Lunch plus 5.



No sandwich? No matter. Open another can. Try one of those square ones. What's inside that one? I'll be damned. We must have taken the wrong cans. Domage!

Okay, so we don't have any Domage. What the hell are we supposed to eat up here in the middle of nowhere? NO MORE CHESSE-BASED SNACK FOODS! I'VE HAD IT WITH THAT GARBAGE! (Hopefully the Cheese-It people don't read this blog - I'd hate like hell to loose that endorsement money.)

Well, as you can see, we are bobbing through space in our rented space craft, foraging for sustenance, flipping through superannuated star charts, hoping for a break in our navigational quandary. Sadly, Big Green didn't have the budget for a proper navigator, so once again, we have pressed Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, into the pilot's couch. (Stool, actually. As I said, this is a cheap rental.) Our first destination? Neptune. Back to Neptune once again, where the bars are always open, the streets are always molten, and the sun is always obscured by deadly clouds of methane gas. Kind of like L.A., actually.

Okay, so here I am in deep space, sitting back, strumming on my beat-up Martin, waiting for someone to open a can of something edible, and I start hearing alarm bells. My first thought is, "Meteor storm!" The very thought sends Marvin (my personal robot assistant) into the automatonic version of cardiac arrest. He scrambles to a random control panel and starts throwing switches. Expecting the worst, I don the nearest empty beer ball and hold my breath. The alarm sounds again. Out of the galley walks Lincoln with a microwave burrito. Cancel red alert. I SAID CANCEL!!! Thank you.

Well, I apologize. I may be a bit space happy. (Or space not-so-happy, more likely.) Our destination is a small, white dot that gets a wee bit larger with each passing hour. That's potentially a good thing, depending upon what that dot becomes when it's large enough to see in detail. Will it become Neptune, or perhaps a white dwarf star? I know not. Ask Matt, he knows. I ... know ... not.

Man oh man, I hope one of these cans has a sandwich in it. I'm about to freaking pass out. Try the triangular one - it might be one of those automat egg salad jobs.

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