Tag Archives: Space

Do Not Tell Me The Sky Is The Limit Because I Am An Astronaut

By An Astronaut

You will stop right there when you are addressing me. I have come out into this vile café for peace. Perhaps I expected a request for an autograph, perhaps I expected adoration, perhaps I even expected some respect, but I have received neither, and especially not from you. “The Sky Is The Limit”? Is this paltry expression your attempt at positive reassurance? Do you even know who I am?

Let me explain something to you, fool.

Screen Shot 2017-03-12 at 2.50.49 PM
Yes, you. I am talking to you, do not deny this any longer.

I am the one who goes into space. It is me. It is likely that you are not familiar with the demands of my profession, so I will construct for you a quick lesson.

We live on the earth. It is round and stinky and full of bugs.

Above the earth is the sky, where great winged beasts build houses out of small dogs they stole from suburban back yards, and where God’s little feet rest when they are being tired.

Are you following me so far?

Above this sky, is a place where titans play games. A place where big honchos like me go to score some space meat, where throbbing rockets dance across the primordial plane and fondle the genitalia of constellations that small, small children like you have stared at your whole lives. A place where fleshbags like me become gods.

Constellations
This is the place where I do my bidding. The stars are my home, my lovers, my friends. And you? You stay stuck to a wall, slurping little bugs, little rodents, as they pass across your vile paper visage.

This locale is known as “Space”, you ignorant dog, and it is well above the confines of the meager sky. I go here while you sit sucking on your little thumb. I go here while Elon Musk strokes his rigid dome into a stock photo of the Martian moons. I go here while all the world lays sleeping, dreaming of being as radiant as me.

I am The One Who Dares Explore The Unknown. I am bound by no limits of the sky and its beasts, its doghouses, its godly feet. I am an Astronaut, you fell swine, and I demand respect. I am the mother of science, the very teat upon which the rest of the human race suckles. I am the hope for the future, the divine, the inimitable ‘Naut (this is what my friends call me) who holds, in his hands, the ability to shape the fate of all time and space. I am a god among men, and you, you are just a stupid poster.

So the next time you dare tell me the sky is the limit, just remember that when you look up at the stars I will be staring down at you. I will collect all the spit into a ball between my teeth and drench you with my mouth juice from so very far away. It will take a long time to get there. It may not all be intact. It may be frozen from the vacuum of space. But I will drench you, and upon this wettening, you will know that you have caused me extreme offense.

Choose Your Own Fucking Adventure: Space Edition!

By Veronica Toone

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

Were back, babies! You thought this shit would taper off? You thought we were done with the ol CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE SECTION? I wish. But Ive been recruited by the fabled High Council to tell you all a SICK SPACE EPIC. Were continuing on a seemingly endless journey. The immolation of all ecosystems is at hand. I miss my kids.

Mama Jonithats mewill be your, quite frankly, underpaid guide today. So strap in, adjust your HELMETS and get your motherfucking TANG ready to go, because were gonna all up and venture where no man has ever dared to tread: space, the LAST FRONTIER. (I cant say final: Mama Joni likes to follow copyright law.)

Thats right, kiddies: this weeks adventure is:

Literal Outer Space.

 

START HERE! The year is 2689. You and your crew of ASTRONAUT PEEPS are gathered on board the Omnibus, a great big ol rocket whose name will not be mentioned again. CHRISTOPHER KRISTOFFERSON, your commander, approaches your teeny squadron. His eyes lock on you and you feel the dark-coffee heat of lust somewhere just below your hairline. Gentlemen, ladies, and those that transcend primal human gender binary, he barks. Were beginning our descent into the Karrian system. Well reach Parlius in T minus twenty minutes. Remember your mission. Are you ready to jump? His strong jaw twitches with anticipation, and something in your LOWER INTESTINE twitches with something else. Kristofferson is one hell of a pilot, and one hell of a man. The broccoli in his teeth forces you out of your fantasy and redirects your attention to the FLIGHT SUIT on the wall. Do you jump?

If you choose to jump, go to PARAGRAPH 3.

If you choose not to jump, go to PARAGRAPH 2.

PARAGRAPH 2: You look Kristofferson directly in his rugged, tasty, face and swallow your humility in favor of looking like a grizzled veteran space traveler. You stay in your seat as your squadron adorns their flight suits.

Sir, you say, I dont think Im ready. Perhaps I should stay on the ship?

Perhaps you should do your goddamn job, Soldier. Go back to your quarters, youre on latrine duty for the next 12 star-days. No food, either: have fun being hungry. Also, Im fucking your sister,” said Kristofferson.

You got demoted. Your sister got fucked. Go back to START. Did you even go through basic training?

PARAGRAPH 3: You look Kristofferson directly in his rugged tasty face and swallow your pride in favor of looking like youre a good little soldier who went through basic training, and knows at the very least how to do your goddamn job. Yes Sir, ready to be doing the jumping on your go, Sir. What? You turn your head and briskly approach the hatch before he can reply. Just adorn your flight suit, you awkward fuck. Mama Joni hopes your communication skills improve over the course of this choose your own adventure. The hatch openstake your last breath of artificial air. 32did you remember your oxygen tank?1. You drop out of the hatch and float down to Parlius, home of the Hareenians, a misunderstood and slightly-below-average-intelligence alien race whose name Mama Joni pulled outta her ass, and also will not be mentioned again. You change into your alternate outfit [flight suit now equipped!) and begin walking through a SICKASS ALIEN FOREST. Eventually you come to a fork in the road.

If you choose to go left, go to PARAGRAPH 4.

If you choose to go right, go to PARAGRAPH 5.

PARAGRAPH 4: You decide to go left, because right is always wrong, and you walk through said Sickass Alien Forest for what feels like star-weeks. (I just like putting star before actual increments of Earth time, welcome to space.) Eventually you reach the FABLED ALIEN CITY OF KAREEFER, home of thewhat were they called? Whatever, doesnt matterand look around you in wonder. You seem to blend in with the race of suspiciously-humanoid, fairly below-average-looking creatures that would never be so observant as to not notice a literal alien walking among them. You ask one of the aliens where the royal palace is, and they answer you in a language you do not understand. Shit! You didnt think to read up on the local language, did you? What are you gonna do now?

If you decide to just wander around, go to PARAGRAPH 6.

If you decide you want to try and talk back to the alien, go to PARAGRAPH 7.

PARAGRAPH 5: You should know by now that one of these is gonna lead you to death, right? I cant fill up too much space. Listen, you can think of Mama Joni more like a better-looking, cookie-baking Jiminy Cricket here, honey: youre the one that has to make the decisions. Anyway, you go andI dont know, dude. You go to the right and meet a PISSED OFF ALIEN who just blows your goddamn brains out. This magazine is free, isnt it? Youre not wasting any money on this?

YOU DIED. Go back to the beginning. Life is meaningless.

PARAGRAPH 6: Always polite, you say the only phrase you know in the language that these things happen to speak: reéairot quinoh. The alien looks mildly offended as you walk away, and you realize that you told them you might have fucked a dog once. Whatever, its not like you were invited to their Whiega feast or anything. (Im trying my best, Im the DM, these are made up words.) You round the corner and enter the CENTER OF TOWN. The aliens, whose species name escapes me right now, are watching you. You look past a square building at the ROYAL PALACE. Its big ay-eff. Your mission was clear from the beginning, even though I may or may not have mentioned it: you are Earths sole ambassador on this weird planet, and you have to talk to their weird king so they wont blow up your shit. You go to the town square and look up at the BIG ASS STATUE of one of these, uh, extraterrestrials.

If you decide to ignore the statue and hail a Space Cab, go to the LAZY ENDING.

If you decide to ask for a picture with the statue, go to PARAGRAPH 9.

PARAGRAPH 7: To your untrained human listening apparatuses, this whatever-theyre-called said something along the lines of: Bahaké treiej. You look her dead in her face: she is tall, taller than you, and is dense with muscle. Her face looks like a cross between Steve Buscemi and Scarlett Johansson. Take a second and try to visualize that shit. Oh, Im sorryuheloch gah more-own-a, you say. She gasps and slaps across the face. I speak English, she says as she goes on her way. And Im at a very healthy weight, thank you. Earth trash.

Wow, insulting a young aliens appearance. Way to go. Bet you feel like a real asshole, huh? Go back to Paragraph 4. You make me sick.

PARAGRAPH 8: Skip this. Go to Paragraph 9. I just need to have a number 8 here. Dont read this: this is for me and me alone. Remember to take your clothes out of the dryer. Remember to take your clothes out of the dryer. Doo dee doo doo doot.

PARAGRAPH 9: You give your ANTIQUATED EARTH PICTURE-TAKING APPARATUS to a passing alien. Hey, can you get a picture of me with this bomb-ass statue? The alien looks at you in confusion, but after putting the camera in their little ol grubby hands, they seem to understand. They brush their hand to the sideget closer. You put your hand on the statue and it CRUMBLES INTO PIECES IMMEDIATELY. You and the alien stare in horror: what have you done? Youre supposed to be Earths sole ambassador, grade-A dumb shit. And you destroyed the statue. Its broken. And you did that.

Go to the REAL ENDING.

LAZY ENDING: You ignore the statue and hail a Space Cab and the driver shoots you in the fucking neck. Go away.

REAL ENDING: More aliens crowd around you, shouting obscenities in their native tongue. You try to defend yourself, saying it was an accident, and finally an alien steps forward. She speaks to you in English. Alien, she says, you have destroyed the great Statue of Ganja. You must appear before the High Court, where your fate will be judged by a judge. The SPACE PO-PO arrive and put handcuffs on you, and off youre carted to SPACE COURT. Space Court is a lot like regular court, except everyone isyou know what? This is my world. I do what I want, and you destroyed a statue. So you have to appear NUDE before the High Council and all the jurors are aiming LASER GUNS right at your dumb fucking forehead. The judge rules you guilty, and you remember that when you are found guilty in Space Court, all the jurors get to just blast their little ol lasers at you whenever they see fit, because you ruined their shit and now you deserve it. Perhaps you would have been better off in the Space Cab, huh? Ha ha.

YOU GET DRAGGED OFF TO SPACE JAIL AND ARE SENTENCED FOUR AND A HALF INTERPLANETARY CYCLES. YOURE OVER. YOURE CANCELLED.

An Open Letter to the 10 Exceptional Asteroids that I Once Loved

2001: A Space Odyssey Online

Ben Fletcher in 797 words on December 6th, 2016

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

1. Hygiea

You were there for me when my back was against the wall. You’ve seen me at my worst and at my best, and you never hesitated to pick me up when I was down. Those were the good times, until we floated apart. You weren’t the biggest and maybe not the most exceptional asteroid that I’ve known but goddamn it, you were exactly the 503 by 407 by 370 in Kilometers that I needed in the summer of 1849. I miss you Hygiea, I hope you’re doing well.

2. Hektor

You were like a father figure to me. I learned so much from you, my daddy Hektor with a K. Is that German or Russian? You still never told me. I tried to get a read on you, but I could never seem to get past your craterous frame. But I know, I just know underneath that hulking, rocky exterior, there is more rock. God I wish you were my Dad instead of an asteroid.

3. Bamberga

Hey Bam. It’s been 3 years since I’ve stopped chugging cough syrup like you asked. But now I can’t shake the feeling of wanting to start up again, because I can’t get any rest without you baby. You let Johann Palisa discover you instead of discovering yourself like you said you wanted to. I wish you would come back. I’ll be here. You know where to find me.

4. Doris

You were trusting, caring, loving, and always down to do anal. I don’t think I’ll ever meet another asteroid like you. Mostly because of the anal thing. Out of all the asteroids I’ve dated, you’re the only one with a butthole. I’m still confused as to how that got there, but I’m not complaining. Sorry I got you evicted for causing quite the ruckus during the anal. You just put the ass in asteroid baby ;P XDDDDD

5. Pallas

I have nothing more to say to you. I hope you and Melvin are doing well you cheater. Give me back my Across The Universe DVD.

6. Hebe

I found that tree we scratched our initials on 3 winters ago. You remember, the tall birch with the green leaves? Yeah, that one. It brought back good memories, but also reminded me why we’re not together anymore. You told me you wanted space, but I didn’t think you actually meant you were going to abscond back into the god damn solar system without even so much as a “goodbye”. My eyes begin to water just thinking about it. We could’ve had it all Hebe, now I just have the hebejeebees.

7. Metis

“1st battalion, shake a tower! Large enough to crush the axis power!!” Oh boy, Metis my man, remember that nursery rhyme of a battle cry? Haha I still to this day have no idea what it means. Something to do with pooping? Oh boy, our days in the service were wild. Sgt. was always getting on our asses for not saying it loud enough, but would never bother to explain it! But we sure did take it to those damn Nazis didn’t we brother?! We should get together some time and play backgammon like we used to back in the day. Tell Irene and the kids I said seasons greetings.

8. Diotima

Tell our son Nelson I’ll be by to pick him up in a few hours. We’re gonna go to the zoo and when he asks good ol’ Dad what the gorillas are called, I’m going to say “There called Diotima’s lil’ buddy,” and he’s going to say “Isn’t that mommy’s name?” and I’m going to say “Yep, they were actually named after she became the cantankerous whore that is your mother and decided that Daddy couldn’t go out gambling on a Tuesday and waste the rent money on Ultimate Texas Hold’em because he FUCKING KNOWS if he just gets one good hand we could finally afford a pool table. You fucking tell her that Nelson!!” That’s what I’m gonna say. I’ll be there after lunch.

9. Aletheia

You taught me how to knit, how to change a tire, and how to read. I don’t know where I would be right now if I didn’t know how to read because of you Aletheia. You made my world brighter, and occasionally darker when you covered up the sun. I should’ve been more attentive when I cooked for you. How was I supposed to know you had a gluten allergy? What part of your craggy, jagged body needs to process gluten?? Again, I’m sorry, but you should’ve told me first.

10. Ceres

Babe, you were hands down, 10/10, the absolute THICKEST babe I have ever laid my grubby little mitts on. I can’t think of anyone else that treated my wiener the way you did. I know that we’ve grown apart ever sense I moved away, but I promise you, there is nobody else I would be proud to call my mother.

A Day in the Life of Elon Musk

By Toby Jaffe

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

 

6:00 AM SHARP Wake up, wake all the way up. Nothing can stop me.

6:02 I’M ALL THE WAY UP.

6:04 Dance to some pre-released trap shit in my cotton choo-choo decorated PJs for a few. Flail melodiously to the beat.

6:07 Boot up the ol’ Ipad and record.

6:09 Undress sexily. Stroke my naughty bits.

6:11 Bathe in hydroponic aquaporin and red wine, scooping both astounding liquids with only the tallest of Bordeaux glasses.

6:35 Sip a bit.

7:01 Stare into the mirror. Shave. Comb. Flirt coyly with a friendly hair flip.

7:05 Remain undressed, except for my delightful silk robe.

7:20 Milk Walter, my wondrous pet goat.

7:33 Kiss Walter on the lips.

7:35 Whisper sweet nothings into his saccharine, pointy ears about our dreams and the alternative dimensions we will discover if only they’d give us a damn chance.

8:02 Get dressed. Today I have chosen to wear a superior black polo with the chest exposed (no chest hair, NEVER!) and some sensuous white khakis.

8:17-ISH Prepare for today’s Space-X test-launch. Expectations high, but realistic.

8:22 Eat a powerbar, savoring it as if to know it closely, savoring it as if to fuck it.

8:39 Call that foxy Forbes reporter I once played scrabble with. Yes Yes, ladies and gentleman, I won. Of course I did. Ha Heh Heh. Invite foxy Forbes reporter to the launch.

9:00 Well but who cares what time it is because time is but an infinite soulless being—Ponder, while driving at speeds once unimaginable some decades ago, why the Game Designers Above made me so damn charming and attractive. Yes. I love time. I love space.

10:08  Foxy Forbes reporter doesn’t show.

10:23 That’s fine, as my damn rocket blew up not even four feet off the ground. Total disaster.

10:30 Assure myself weepily into cape Canaveral bathroom mirror it’s not my fault.

11:04, I think — Compose.

11:30 Tug on my polo sleeves for many a minute and concoct the perfect subtweet at NASA with that ever so perfect mix of aloof hostility and aw-shucks light-heartedness. Jolt the bastards with a smile!

11:56 “Turning out to be the most difficult and complex failure we have ever had in 14 years!” I write into my phone “where’s my money fuckers? You know who you are”.  Brutal. Sleek. Devastatingly effective. I have those nerds in the palm of my sweaty, muscular man-hands.

12:05 Do some spicy nose sugar on the dash of a model colony ship.

12:10 Sue Nonsense for printing that.

12:11 Double sue them.

12:36 Hop into the Tesla and blast some Doobie Brothers.  

12:38 Release powdery tears without control.

12:40 “WHAAAAAAT A FOOL BELIEVES!!!!!”

12:45 Stop by Valley Burrito Shop and order five of those things.

12:47 Demand them stuffed with everything on the menu. We’re talking guac and sour cream and lettuce and tomatoes and salsa and cheese and meat and frogs and plastic black bear genitals and washing machine hand grenades and oh my god what a day.

12:52 Throw up an avalanche of dollar bills and thank NO ONE. We’ve got no need for counters!

1:00 Scarf these burritos down like the South African Mega-Leopard I am.

1:03 ON THE FUCKING DOT — Sprint out to the Tesla and drive. Just drive.

2:25 Feel the urge to release my burritos into a splendid rest-stop toilet, but remember that Elon must never poop. Too much work to get done, ladies and gentleman. I’ve let many a burrito live inside me, yes, yes. Have I told you we’re going to Mars in less than 20 years? Have I told you it will be affordable? Have I told you it will be fun? Have I told you we will build restaurants and movie theaters? Have I told you space is one hell of a place? Have I told you everything?

3:35 Have I told you I want to cry?

3:46 Return home and immediately nap. Plan accordingly. The world waits.

8:05 Re-wake.

8:09 Refreshed.

8:14 Sensual and dashing as ever.

8:29 Fix some coffee and plot next move in basement office.

8:45 Calculations.

8:59 Physics.

9:12 CHEMISTRY AND BIOLOGY. TRY AND STOP ME. ALL THE WAY UP 252525194914525:259259292525 CALCULATE THE ACTUAL EXACT TIME OF THE UNIVERSE.  NOTHING CAN STOP ME I’M

9:13 Call Business Insider with the news.

9:21 Call New York Times with the news.

9:37 Call, uh, the, uh, well let me put it this way: my pals like to call themselves the ‘Free Masons’. They live down the block. They liked to be alerted about this stuff. Ha heh heh. Mooks.

10:33 Depart office, slip into PJs.

10:49 Masturbate lube-free(!) to a Ted Talk I gave in 11’.

10:56 Finish up, keep watching this wonderfully illuminating speech.

11:01 Shut my eyes, flow into a restless dream world that is realer than our own.

1:10-infinite Tell these mysterious dream creatures, with their aspirations and passions, that only I can be Elon Musk! Only I.

Follow These 5 Easy Steps to Lasso the Moon for Your Lover

by Our Sex Expert

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

  1. Make the mating call to attract a lover.

    Everyone knows the best way to attract a steamy love connection is a nice Inuit throat song. Try to connect to Mother (or Daddy ;)) Earth by sticking your moistened ass into a pot of tree sap. Now you’re ready to sing the throat song of any potential mate’s dream.

  2. Make the sex to your newfound lover.

    We all know this step. Here at Nonsense, we make the sex many much. Often to each other—it is awkward. So trust us. After serenading your throat song lover, they will coo in your ear life a baby robin on a Spring morn. This is the clear sign to start entering and/or exiting your lover’s point of interest. We all know where that point of interest is. After you have made, your lover will beg you to get the moon for them.

  3. Buy some rope.

    This seems like a common sense step, but I’ve seen way too many people try to lasso the Moon without a rope to not include it. That’s like trying to kiss your mom before she gives you the warm milk!

  4. Obtain the potion to make you super big.

    This step also seems like common sense. You’re going to need to get really big in order to fit all that rope around the 1079-mile radius of the Moon. I’m talking REALLY big. The only man with a potion to make you grow to such heights is Lucien the Magician. He’ll give you the potion, oh yes! But at a cost. The cost is your new lover. Now I know this seems like a terrible idea, but trust us.

  5. Lasso the Moon.

    Use that rope to lasso all 1079 miles of the Moon’s radius, and pull it close to the Earth. Now the tides of the Earth are going wild, cities are crumbling to the sea, and your new lover is making sex to Lucien the Magician (that was poor advice on my part). Bring the Moon all the way into the Earth, so your new, now ex-lover can see it, and be so jealous. She’ll look in your extremely massive, very scary eyes and tell you she loves you. At this point the Moon will hit the Earth and destroy everyone you’ve ever known, including your lover.

  6. Bonus Step: Drift as a giant man through space.

    Try not to think of all the innocent lives you just took. Don’t think of that sweet sex making you had with your lover. Don’t think about how you could have easily prevented this by never trading your lover for a potion. Don’t think about how you read internet articles to help you with your love life. You can cry in space, but your tears won’t fall. No Gravity.

Six Things They Don’t Have In Space

by James Sweeney

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

Space:
The Gaping Birth Canal.
The Airless Tomb.
Home to Everything
But Not These Things

1. Racism

Believe it or not, there is simply no racism in Space. There is zero racism in Space. Sure, people are dicks sometimes, but there’s not much you can really do about that. There’s one guy – Arthur – he’s a practicing Episcopalian. Some of us are a bit wary of him. Susan thinks he’s a pseudo-intellectual, and kind of weird around women, and I can definitely see what she’s getting at. He just likes to wink at inappropriate times I think, it’s really not that big of a deal. I just – he’s not someone I can really talk to for longer than a few minutes. I feel like he tries too hard to relate to whatever emotional state I’m in at the time, but I can tell that for him those kinds of interactions don’t come super naturally. It’s kind of sad, honestly.  Anyway, Arthur is half-Filipino and half-Cuban, so if you’re looking for someone to call a racist, look elsewhere.

“There must be at least a few racists in Space!” you’re probably saying to yourself. Well, stop saying that, because it’s patently false. There was a very thorough vetting process before we boarded the Space Bus, and there was a sheet handed out with like, seven questions about racism, and everyone I’ve met so far has assured me that they answered them all truthfully; that’s how I know that there are no racists in Space.

2. White People

I’m not saying there was a flier in the window that read No Whiteys or anything like that, but I could kind of tell from the minute I stepped on the bus that I was more-or-less freed from the Earthly displeasures of Imagine Dragons. There were like three or four different boxes on the Gettin’ to Know Ya worksheet where you could fill out your race; Susan thinks it was to trick all the moronic white idiots into revealing their race to the strong Bus Driver, and I definitely think her perspective there is, at the very least, a valid one. None of us have any gripes with white people or anything, I hope it doesn’t sound like that – I actually don’t even know why they aren’t allowed on this bus. I guess they just wanted this to be a good trip or something. Now before anybody gets up in arms, just know that I actually found some of them to be pretty fun back on Earth. Drew Carey was pretty funny. Ellen Degeneres was pretty fun and funny, I thought. Barack Obama’s mom did right by all of us. But Space just has a totally different vibe. Everyone I’ve talked to up here seems to agree that whites just wouldn’t fit in. I mean, between the hours a day we all spend shredding rhythmic instruments, cooking with actual spices, and not feeling entitled to assert some unearned savior role to every situation that requires the slightest amount of leadership or rationality, there really doesn’t seem like a lot of room for them. Again, no offense to the Tighty Whitey, Bright-Skin Bleach Babies. I sincerely hope you enjoy the remnants of an Earth your elder whiteys destroyed.  

3. Guns

Yeah we just straight up didn’t bring any guns into Space with us. We could have, there was some room on the bus, but we just didn’t. Leaving all our guns on White Earth seemed like a good idea at the time, and an even better one now that I have a hunch that Susan was the one behind the carvings under the lunch table. It’s not that I’m angry, or that I would ever actually use a gun on somebody else, or anything like that. I just feel lied to. Arthur tried to take the blame for her, I’m guessing in order to win her over, except he completely screwed it up and just kept winking at me. I’m still really not sure what the full truth is, because when he came forward and admitted that he was the one who used a paring knife to fashion the sentence, “Susan is the most beautiful full-blooded Latina woman I’ve ever seen,” onto our collapsible eatery, she immediately started hamming up that same old Woe Is Me, I’ve Got A Space-Stalker! act she loves to put on. It was just all too convenient, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Now I’m even more glad that we didn’t bring a single firearm into Space with us – this Susan lady is a loose cannon, and I’ve found it continuously more difficult to predict how and when her next manipulation will come.

4. School Shootings

There hasn’t been one yet. Probably because we have no guns and no emotionally repressed Caucasian guys. We also technically have no students at all, though Arthur claims to be a lifelong student of military psychological torture techniques and the ways we puppeteer our loss of self.

5. Children

Right, so if you didn’t catch that earlier, we didn’t bring anybody under the age of 24. I don’t make the rules, I just happen to work well within them in this case. So be it. Am I upset that there are no kids? No, not really. God forbid they have to grow up around the daily trauma that is Susan’s morning pap smear and Arthur’s mid-day scream.

Some other people in their twenties would be cool I guess, but that’s not such a big deal either. Susan is 43, though she looks quite good for her age. Still taut in many of the right ways, I could see myself with Susan sexually if we were back on Earth. Arthur is 33, and I cannot see myself with him sexually, because I don’t find him attractive.

6. Sex

So yeah, there’s no kids and there never will be because some people whose names rhyme with Zusan and Carthur don’t feel like conceiving a child. There is no chance that the three of us, trapped on this cruise-controlled cosmic paddy wagon forever, are going to be able to pass on all that we’ve learned unless somebody whose good with nunchuks makes loves to somebody else who just happens to have a tattoo of the 90s Phoenix Suns logo on her lower back.

There are obviously pros and cons to all of this. I think I’m holding it together better than most people would be, but I suppose I don’t have as much to look forward to as I thought I would on this once-in-a-lifetime/rest-of-a-lifetime trip through the very star particles that created the dinosaurs. I’m still in awe of this opportunity –I really do think it’s amazing– but I can’t let go of the fact that I’ll never again enjoy the idea of growing older and seeing how the world around me changes. I’ll never be a parent. I’ll never fall in love with a shy but beautiful co-worker, only to have it end tragically and suddenly, following an investigation by our company’s internal affairs division. I’ll never have any of those things now, and that’s alright. They’re silly dreams to have ever held so close, let alone now that I’ve reached this current and final stage of life. These days, I look forward to two things and two things only: watching beautiful, wild Susan age; and watching Arthur lose his mind as we pass through the iris of an infinite night.