Feeling: Slight Space Madness
Day 21 of smuggling mission. Doppelganger Christmas tree alien neutralized. Ship still smells great. It’s another holiday already – New Year’s.
Irrelevant to some, I find the antiquated holiday a sign of hope in a lonely galaxy. Most aliens know nothing of the Earth and its insignificant journey around a petering sun. Then again, most aliens are foolish enough to just probe and mutilate cows, failing in the basics of making a decent hamburger. Sadder still, even some humans are indifferent to New Year’s.
New Year’s reminds us of a simpler time before Al Gore dimmed the Sun with his endless greed for “Solar Energy” and getting older was still in fashion. Like today, Dick Clark would discuss balls for two and a half hours, and people would sing Auld Lang Syne without knowing the name of the song, much less any of the words. It is also a time for delusion for some – A juice maker? How many hours will that ambition last Aunt Carol? – and a time for great introspection for others.
Luckily, I am the best at introspection, just like humility and temperament, and I will blast any man who suggests otherwise. Therefore, after careful consideration, I will carry-out the following resolutions for this next year, or die trying.
Never crash my starship into a planet full of spiders.
Over the past year, I’ve survived Planet Arachnid III, Planet Arachnid II, and forty-three other unnamed spider-filled planets in the Tarantula Nebula. I would gladly trade my wife for the chance to never encounter a spider-based planet again.
Second, learn more about wife trading.
Third, read more great works of nonfiction, such as this well-researched monograph on the lives of the humans living under the rule of Ms. Halo.
Fourth, break my chemical dependence on Space Smack.
Not the drug, but the cereal with the cartoon frog. Perhaps a larger dosage of harmless ole Earth heroin would diminish the urges.
Fifth, make greater biweekly contributions to my 401(k).
If I forgot this list by January 3rd, it will be because of the memory-destroying effects of delicious Space Smack – or just normal forgetting. In any case, if you’re reading this message right now, I’m either dead, or you’re investigating me for racketeering and smuggling, in which case, pretty please with cherries on top, do not read previous entries.
Also, happy New Year’s Earth, you spunky, miniscule blue dot.