Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬
 The Police Walking On The Moon
 Babylon Zoo Spaceman
 The Firm Star Trekkin’
 David Bowie Starman
“This is one small step for man and one giant…SCREW YOU DICKWEEDS, I MADE IT!” I wonder if Neil Armstrong was tempted just to throw that one in there as he boldly went where no man had gone before on July 20, 1969. Or perhaps the acoustics weren’t that good in the studio. Regardless of whether or not the first moon landing ever actually took place, his expedition certainly struck a chord with mankind and kids the world over suddenly proclaimed how they wished to be astronauts when they grew up. I should know as I was one of those head in the clouds ankle-biters, fascinated by the prospect of shooting off into the unknown to claim myself a slice of lunar cheddar. It all seemed so romantic back then and continued in this vein until a decade later, when Ridley Scott took a humongous steaming dump in our oxygen tanks before topping it up with farts. Thanks to his unruly xenomorphs, I began to harbor second thoughts about becoming a fully fledged space cadet, and wound up working weekends in a video store where his vile creations could taunt me some more.
My point being that they don’t call it the vast ocean of emptiness for nothing you know. It’s all fine to the dandy grabbing that surface selfie and watching your Instagram go haywire, but what of the long months cooped up in close quarters with Vladimir and Sergei, neither of whom speak a lick of English, while sucking up vacuum packed beef jerky? Granted, outer space looks pretty idyllic in the brochure, but so does Chernobyl after several filters have been applied. Now a spot of radioactive blight is one thing but a severe case of space herpes is quite another, particularly when you haven’t even been promiscuous. Suddenly the realization sets in that Dr. Mahendra-Chaudary won’t see you now and there are no solar Wal-Marts on hand to administer corrective lotion. Unless E.T. shows up, we’re soundly buggered fellow cosmonauts. And even then there’s no guarantee that he won’t still be bitter about the whole persecution deal back on earth. I mean, how much do we know about this shady looking fellow anyhoots?
Had Richard Dreyfuss just stuck to Mr. Holland’s Opus as opposed to having himself some third-fiddle close encounters, then perhaps the extraterrestrials would have passed us by and tormented the shit out of some other lowly planetoid instead. If you ask me, we brought this on ourselves, and I don’t fancy being spokesperson for interstellar relations just to plant a poxy flag in granite. That said, there’s always the slender hope that you might catch them on a good day and the dreaded anal probe will remain securely in its holster. Hopefully technology will throw us a bone here and we can Skype the aliens beforehand just to get a feel for their intentions. Alas, the blue bird of Twitter would burn up the very moment it vacated earth’s atmosphere so blind dating appears the only way to go. Talk about a mindfield. And all of this because we have to feel superior to any other organisms in the solar system when, little do we know, that it’s one of an infinite network.
I don’t know about you but I’m feeling pretty small and insignificant right now and feel it might be time to elucidate on why the sudden fascination with space travel. Well I have a minor confession to make and trust that you won’t think badly of me for keeping it close to my chest until now as I didn’t wish to just blurt it out before we ascertained our solar coordinates. You see, while there were 1001 reasons not to let my curiosity get the better of me, there were 1002 why I should hop on the next lunar shuttle off this insipid collection of rocks and gases and bolt beyond the stars for some much-needed R&R. Armstrong may boast that he was the first man to walk on the moon but I’m reasonably assured that this is the first WordPress article to be transmitted from the far distant planet Qüozag. How’s that for a conversation stopper? It was only a matter of time before the itch grew too prickly not to scratch and I hear they’ve got a more than serviceable dermatologist here.
I’m not entirely sure of the date of my arrival as the days begin to merge into one once you’ve spent enough time drifting through dead space but, should I hazard a guess, then I reckon 2056 wouldn’t be too far from accurate. I know right? By my calculations, that makes Kirk Douglas almost 140 years old, and likely feeling extra sprightly after spending the past four decades frozen in cryogenics. Not that it matters a jot to me whether Spartacus 2 is in production as we don’t get Netflix up here on Qüozag. Instead, my days consist of precious little in the way of interaction as the locals don’t seem keen on the notion of mingling with a journeyman such as myself. You’d think they’d find me a spellbinding subject wouldn’t you? After all, it’s not everyday some douche shows up on your asteroid with a pocketful of cough candy and every last edition of Mad Magazine since 1984. But no, it appears as though they grew tired of observing our species many moons ago, and are therefore way above slumming it with earth heathens. Thanks a fucking bunch guys, when I see A.L.F. I’m going to tear up his green card and plant my size 8.5 straight between his space balls.
Whatever happened to good old hospitality? Back at the once green pastures of home, it is a trait of ours to extend a warm hand to all-comers and the least I expect is for that kindness to be reciprocated. Alas, Independence Day was a theatrical hit in over 100 cosmoi and it would appear that the citizens of Qüozag took it all a little too literally. It’s fiction for chrissakes, pure pulp for the masses, and Jeff Goldblum was well out-of-order if you ask me for taking your ancestors to task. That said, what part of “we come in peace” didn’t you understand? I mean, not that I’m splitting hairs here, but I seem to recall you infidels casting the first stone and a cool-headed cat like Jeff doesn’t lose his rag unless there’s a damn good reason. Perhaps it had something to do with those bodies you snatched on his watch way back in the late seventies. Whatever his trigger, the fact remains, that you should be taking at least partial responsibility for the breakdown in communications.
Look at you, standing there all high and mighty like your shit doesn’t have peanuts in it. You disgust me with your arrogance and blatant disregard for any other species than your own. What kind of example do you think this is setting for future generations of martian life? Didn’t consider that one did you? Where I come from, we believe the children are our future, thus we teach them well and let them lead the way. By showing them all the beauty they possess inside, we give them a sense of pride to make it easier. Indeed, their laughter reminds us how we used to be. So what’s your excuse then? And you wonder why they stay out past their curfews and regularly spout such acidic retorts as “hmmph, this is so unfair” and “I hate you. You’ve ruined my life”. Teenagers will be teenagers, whether spawned from oviums or delivered vaginally, they all have to grow up sometime and the metamorphosis is never pretty believe you me. Apparantly E.T. was far too busy hijacking Elliot’s BMX to truly get to know us. You don’t believe me, well that Instagram is a bitch with phaser I tell you and that shit ain’t set to stun either.
For the record, poor Elliot broke 205 of his bones plummeting to the ground below after your ambassador pulled that stunt mid-flight and may never limbo dance again. Meanwhile, the natives of Qüozag hailed him a hero on his return and Wesley Snipes was brought up on charges for tax evasion. Okay so you may not have been directly responsible for the fact that To Wong Foo 2 never came to fruition but I’m holding you responsible for that shit too while I’m here dagnabbit. You want the truth? Can you handle it? Your precious planet is not a patch on Mars. There I said it. At least they rolled out the red carpet for me, although I could’ve done without the sound fisting that I was presented during the closing ceremony if I’m honest. But I’d rather that than draw one big fat Greek wedding of a blank as has been the case here thus far. Just a suggestion but what do you say we bury the hatchet and all watch Mork & Mindy together? You don’t see them sleeping in separate rooms do you? Of course not, Mork would be deported back to Orson in the time it takes Douglas Adams to thank you for the fish and you damn well know it.
All I’m asking is for a dash of perspective here for crying out loud and don’t feel that my request is unreasonable given the sizeable trek it took to beam up to this undiscovered country. Have you any idea how many light years we traversed searching for poxy Spock. And do you know what his first words were when we tracked that ungrateful bastard down? “I find your efforts highly illogical”. That was it, no “cheers fellas for not forgetting me” or “are those Klingons still giving you shit?” Just one big interstellar “poke it!” And to think I could have been back aboard my nice cosy voyager sharing a nice stem of Moët with Vice Admiral Janeway. She always was a ripper that one and plenty of men have gone there before.
Anyhoots, I feel like I’ve punished you enough with the audio and couldn’t have made my point more clearly so consider that my olive branch and let’s see what you’ve got to say in defence of your species shall we? Precisely. Nothing, zip, zilch, and a jot of nada just to make me feel even less than zero. Gee whizz, I love you too. Guess that Elton John was right about sorry being the hardest word after all; although I’d love to have heard him attempt to toss floccinaucinihilipilification into the chorus and not hemorrhage from his ears. A simple apology is all it would take to mend some bridges but I can see you’re a proud race and not willing to meet me halfway so I’m going to litter up your planet and treat it with the same contempt you show mine, how does that grab you? Come closer you say? There’s something you want to tell me but wish to keep it on the down low you say?
Something may have gotten lost in translation but I could’ve sworn that whisper proposed death to all earth scum. Maybe I’m just paranoid after spending all these aeons drifting through the infinite void and I’m quite aware of the perils of space dementia in the event of such protracted stretches on one’s lonesome. Even more reason for you to cradle me in your arms, offer up those lunar teats for the suckling, and pack me off back to my home planet with an apple in my lunchbox. What do you mean what planet? Earth you imbeciles. It’s right there between the sun and…hold on just a cotton picking minute…what is that you’re picking out of your teeth right now? Is that…could that be…THE OUTER HEBRIDES? You’ve pulled some heinous stunts over the years but digesting seven billion of my friends is just not on. Okay so I may not have been on first name basis with all seven billion of them, but that’s by the bye as there’s a name for that where I come from – mass genocide. I hope it gives you chronic heartburn followed by the shits. And here was me thinking we might become firm friends, perhaps release an EP of love songs together, and trade bodily fluids for the purpose of scientific advancement. Guess that makes me one almighty space chump.
At any rate, looks like you’re stuck with me now so I suggest we let bygones be bygones and put this whole sorry episode behind us. I’m still a little sore with E.T. for buckling the spokes on Elliot’s bicycle but it’s nothing a nice thorough shoulder massage won’t alleviate. Just to be clear, that’s not an invitation to bust out the probe, and any unauthorized insertion will be considered a frontier beyond final. What’s that? Lube you say? But it’s flourescent green and will likely cause all manner of sclerosis around my wormhole. Besides, we’re not there just yet. You should count yourself damn fortunate that we’re even on speaking terms. Okay then, just a quickie, but I draw the line at screaming “there’s life Jim but not as we know it” on the home straight. Tell you what, I’ll chuck in a swift “nanu nanu” but only because I’m feeling generous and you seem rather adept at pinpointing the prostate. Dare I say that the force is strong in this one? Actually, forget that and just keep probing space mutant.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Grueheads Films 2017