Don’t see it? Well look again. That flaring star. That’s the sun… our sun. The sun the earth orbits. Its temperature is so high it can turn this ship’s hull to butter… and we’re heading straight for it!
Yikes… didn’t know anyone was listening, there. Just rehearsing my lines for the upcoming Lost In Space favorite episodes playoff. Haven’t heard of it? Not surprised. Oh… did you think I was talking about our own interstellar travels just then? Heh heh heh…. No, no. Not a bit of it. The flaring star we’re headed straight towards is not the Earth’s sun. It’s another star, far hotter than our own… a blue dwarf, as it were. And it won’t reduce our hull to butter. Oh, no… just vaporize it entirely, along with everything inside. So there’s a difference between television melodrama and the real thing, my friends, and don’t you forget it. Hollywood is the land of butter hulls. In real life, the term of art is “vaporization”. Write it down, underline it. Now, what was I going to say? Ah, yes. ARRRRGGGHHHHHHHH!!!
Okay, I’ve caught my breath. Here’s the thing. Our pilot, Urich Von Braun, was able to get us off the mysterious Planet Neuton all right. Trouble is, he’s obsession prone. Recall that his obsessive behavior is what put us on that 
clownish little globe in the first place. (Still can’t get that freaking ceremonial hat off my head. I’ve put a call in to our agent to complain.) So… he spotted what looked like a little blue marble in the firmament… a deadly blue marble, as it turns out. Hot as blue blazes. Before we could say “Urich, Nooooooooooooooo….!” he pointed that nosecone towards the blue dot and stepped on the “gas”. And hence… trouble.
Not that everyone on board is all that worked up about the imminent prospect of being seared to a crisp. (Or vaporized to a wisp.) Take Marvin (my personal robot assistant) … please. Marvin’s gotten more spam from that financial planner guy named “Remington Tagget”. He really thinks this guy is his personal investment counselor! I’ve tried to explain to Marvin that you really need to have investments if you’re going to retain one of those, but 
he doesn’t hear my words. Not a syllable. This Tagget guy keeps giving him reinforcement, though. He sent him a holiday message on Friday:
Hi Marvin,
Best wishes for a happy holiday & successful New Year from the entire team here at Direct Capital!
Please click here to view a special mes-sage for On Time Van Trans In.
Warm Wishes,
Remington Tagget
I’ll tell you, man. That wireless router has got some serious range. (Or should I say, Sirius range.) Anyway, here comes the sun…. The one pleasure we’ll get out of this is to watch Smith fry.
homophobe preacher.) But sometimes events overtake us… events in the shape of a size ten shoe. Actually, two size ten shoes, tossed quite skillfully at the commander in chief himself, who dodged them – also quite skillfully – much as he’s been able (up to this point, at least) to dodge responsibility for the mass death and destruction he has brought down upon Iraq. This was for the widows and orphans and the thousands killed, said Muntazer al-Zaidi as he hummed the second limo at our fearless (or clueless) leader. My first thought was, huh… an anger so pervasive that it was able to penetrate even the octuple security of the Green Zone’s inner sanctum and make the president duck. And, as I’m sure someone has observed, it was no lame duck…. quite adept. Makes me wonder if people chuck things at him more than we know. (Barney, perhaps?)
invasion, just as there remains to be any acknowledgement of how much they had suffered under the preceding dozen years of truly murderous economic sanctions and the destruction of the 1991 Gulf War. Their resentment of American intervention in their nation has been evident from day one. Even when our military orchestrated the pull-down of Saddam’s statue in the square packed with Chalabi’s people, cordoned off from the general public, they couldn’t keep signs of resistance out of the carefully composed television images. I can remember the flustered T.V. commentator reading on-air the sign that read “Go Home You U.S. Wankers”, fully expecting it to be some kind of celebratory message. In the midst of a whirlwind of triumphalist press about our successful invasion and drive to Baghdad, there was that irrepressible anomaly that presaged the great unraveling that was to follow.
Trouble with being on the road is you never know what town you’re waking up in. Or what planet. That’s bad enough when you have a set itinerary, but with Big Green… mother of pearl! Even when you’ve got your wits about you, it’s hard to figure out where the hell you’re playing. Like this little planetoid Urich our pilot drove us into. It’s not on any astronomical charts. It’s as yet undiscovered and unacknowledged by the scientific community. So, when we walk out on stage to do a few numbers, what the hell do we shout out to the crowd of hideously misshapen extraterrestrial concert-goers? “Helllooooooooo……. whatever!” Got any suggestions? Let us know, damn it. It’s disorienting, and I’m about as disorientated as anyone needs to be. (Except maybe the man-sized tuber… only he’s got a terrarium.)
just culture shock, I guess. There are more practical concerns. For instance, transportation is a serious issue. About the only way you can get anywhere on this planet is either by cramming into a tiny vehicle with about 20 Neutonians in full traditional garb, or getting on a tiny one-wheeled conveyance and riding to your destination across a stretched cable. (They throw a spotlight on you while you’re doing it. It’s very unnerving.) And since when are there elephants on other planets? I’ve always thought of them as the quintessential Earth animal, but I guess I’m wrong. (Here they do tricks. Curious thing.)
down on his polished brass head. We finally convinced him to join us on stage, though he would only agree if we gave him a barrel to stand on and a small theatrical umbrella to hold absurdly over his head. (Only tubey seemed to enjoy the spotlight.) Later that evening, we were invited to the local magistrate’s home for what was ostensibly a “meet and greet” event, during which an appalling assortment of Neutonians came up to us in their absurdly oversized footwear and performed their traditional greeting ritual, which involves shoving a sacred custard pie in each of our faces, then baptizing us with purified holy water sprayed out of a decorative lapel flower. This gets a little old… especially when the magistrate invites his entire extended family.