What to bring?
I don't know. Do we really need a hibachi? We're all vegetarians, except for Marvin, who only eats electricity and petroleum distillates. Well... okay, then.
Hi, friend of Big Green. What are they doing now? It's called getting ready for an interstellar tour, as yet unnamed, to support extraterrestrial sales of our most recent album, Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick. It took us long enough, but we did secure adequate transport for the seemingly impossible journey ahead of us. (Carl Sagan would say it is simply impossible, but he is not available to comment. Ergo ... it's possible.) Some over-the-road hauler dragged the missile here from the Moon, where its (asshole) owner left it for our retrieval. Jesus H. Christ, the company brought the craft all the way from Neptune, but apparently thought the moon was close enough.
The accommodations on board, mind you, are a tad spare. Spartan, you might say. Ever read a book by one of the original NASA astronauts? Yeah, it's kind of like that. A bit like a t.v. submarine, only with rocket engines instead of propellers and no periscope. I'm no Wilt Chamberlain, and I have to duck down low to get under the rafters. And the cockpit is full of retro-looking levers and switches. One of the toggles is marked, "Kill" - not sure
what that does. I wonder ... if you switch it back and forth, does something, somewhere, cease to exist and then come back to life again? Important question.
On a rack in the control room is about a dozen pressure suits that look like something out of a 1960s sci-fi movie. You know - the ones with accordion-like joints and white crash helmets with visors. I'm guessing that means there is no artificial atmosphere in this beast, but I'm counting on someone with some technical knowledge to determine that for us. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has been serving as a surrogate mad scientist while Mitch Macaphee continues to enjoy his hammock in Madagascar (if that is where he truly is, the bounder!).
We need all the help we can get. Now, where did I pack my packing list? Hmmmmm....
Hi, friend of Big Green. What are they doing now? It's called getting ready for an interstellar tour, as yet unnamed, to support extraterrestrial sales of our most recent album, Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick. It took us long enough, but we did secure adequate transport for the seemingly impossible journey ahead of us. (Carl Sagan would say it is simply impossible, but he is not available to comment. Ergo ... it's possible.) Some over-the-road hauler dragged the missile here from the Moon, where its (asshole) owner left it for our retrieval. Jesus H. Christ, the company brought the craft all the way from Neptune, but apparently thought the moon was close enough.
The accommodations on board, mind you, are a tad spare. Spartan, you might say. Ever read a book by one of the original NASA astronauts? Yeah, it's kind of like that. A bit like a t.v. submarine, only with rocket engines instead of propellers and no periscope. I'm no Wilt Chamberlain, and I have to duck down low to get under the rafters. And the cockpit is full of retro-looking levers and switches. One of the toggles is marked, "Kill" - not sure
what that does. I wonder ... if you switch it back and forth, does something, somewhere, cease to exist and then come back to life again? Important question.
On a rack in the control room is about a dozen pressure suits that look like something out of a 1960s sci-fi movie. You know - the ones with accordion-like joints and white crash helmets with visors. I'm guessing that means there is no artificial atmosphere in this beast, but I'm counting on someone with some technical knowledge to determine that for us. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has been serving as a surrogate mad scientist while Mitch Macaphee continues to enjoy his hammock in Madagascar (if that is where he truly is, the bounder!).
We need all the help we can get. Now, where did I pack my packing list? Hmmmmm....
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