Space Gods

"Captain’s Diary. SpaceDate: 4000," the captain wrote aloud. "We have encountered a large, non-moving planet blocking our way to Spring Break on Crabula 17. Mister Yusogai, navigator, suggests we go around. And he would, the pussy. I, Captain Basil J. Ashram, have never lost a stare-down, and I don’t see anything in my DayPlanner about starting today."

"There are no signs of intelligent life on the planet, captain," explained Mister Dickey, the science officer. "Or… oh, wait. Sorry, captain. I had the sensors pointed at our ship. I’ll try that again."

"Beam me down, Mister Chips!" the captain demanded.

"Captain, for the last time, we don’t have beaming technology," explained the technician, Chin. "What you saw was a commercial."

"What?" questioned the captain. "Well then order me one of those things, and pronto!"

"It was a commercial for sneakers, captain," explained Chin. "That technology does not yet exist. I’ll be sending you down to the planet in a landing pod as usual."

"My eye you will! Get me a parachute!"

"But captain, in space—"

"Scratch that, make it two parachutes in case the first one doesn’t open," the captain corrected, upon further reflection. "And pack them good, I don’t want to pull that cord and have an anvil come out like last time."

"Affirmative, captain. No more anvils."

"And while you’re at it, get me some new sneakers," the captain ordered. "Fast sneakers."

"Uh—"

"Ensign, these eggs are tough!" shouted the captain suddenly, his mouth full.

"Captain, uh that looks like the rubber display food from the cafeteria deck," explained Ensign Drummond. "Let me just—"

"Leggo my eggo, shithead!"

Drummond recoiled in sissy fashion and retreated to his hole.

"So let me get this straight," pontificated Captain Ashram. "No beaming technology, and the eggs are chewy. Sorry everybody, I made a mistake earlier in my log when I said ’SpaceDate 4000.’ I didn’t realize we were still in the year… four HUNDRED!"

No one laughed.

"All right, fire up the poop deck," the captain recovered. "We’re going down there to kick some planetary ass."

"Captain," began Dickey. "According to our sensors, that planet’s atmosphere is made up almost entirely of sulfur. You wouldn’t last a—"

"Atmosphere, ay?" pontificated the captain. "In that case, get me a coal-burning stove, two SUVs and a can of hair spray. We’re going down there to kick some environmental ass."

"Yessir, Captain. Do you also want your NRA hat?"

"I ain’t going down there naked, Mister Dickey."


For more of this great story, buy Howie Dudat’s
Space Gods

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