Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬
 David Bowie “Space Oddity”
 Louis Amstrong & Nat King Cole “As Time Goes By”
 Klaatu “Calling Occupants Of Interplanetary Craft”
 Kim Wilde “You Keep Me Hangin’ On”
 Black Uhuru “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner”
 Marc Almond “Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places”
 A Flock of Seagulls “I Ran (So Far Away)”
Before I embark on what promises to be my most perilous expedition to date, I wish to share with you a quote that I picked up back at mission control – in space no-one can hear you scream. Well that’s auto-erotic asphyxiation out of the question then. Hold up, do I still get a spotter? I’m only asking because Bonus Brain is already suited up and I’d hate for him to feel hard done by as it will invariably result in bitching and/or griping. Needless to say, this has taken a fair amount of the shine off my upcoming venture. You see, it just so happens that space is precisely where I’m headed, and my directive states that it may well end in squawking. Do you ever have the impression that you shouldn’t be peeking into that ominous yawning ovum over by the pile of of rattling corpses? Well then welcome to my solar system, one that exists in a galaxy far, far away. Isn’t this exciting? Look how exhilarated I have become and feel free to snap a quick “lengthie” and upload it to your Instagram account. But don’t forget to tag me so I can reply with something like “no really, it was nothing”.
So about this Nostromo then. Well it’s a small intimate little number and its seven-strong crew run this ship tight I hear. As we speak, they are all languishing in stasis and who can blame them after years drifting through the vast ocean of emptiness? I mean, it must get fairly dull after a while and, with a 4:2:1 male-female-suspect droid ratio to draw short straws over, fatigue must get the better of them eventually. It’s not the lack of female representation that concerns me and neither is it the one hapless douche who ends up sobbing/wanking himself to sleep back in his hypersleep capsule. Someone gets the robot and, from what I have been informed, its hand jobs are highly questionable. Only last week, Executive Officer Kane had to be rushed to the medical bay after urinating blood and, when his gurney was wheeled on in, who do you think was pinging the gloves on? I’ll give you a clue – affirmative.
It would appear that Kane’s run of bad luck hasn’t ended there as, just a few hours ago, he managed to trump his own outrageous misfortune. The working party were investigating a mysterious distress signal after it flashed its hazards while they passed an unmarked planetoid. It all came down to drawing straws and, lo-and-behold, Kane drew back the nub and peeled back the flaps on a pod of worms far too squirmy to be benevolent in the process. I have heard it suggested that “a kiss is just a kiss” but that doesn’t suggest that you should be puckering up for just any interstellar Romeo. As Kane looked into his options further and was greeted by a sight far too phallic not to fumble about in his spacesuit for prophylactics, he had to think fast and make it decisive. Thus he opted for the hug, although this was more like your great-aunt Bertha kind of squeeze and he played the part of limp recipient (rather well it has to be said).
Naturally there came a point where Captain Dallas decided enough was enough and stepped in to break up this unwarranted show of public affection. However, this deep-throated embrace wasn’t done yet and, when he requested that Kane give him a status report, a simple thumb-up seemed to denote his associate’s willingness to go for a new Guinness World Record. 58 hours, 35 minutes and 58 seconds was quite the hard target but, with some dimmed lights and Luther Vandross to set the mood, it was well worth a crack. Alas, two hours before they could break open the bubbly, love was no longer deemed in the air and the two went their separate ways. The facehugger didn’t take the split well and perished the very second it scuttled off to grab a breath mint whereas Kane just seemed to take in all in his stride. No doubt he had committed it to memory and I hear he hasn’t budged from his chamber since, while Engineers Parker and Brett have both reported strange thumping sounds emanating from his pod and there’s far too much condensation to get a proper look-see.
Right now I’m tossing up (literally speaking) whether to hone in on either Warrant Officer Ripley or Navigator Lambert in my attempt to join the Mile Really, Really High Club. It’s a close call for sure as, choose incorrectly, and I’ll likely have squandered any hope of landing myself the booby prize. It just so happens that I’m rather partial to booby prizes and do you want to know why that is? Well it has the word booby in it doesn’t it? Honestly, you guys… guys?… Guys?
That stuff gets everywhere. Anyhoots, I believe I have introduced you to the entire crew, short of Science Officer Ash and the less said about that fluttering fuse head the better. Never trust a man who vomits Thousand Island Dressing and remember there’s no malfunction without twitching. I flat refuse to press the release button beside Ash’s capsule and would rather leave him to marinate in his own repugnant relish than risking him spoiling a nice quiet celebratory meal in my honor.
Speaking of which, I received the invite courtesy of MUTHR, the ship’s computer and everyone’s favorite oracle. I haven’t yet had the pleasure of hearing MUTHR in action but my hopes are pinned on her possessing the voice box of Stevie Wayne if I’m honest. I’m not altogether sure they have fog banks in outer space but “To the ships at sea who can hear my voice, look across the water, into the darkness. Look for the asteroid storm” will do me just fine thank you very much.
And how could I possibly forget Jones? I call myself a cat lover, yet this poor sad-eyed little fella almost ended up ignored as per usual and I shall tickle his tummy ’til both his peepers pop on account of my thoughtless near-emission. Jones does as Jones wishes which pretty much makes him paws for the course (sorry it’s like a tick). However, the thing about felines, is that they tend to work out wrong ‘uns at an accelerated rate of knots to mere humans. Whether or not they are willing to divulge is another matter entirely as they’re definitely worth keeping around just in case things go hideously awry. Moreover, cats have nine lives dagnabbit, and that equates to eight ways to die and at absolutely no cost to their well-being. The first thing I would do would be throttling Ned Ryerson as I never much cared for his A.M. cuddles. Then I would find a fair few ways to perish, leaving a couple in reserves just in case any plummeting Steinways attempt to condense me into freeze-dried spam unannounced. But I’d sure as space shit have me some larks with such an endowment.
Of course, there’s also Bonus Brain in all of this, and I’m pleased to report that we appear to have gotten past our last heated exchange of many. I’ll admit to feeling somewhat bitter and twisted after what played out in Toon Town after dark but it was either ill-feelings or my Viewfinder so I opted to pack the latter as I’m both sucker and swallower for a good old-fashioned slide show. Tonight is all about commemoration, not castigation, and certainly not castration as that’s a snip too far, regardless of the injustice. It takes a man with balls to know that balls deserve to stay precisely where they throb and a man with four balls to say that twice. You heard me right, double the testicles thanks to unwitting engaging in a spot of wish-to-command free-for-all during a recent Arabian adventure.
They even have an official title – Bonus Balls – and I wouldn’t swap them for much less than a waterproof Swatch or perhaps a ladle of jumping beans. Indeed, I cannot wait to try them out for the first time and it actually solves the whole Ripley or Lambert conundrum. Actually scrap that, forgot to request two penises. I’ll just pound one of them with dual vigor while the other one coats nuts three and four with her lip balm. I do hope it’s cherry.
Right then, I believe there is no time more favorable than the present to start flipping some lids don’t you? Think I’ll leave Kane ’til last as I hear that his appetite is insatiable and mashed potato isn’t easy to come by in deep space. I’m also informed that his etiquette leaves a little to be desired and have packed the Blu-ray of Pretty Woman in my supply kit to help him with the whole dessert spoon confusion. It’s got a 1080p transfer don’t ‘cha know? That means even clearer freeze frames of that stunt nipple. I’ll let Kane stew in his juices for a little longer and head straight on over to our Cap’n methinks. If anyone is going to make me feel welcome, then I’m sure it will be the old master and commander.
Now which button is it to open these things? I’d better be careful here as there are two knobs and I hear that one of them ejects said stasis capsule into perpetual space and that makes it a 50-50 kind of affair. Perhaps Dallas wouldn’t be the best guinea pig after all. Of course, how genius of me. Should I press both Ripley and Lambert’s buttons simultaneously, then I’ll have solved another problem in the process. Okay, here goes. Eeny, meeny, miny, MOE!
I’m really gonna miss Lambert y’know. Here’s hoping her navigation skills assist in seeing her back here safely although, judging by the fact that her face just collapsed in on itself through lack of breathable oxygen, I reckon we may have ourselves a negative. On the brighter side, Ripley’s looking mighty fetching in those belly huggers. I wonder if she’s fertile. There’s only one way to find out.
“Why hello there little lady”
Nothing. Not so much as a how do you do. How dreadfully inhospitable of her. I’ve got a good mind to take back the bouquet of rhododendrons I picked fresh from old Mrs. Pendergast’s front garden to present her as a token gesture. It took me damn near forever to lace each petal with Rohypnol and that stuff doesn’t come cheap either. If my skin were any thinner then I’d be deeply offended by her lack of even the simplest acknowledgment. Nevertheless I shall soldier on as I’m informed that is what wranglers do best and hope that Dallas can shed some light on her menstrual cycle. It was the left button for delicate release I recall and there’s no time like the present and neither is there one for dilly-dallying. 1-2-3. Kerplunk!
“Hello sir. Brutal Word Wrangler at your service”
“At ease grunt”
Grunt? Well I guess it beats being blanked.
“Reporting for duty”
“Whatever. You’ll have to learn the layout yourself as I have shit to sort out and haven’t the time to babysit your raggedy ass. Where’s Lambert by the way?”
“She… erm… popped out”
“Typical. And Ripley?”
“Think she’s preparing dinner”
“Good. Then I shall get on with my chores. A captain’s work is never done you know”
“Yeah I think a rat must have died in the ventilation shaft as we keep getting a waft of rodent feces. Someone needs to take a look at it and, according to my terms of employment, a good leader does so by example”
“That seems a bit off”
“I’m not fussed. Know these ventilation tunnels like the back of my hand. Make yourself at home in my absence. I’ll be right back”
I’m sure he will too. After all, nobody wants to suffer the dreaded calf cramps in a tight confined space. Plus I hear that stasis can leave one feeling rather gassy and there’s only so long that our own brew remains strangely satisfying before unconsciousness kicks in. At least he gave me some form of welcome, albeit ever so mildly superior. Indeed I am feeling rather buoyant after that so what say we crack open another fortune cookie while we’re on a roll?
Parker seems like a happy-go-lucky kind of guy so I think it’s time for his grand unveiling. 1-2-3. Shazam!
Dagnabbit, wrong button again. Somebody really oughta get around to labeling these. By the way, did anyone else just see Sandra Bullock float by or is that just my imagination? I hear that too much time out of Earth’s atmosphere can send a man doolally and the last thing I need right now is a bout of space madness to go with the intergalactic pubic lice I picked up back at Space Camp. Don’t go blowing my cover with Ripley by the way as I hear they’re traceable and I don’t fancy getting court marshaled on my very first mission. By my estimations that’s four down and two to go so I suggest we provide Brett with an opportunity to stretch those legs. 1-2-3. Go go Gadget kneecaps!
“Hello Brett. How awfully nice to make your acquaintance”
“Fine thanks for asking. I think I saw him mincing about the hold, near the landing struts when I boarded”
“Stupid cat. I’ll be right back”
Well that’s just fucking great. Am I wearing a name badge that says CUNT or are the entire crew of the Nostromo ever so faintly ignorant? I don’t know, you’d think they’d be overjoyed to be released from their indefinite slumber but I’ve hardly had a kind word from the lot of ’em. This isn’t at all what MUTHR indicated, I’m supposed to be the guest of honor but instead I feel like Pauly fucking Shore here. All that leaves is Kane as Ash can go jump if he thinks I’m booting his gremlin infested shit up without the corresponding instruction manual. I just hope that Kane is able to try a little tenderness as opposed to presenting yet another hard shoulder. 1-2-3. Pop Goes The Weasel!
“Executive Officer Kane. It is a distinct privilege”
“The pleasure is all mine dear fellow. I’ve heard all about you and I’m chomping at the bit to hear of your exploits at Trump Tower. We’ve got so much to discuss and I’m positively thrilled to be… [OOF!]”
Oh dear. He appears to be doubled up in discomfort. I do hope he’s okay, acid reflux is no laughing matter, and I feel that I should offer my assistance.
“Are you okay there?”
“Bloody marvellous. Never been … [HMMPH!] … better old chap. Never mind me, just a spot of indigestion. Nothing that a good nosh up won’t fix in a jiffy. By the way, why does your name badge say CUNT?”
Why I oughta! Think fast wrangler.
“Must be a typo. The name’s Clint”
Smooth wrangler, real smooth. Get down witcha bad self.
“I feel you friend. Did you know my name is actually Keith? How does one even begin to misspell that one. Never mind, grub’s up by the aromatic waft of it, so I’ll be seeing you in the mess hall for a feast fit for kings. Toodle … [OOF] … pip”
What a bloody gentleman. That’s all it takes y’know. Well that and Ripley putting out over by the airlock after I ply her with cheap alcohol. I guess my work here is done then and seeing as nobody else is lining up to pat my back at present, I think I shall pat my own. As for Bonus Brain, well he seems to be getting on famously with MUTHR and it turns out that they both love Falcon Crest so I think I shall let them got on with it. There’s nothing he despises more than having his style cramped and it would appear that I do that purely by breathing in the same stale oxygen that he does. Anyhoots, I’m famished, and give less than half a shit whether scabby horse is on the menu as its mane would be wonderful to floss away any fried chicken with. Hold that thought a moment as our good friend Ash seems to have found an alternative method for evacuating his capsule and I’m not sure mission control will be best pleased with him using his chrome-plated forehead to do so. This could be somewhat awkward. One moment, he has now sat up in his capsule and appears to have something to share with me.
“Hi ho there, Kermit The Frog here”
That’s quite far enough screw head. 1-2-3. Thanks for the memories!
Wowsers. That was the closest shave since Sweeney Todd hung up his straight-edged razor and I dare not even imagine how that would’ve played out, had I not put all those years watching Jeopardy to good use and beamed his alloy ass straight outta here. Of course, it does mean that the guest list is looking somewhat depleted but I’m more than happy for it to be an intimate candle-lit affair and, with neither Dallas or Brett seemingly coming back anytime soon, that just leaves my old pal Kane standing between me and Ripley’s ovaries. Two glasses and she should be positively gagging for a ride on The Wrangler Express, although it’s more of a rickety rail-cart if I’m completely honest. Fuck it, the bottom line is that I’ve laid the tracks and that makes it high time I cash in this meal ticket. Speaking of which, I do believe that’s the dinner bell I discern. Better let Bonus Brain know.
“Dinner is served”
“Bite me fathead”
“I’ll save you a doggy bag then”
Honestly, I’d love to know where he picked up the art of conversation and drop an H-Bomb on their headquarters. He can carry on schmoozing MUTHR for all I care, I’m off to grab myself some well-earned carbs.
Well isn’t that just marvellous, it would appear neither Ripley or Kane saw fit to wait for the main guest to arrive before serving up hors d’oeuvre. Once again, I’m ever so faintly perturbed, but not about to make a scene as I watched Bugsy Malone as a kid and, while food fights may well be fun with custard pies involved, Ripley’s on the Atkins diet and those baby carrots on her plate look like they could have an eye out. No I shall be the bigger man, accept my slop, take my seat graciously, and simmer on a low heat. The last laugh shall be mine after her second stem of Chardonnay and I plan on ransacking her fortress extra hard after this latest lack of consideration. As for Kane, well he’s as happy as Babe in The City so there are no hard feelings there as far as I’m concerned. Besides, he’s the only one who took the time to be courteous and manners count for much where the wrangler is concerned. Let’s see how he’s getting on shall we?
“You look to be enjoying the food my friend”
“Tastes bloody fantastic. I haven’t had a meal this good since … [NGGG!]”
“Are you okay Kane? Looking a tad peaky there”
“I’m fine. Really shouldn’t talk with my mouth full. What I was saying was I haven’t tasted such fine cuisine ever since … [ARRGH!]”
Now I’m no detective, but I’m fairly assured that foaming from the mouth is considered a bad thing, and the convulsions seem a tad too theatrical to be considered mere stomach cramps also. Perhaps Ripley didn’t cook the chicken well enough, that’s a sure-fire way to encourage food poisoning right there. I think she has some explaining to do y’know. Granted, she looks rather fetching in that tight vest and panties combo but there’s no excuse whatsoever for shoddy preparation. Hold on, she’s writhing about too. Guess that answers the whole menstrual cycle question. That said, I’m not too sure that a tampon is going to help her in her current predicament. Either she’s sprouting a third breast or we’re about to meet the closely guarded eighth crew member of the Nostromo and I’m reasonably assured that this perky little passenger never bought a ticket prior to lift off.
Bang goes any chance of interstellar coitus. I should have known that three breasts is a preposterous notion and our new arrival looks far more latcher than latchee if you ask me. I sure hope she expressed some milk beforehand as this cantankerous little critter doesn’t exactly appear to be the bottle type. On the plus side, Kane has perked up after expelling some of the excess gas in his colon, and is paying no mind to the bloody buffet laid out before him as he tackles his third corn-on-the-cob in as many seconds. Turns out that, while he was busy tonguing that face hugger, Ripley thought it might be fun to straddle an ovium and one of these illegal aliens shot straight up her vajayjay and made itself at home. Thanks to her reproductive system, gestation was vastly accelerated and I just don’t think I have the heart to tell the poor lass that it’s twins.
Seeing that Kane hasn’t batted a solitary eyelid, it looks like it’s my job to track down these trespassers and terminate them before things turn really ugly. Moreover, they scuttled off towards the medical bay and I distinctly recall overhearing Bonus Brain suggest a quick game of doctors and nurses to MUTHR so I’d better get down there post-haste and defend the little guy’s honor. I know right? Why should I put myself out and jeopardize my own safety for one so determined to undermine me at every turn? Well he may be something of a rascal but he’s my rascal dagnabbit and friends stick together in a fix unless I misread the terms and conditions. Besides, with Ripley now resembling a stamped on apple crumble, he’s the only one with sufficient flight expertise to land this beast. Sounds suspiciously like needs must to me. Time to suit up and save the day. I really must get myself a nice quaint desk job when we get back to Earth. I hear accountancy pays well.
Talk about looking for a needle in a crack house, the Nostromo is considerably larger than the floor plan suggested and I’m at a bit of a loss over where to commence my search. Since Dallas has the ventilation shaft covered and Brett is on pussy patrol, I think I shall just head directly to the medical bay and rescue my associate. Well would you believe it, here comes Jones right now. Looking a little bit startled by the look of it, if only felines could converse. Actually startled doesn’t even begin to cut it as I haven’t seen fur that stiff since I last watched Fritz The Cat and it doesn’t look like Jones is in the mood for the ball of wool I snatched from Ripley’s quarters. Best just let him do his own thing and remain focused on the more pressing concern of stopping our unexpected cargo before they reach puberty and all merry hell breaks loose.
Thankfully, I’m almost there, and can already hear the soothing tones of Vandross so it looks like MUTHR is a cheap date after all. For the record, she sounds nothing whatsoever like Stevie Wayne and far more like Gilbert Gottfried’s niece so Bonus Brain is welcome to her. No offence Gilbert, I’m sure she’s pleasing on the eye, but it’s the ears I’m concerned about and, cards on the table, you do sound vaguely like you’re constipated. Stuff a gym sock in her mouth before she goes all Lassie, Bonus Brain, and I’ll be there in absolutely no more than a jiffy. Actually, make that two jiffies, as it would appear that I have located our stowaways and they don’t look particularly hospitable.
The thing about kids is that they grow up so damn fast. It seems like barely five minutes ago that they were a couple of mumpish marrows, yet I don’t think there’s a Moses basket on the market spacious enough to accommodate the two grievous gargantuans hovering before me right now and I believe the panic button is reserved for moments just like this. The way I see it, there are currently two options at my disposal: either I stay and stand my ground resulting in the most one-sided battle this side of Chris Brown vs. Rihanna or skip town faster than O.J. and pray that the trail of nervous methane doesn’t lead them directly back to me. Ordinarily I’d plump for the latter without a second thought, but this was supposed to be my celebratory meal dagnabbit and I object to these two heathens dictating the state of play when it’s clearly way past their bedtime. I may well rue my decision once I have my head punched through but if a wrangler is going out then he’s damn well doing so with pride (says the guy with CUNT on his name badge). Bring it bone heads!
I really should be careful what I wish for. You see, while the tale of the tape didn’t make for particularly encouraging reading, nobody mentioned the whole inner jaw deal and this appears to be something of a game changer right here. Moreover, neither seem willing to take a blind bit of notice of the fact that I’m quite clearly tapping out as they pin me against the wall with their whip-like tails. Short of divine intervention, I’m fairly assured that my wrangling days are now in my slipstream and I have a nagging hunch that my death will be anything but swift and merciful. Indeed, the only possible hope I have now is for Bonus Brain to intervene, but that’s about as likely as Justin Bieber booking a return flight to Auschwitz. He has made it abundantly clear where his allegiance lies and would likely get some kind of sick kick from watching me take a full hit of alien jism to my top box. I guess that makes it goodbye Grueheads and I wish you well on all your future endeavors. See you on the other side.
“Stay away from him YOU BITCH!”
Almost forty-two years and I finally know what the term swoon means. I would rub my eyes if I wasn’t currently predisposed preparing to be soundly pulverized. One thing I must say however, I’m digging on the opposable thumbs. Now if you’d kindly remove them from my windpipe, I’ll be on my way fellas. Fret not as this will be our little secret. You know what they say – what happens aboard the Nostromo, stays aboard the Nostromo. Don’t wish to be dick Bonus Brain but I’m rather holding out for a hero right now. He’s gotta be strong, he’s gotta be fast (emphasis on the speedy), and he’s gotta be larger…well two out of three ain’t bad. Chop Chop old bean, can’t…hold ’em off…much…longer.
[over PA] “Danger. The emergency destruct system is now activated. The ship will detonate in T-minus ten minutes”
Well smoke me a kipper and call it a halibut, looks like MUTHR does have her uses after all. Honestly, I have no idea how Bonus Brain manages to be such a hit with the ladies. I mean, look at him. Again, not wishing to be a dick when he’s clearly in the midst of bailing me out at the eleventh hour, but he does kinda resemble grey popcorn. Yet, I have to settle for self-defilement. It hardly seems fair does it? Mull it over for the next 0.05 nanoseconds while I further assume the role of damsel and scream like a little bitch. Actually, what’s the point? No bastard’s gonna hear it anyhoots apparently. May as well just save myself the aggro and smile for the camera one final time. Remember to tell this one to your grandchildren in years to come and feel free to skip the part where I pretty conclusively get my ass handed to me whilst sniveling like Pippi Longstocking when she realizes that ain’t semi-skimmed milk she’s guzzling. Make something up on the spot if you must, I don’t know, tell ’em I died valiantly defending a maiden’s honor. You’re a resourceful bunch, just improvise.
Hold on, did MUTHR say T-minus ten minutes a moment ago? The emergency what system was just activated? Destruct? As in KABOOM!!? That’s a good thing right? What do you mean that depends? I don’t suppose you noticed an escape shuttle on our travels did you? Really? lower deck you say? And where might that be? Actually don’t answer that one. Blame it on the lack of oxygen. I do have one other question if you’re willing to humor me just a moment longer. Any ideas how to remove 300 kg of dead weight from your sternum? What do you mean tickle them? Are you demented? Their armor is more heavy-duty than Roseanne Barr’s heel skin; I’m not altogether sure I can envisage that one working y’know.
[over PA] “The ship will detonate in T-minus five minutes and counting”
Alright love, there’s no reason to get all pushy. It’s a wrangler’s prerogative to procrastinate some and I’m just exercising that birthright. Besides, while Bonus Brain was quite happy to give it the large back there, I find it curious that he’s now nowhere whatsoever to be seen and has left only a cowardly trail of ooze to denote his current whereabouts. Great Scott Marty, that’s it. He’s giving me directions to the lower deck. Admittedly I would have preferred him stepping into the fray rather than scuttling away from it with his stem between his stubby little legs. But a lifeline is a lifeline, regardless of how ill-devised and feeble. All I need to do is get these two lunkheads off me and I should still be able to make launch before the big bang. Needless to say, I’m open to suggestion here.
But what’s this? Jones is back on the scene and this could provide just the diversion I crave. Here kitty kitty. Dagnabbit, I’d love to know why I remain a cat lover despite the fact that the little fucks never do what you ask of them. I believe the term is blanked and, judging by the fact that Jones wiggled his crusty tush right in my face as he passed with tail at full mast, I’d say it’s high time I find a new domestic breed to adulate. If I get out of this in one piece, I’m getting a chinchilla and naming it Smith. By my estimations, I’m around one exhalation from getting shafted by a couple of stunt cocks, yet all Jones is interested in doing is strutting over to that airlock all self-important and shit. I will say this however, that’s a rather ingenious looking cat flap he’s slipping out of. Say what you will about him and I’ll likely pitch in with something similarly damning, but at least he’s well-trained.
To be fair, he’s more than simply compliant as he has also thrown me something of a bone with his sudden exit. Have you ever seen 300 kg of space lobster sucked through a hole barely large enough to accommodate a KFC Bargain Bucket? It ain’t pretty let me tell you. Veering towards the bright side, I’m no longer feeling quite as hamstrung and can now make that quick dash to the escape pod uninterrupted. That said, there’s still the matter of Kane, who I’m guessing is still utterly oblivious to the imminent peril.
[over PA] “The ship will detonate in T-minus two minutes…AND COUNTING!”
Regrettably Kane is just gonna have to fend for himself on this occasion as there isn’t sufficient time to make it to the mess hall and back. At least he’ll perish with his cheeks stuffed I suppose. As for Jones, well I feel somewhat obliged now to await his return although, given the fact that he appears to have disintegrated out there in dead space, I’d say that solves the mystery of what life he was up to. Thank you for your selfless act and I will light a Roman candle in your honor if I ever make it back to mission control. For now, I feel a spot of dashing coming on.
[over PA] “The ship will detonate in T-minus one minute. WARNING! WARNING!”
Come off it, that wasn’t even a minute. Is this bitch trying to tell me something or what? Honestly I don’t know what Bonus Brain ever saw in her. All she seems programmed for is nagging and this was supposed to be a monumental evening for me. Instead, I’m expected to be at her beck and call, and the food was hardly up to restaurant standards either. I’ve a good mind to write a scathing letter highlighting every last one of my grievances. Oh look who just crawled out of the air vent looking like wear’s worst. It’s only fucking Dallas or, at least, that’s what the blood-soaked beard suggests.
Not sure I have it in me when push comes to shove. Can’t I just leave him some morphine shots?
[over PA] “The ship will detonate in T-minus thirty seconds. GET OFF THE POT! I REPEAT. GET OFF THE POT”
Guess that answers my question. With all things considered, he is the top dog, and clearly stated that he should take responsibility for his own vessel. Sayonara Captain Dallas and I’ll give Dynasty your regards if I ever make it prime time.
Thirty seconds isn’t a great deal of time to skedaddle. Any chance of an extension?
[over PA] “Fifteen seconds”
Depression it is then. And to think I was going to perform a sexy strip for the Grueheads as well. Ta-ta Nostromo. Thanks for the memories. Now which button ejects this escape pod anyhoots? 1-2-3. Tally ho!
Phew. Lucky guess. Judging by the taste of skin on my teeth right now, I’d say that was one of those close shaves Gillette keep banging on about and I’m thrilled to report that, while last supper left rather a lot to be considered desirable, both myself and my associate have made it to the awkward drive home part of the date and I’m up to 30,000 on the lucky stars count already. I will say this (and trust that you keep it under those Trillbies), I’ve never seen him looking so lovely as he did tonight. Indeed, I’ve never seen him shine so bright. I’ve never felt so much like asking him if he wanted to dance. I’m looking for a quick hand job, given half a chance. Did I just say that? Could it be that I’m developing some kind of schoolgirl crush? On Bonus Brain? Have I misplaced the plot entirely? Tell me the truth, did you see it coming? Is that why the room falls silent every time I enter? So it’s not my personal hygiene after all then? Guys?…Guys?
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Grueheads Films 2016