Can’t see. Must wipe the sweat from my tormented brow. That’s it… that’s got it. Finished… my work here is through! And now for the final… OH, MAN-GODDAMN!
Hey, out there. How long has it been since you were last here? A week, already? I’ve spent practically that whole time trying to fix my A-90 keyboard controller. I suppose if you were to be charitable about it, you could describe me as technically challenged. And with help of the sort you get from Mitch Macaphee (Big Green‘s mad science advisor) and Marvin (my personal robot assistant), I feel like the proverbial one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Hell, if this is a horse race, I’m the nag hopping along on one hoof. (Hmmmm… what other colorfully rustic aphorisms can I employ here?) It’s hard enough trying to prepare for a tour under these conditions. But when you’re also dealing with the uncaring vacuum of space, it’s, well, kind of life-threatening.
Speaking of life threatening, the man-sized tuber has volunteered to cook dinner this evening. It’s not so much a new thing as the revival of an old thing, as a matter of fact. Tubey once imagined a career as a Julia Child-type television chef, cooking down-home favorites like mushroom pie and baloney sandwich casserole – you know, the kinds of dishes you grew up vomiting… I mean, relishing. (By which I mean you smothered them with relish to kill the 
highly repugnant flavors.) I suppose it goes without saying that Tubey never realized his dream-career, but isn’t that the case for most of us, eh? How many of you out there wanted to be space men or jet pilots or mountain climbers or steamship captains? (Only three? C’mon – it’s got to be more than just three of you!)
And while we’re on the subject of steamship captains (I feel a transition coming on), it’s only fair to warn you that Admiral Gonutz is now on the job, in the house, etc., as our interstellar tour coordinator. Has he ever coordinated an interstellar tour before? Well… that answer has to be no. But he has a lot of relevant experience. He has driven a boat. (Boats are kind of like spacecraft.) He has spent time on tropical islands (often mistaken by viewers of sixties television programs as alien planets). I think this experience will serve us well in the great beyond. The admiral has already plastered his walls with charts of terra incognita – though I think most of them are old maps of Patagonia, and I don’t mean the boutique.
Well, got to go. I can smell dinner already. And I’ve broken yet another A-90 key, so it’s probably time to take my chances with the stew.
Hey, there. Just starting to plan out our trip to the outer limits. No, not the sixties television show – that was a piece of broadcast entertainment, not a place you can actually go to. I mean the outer limits of the space-time continuum, already – that dark pocket of nothingness where all of the demand for Big Green performances floats in a vacuum like a cork in a bathtub. We must pursue that cork, my friends, for it beckons. The cork beckons! Behold, the cork! Death to Moby Dick! Right, well…. be that as it may. (I’ve been hanging around with anti-Lincoln a bit too much lately – he sometimes doest this extended riff on Captain Ahab and, well, he’s kind of convincing with that beard of his.) We must follow the demand, whatever cliff it may lead us off of.
Assisting us in this tiresome duty is our old friend, Rear Admiral Gonutz (ret.), formerly of the Naval Reserve. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) looked him up at our request when we realize that this was a job several magnitudes too subtle for the mind of the man-sized tuber, who has been filling in as our road manager. (He basically occupied roughly the same volume of space as a road manager might; other than that, not much.) As some of you might remember, Gonutz is not shy. He believes in aggressive touring – musical “shock and awe”, as it were, at least in terms of the itinerary. I personally think he is insisting on Jupiter because he’s fond of the club scene, but that’s just a suspicion. (I’m chock bloody full of suspicions.) Proud man.