bastard and now my chocolate. “There’s two things that fat bastard on that ship doesn’t need is oxygen and my swutting potato chips!” Smith punched the bulkhead with a fist. “let’s get busy.”.
I never thought I’d be desperate for chocolate on a Mars mission, but I’d never met a woman like Trilla. It started innocently enough. How she snuck that perfume on board I’ll never now, or maybe that’s her natural scent? Maybe we all mutated after that burst of solar rays. Space Force uniforms do their best make us as unattractive to each other as possible, but after that week when the coolers were FUBAR we got used to sitting around in our sweaty underwear day after day.
Then she ran out of the last of her Toblerone supply, months too early. Soon after that she noticed how I was looking at her. “Hey boy…” That’s how it really started. Wasn’t long before we were trading kisses for Hershey’s Kisses. Then a couple of times sharing the zero-gee shower and she had tapped me out in more ways than one.
Sound ridiculous? Spend a couple months eating carrots and carrots and carrots in our cramped galley that still smells of gym socks after the dish washer exploded and filled the vent shafts with dirty water, and believe me, you’ll be ready for a pick me up.
Meanwhile….
Lacking it’s own rotation, supply ship Shackleton Jr had become a dangerous place to be. At least that’s what I told them. Right, Navigator? Yes, of course I’m right. I watched that Mars Surfer 3 match course and velocity on the Space Radar. Time for another Lay’s Snack Pak. Mmmmm crunch crunch. They have things for Duke, don’t they Captain? Oh yes they do!
Time passes, painkillers kick in…
The fat man swung a big left hook at me, which left him spinning in the half empty cargo hold, his necklace of human skulls following his trajectory like his stench. Smith held on to a zero gee strap with one hand and the back of my space pants with the other. I clung to the floating cargo container and poked that unwashed blowfish further away from any grip with my metal yard stick.
“Captain and Navigator do not like you! Duke StarVader does not like you!” Raved the fat man as he slowly spun towards the far wall, a blimp smeared with unwashed body grease and chip crumbs. “Jay-zuz, how long do you think he’s been alone here?” Wondered Smith as he pulled me in reach of the cargo ladder. “Long enough to eat the best of our supplies, God knows what he did to get those skulls.” I replied.
The hapless StarVader continued to spin slowly and drift across the bay waving his corpuscular arms and legs with futivity and spouting enough spittle to almost provide propulsion.
“Forget that Space Turd. Let’s get this back to the ship and hidden before Trilla gets off the Captain and he orders refueling.” I smarted at being reminded who on board still had chocolate. “Hey,” he ribbed, “if this space ship’s a-rockin’ don’t come a-knocking!” We slowly slung the bulky container towards the auxiliary cargo dock being careful to avoid the occasional loogie spat out by our raving fat friend.
“Stick it where the solar flares don’t shine, Space Fag!” I growled with anger as we wrestled the thing to the door. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Butt Virgin!” Laughed Smith at my annoyance, and stuck his hand to his forehead shaped in the form of an “L” the intersolar sign for “Loser!” and doing a little dance. That fucktard. I mentally crossed him off my Zarkmas card list.
Back on the Mars Surfer, Smith and I were stuffing snack pack sized bags of Lay’s Classic Potato Chips into every possible corner of our cabins. Just handling them I started to drool. “I’m so farkin’ sick of carrots” I garfed out.
“You and me both buddy.” Rejoined Smith. “If I ever get my hands on the tech who stocked the garden pod with nothing but carrots he’s going to wish he died choking on someone else’s vomit.” He gently caressed one of the chip bags. “Oh sweet baby, make me rich” he crooned.
“Ensign Smith and Ensign Bitters please report to your duty station for Space Manoeuvers” crackled over the ship intercom. “They sure picked the right name for you, Grumpy-Pants!” Chuckled Smith as he smacked me on the back of my head. My face burned, but I needed that chocolate. “Yo… Yo momma!” I stammered ineffectually and we trooped out the door to the command deck.
All gleaming silver metal surfaces and important blinky space lights our command deck of the Mars Surfer glowed with efficiency. Every fake hair on Captain Fucktard’s head was perfect coiled around his crown. As we entered he jabbed a digit at the Space Phone, displaying the pizza-like face of the pimpled and greasy character in the ship next door. The sound was off, but the ranting was evident.
“Crew, what do you make of this? He claims to be a Sovereign Space Citizen and you stole his Space Cookies.” Questioned the captain.
“Well, Captain Sliptard, how could that be while we were all on laundry duty?” I replied, hoping to sound sincere.
The Captain cocked a finger at Trilla. “Science Officer, what do you think of this Space Dip-Derp?” She tucked a stray brown hair behind an ear, clearly still wet from a recent shower. She watched the screen carefully with her, may I say it? Space Boner busting beautiful slightly slanted Asian almond eyes. “Space Madness, Captain. The rest of the crew seems to be missing and he’s demanding double the oxy we were scheduled to drop off while getting our supplies and fuel.”
Smith spoke up. “Captain, mass detectors indicate a, uh, significantly lower cargo load than expected.” Smith cleared his throat. “And where’s the rest of the crew?” The occupants of the command deck traded glances. The bloated man on the screen appeared to be using human skulls as puppets for an animated discussion.
The Captain scratched his nose. “I suppose there’s no volunteers to board and see what he hasn’t eaten?” Silence in the compartment. Seeing blank stares from his crew Captain Sliptard made a command decision. “No cannon fodder on board today? Very well. We’ll use the cargo arm to pull off the fuel we need without boarding and the rest of the trip we’ll be on half-carrot rations until we get to Mars orbit. An audible groan escaped from the crew. “Oh, do I hear some volunteers?” He swung his gaze left and right, clearly nothing doing.
And so, my career as a snack item smuggler began in earnest.
Well here we are. It’s late. Who can be hungry with gas station wine? Your author is snitching my housemate’s fancy cheese and snorking it down with month-old corn tortillas.
None of this is anything to be proud about.
With the Inter-Galactic Homestead Act of 2024, SpaceX and competitors have started launching one-way colony ships out to unclaimed real estate on what we currently think of the outer edges of our solar system.
The colonists are mostly climate refuges from Bangladesh and South Florida who haven’t been allowed into the floating cities like Nuevo New Orleans and New Kalkuta.
https://www.cnn.com/2018/12/17/world/most-distant-solar-system-object/index.html
Boxed it up and buried it in the ground
Boxed it up and buried it in the ground
Burned it up and thrown it away
The girl is away for a few days.
I was supposed to go along, but I couldn’t get the various insurance companies, doctors and pharmacies to fulfill my prescription for Chorizo.
In the meantime I’ve been here, somewhat with the functions, yet clearly declining. It’s like being asked to do The Time Warp, but actually being unclear if you’re actually making any god-damn sense.
Get Frank Miller on the phone!
I’ve got the next epic graphic novel in the pipeline. Here’s the pitch:
The inevitable happens and Donald Trump arrives in Hell. What A Dump! Donald sets out to build a new real estate empire and brags, bullys and lies his way to the top to fight it out with the Devil himself.
Themes:
- How different is Hell from our current world?
- Why are so many of Donald’s associates and various enemies in top positions in Hell’s bureaucracy?
- Is Hell a kind of paradise for the right kind of person?
- What does it take to beat the devil at his own game?
- What is the nature of Evil? Why is one person’s heaven another person’s hell?
- Why can’t Donald find any pants? (a straight ripoff of a running joke in Stig’s Inferno: https://www.templetons.com/ty/stig/)
- Who will win in the end? Classic Satan, or Satan 2.0?
With all the hooplah and hype over block chain and crypto currencies, I wonder if I could start a market for SteveCoin…
That is you give me a dollar, and I give you a random piece of paper on which I e scribbled “Steve owes the bearer a dollar. If you’re lucky he’ll give you more or will do you a favor.”
Of course, these are tradable on the open market for SteveCoin, that is, anyone you want to trade it to for whatever you agree on.
Clearly I should get all fancy and have a serial number on each one so we could have an app that tracks market activity.
Stay tuned!