Jean Sprat in Wonderland: Part 1 (republished)

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 05.08.3001

Part 1

I go over the last few days and I want to vomit. It hasn't happened yet. After running to the bathroom twice now, I've only come away with the nasty taste of acid reflux. Surely, someday, when I look back on the events that took place, I'll wonder if I didn't just run my head into the wall a dozen times or so and imagined the whole thing in some sort of comatose delirium. It's all just so bizarre and unbelievable it actually makes more sense that I was abducted and fed false memories. There are certainly species in the universe that have such abilities. Maybe I was out partying too hard with Dr. Leary. I'm sure there is a bevy of noxious fumes at Dr. Leary's disposal that could make me hallucinate for several days.

It all started at Regina Five. The Slurs, after colliding with us and pulverizing our engines, needed to tow us into space dock in order to repair the Liberace. Regina Five wouldn't have been my first choice, but it was the closest. The space dock is quite infamous for its ill repute ever since the Guinness Book of Universal Records honored Regina Five for most punctured eardrums due to interspecies misunderstandings of anatomy.

Luckily, I had found in a remote section on level five, a quaint little cafe and pastry shop. The owner was a Pendore-bat, a species known for its incessant and sometimes insufferable optimism. Of course, only a Pendore-bat would set up a cafe in Regina Five. I heard Starbucks tried to franchise there, but the entire shop was jettisoned into space by a customer with levitation abilities who had explicitly asked for a latte with skim milk and received whole.

I was sitting, enjoying a cup of vermouth mocha and a wonderful crumb cake when I happened to catch sight of a man entering the cafe. Right at that moment I was taking a sip, and I thought for sure I was going to snort mocha.

It couldn't be, I thought. It's impossible. For one, I thought I had imagined the whole thing before. For another, what were the odds that I would find him here in a remote cafe on Regina Five of all places?

There he was though. The same face, the same red hair, the same eyes that had stared down upon me several years ago. It was the only face that I could remember – the last face I saw before waking up and realizing that I was no longer a woman, but had been changed into a man.

There, unmistakably, was the red-headed Yo-Yo Ma.

Getting to Know the Crew, Jean Sprat (republished)

The story of Jean Sprat and the Red-headed Yo-Yo Ma is finished and coming your way. Here's a refresher of what has happened thus far.

Official Transcript of Interview with 1st Mate Jean Sprat (republished)

While serving as 1st Mate on the Battle Cruiser Wendigo under the command of Admiral Jonathan Ludwig Sr., 1st Mate Jean Sprat was attacked on an away mission to Aldercott. Eighteen days later a search crew found her shuttle adrift in space and an unconscious male aboard. That male after DNA testing was determined to be Jean Sprat.

Here is Jean Sprat's official interview following that event.

Interviewer: Is it true that you used to be female?

Sprat: Yes.

Interviewer: And now you're male?

Sprat: Isn't that obvious?

Interviewer: Right. Do you know how this mishap occurred?

Sprat: Mishap? A broken leg is a mishap. A fender-bender is a mishap. I have a f*&$ing d#@k, you moron.

Interviewer: Yes, I'm sorry. We're just curious how it happened.

Sprat: How the hell should I know? All I remember is being attacked and losing consciousness during the firefight. I woke up only once before I was rescued and I'm pretty sure I was drugged.

Interviewer: What did you see when you woke up?

Sprat: Nothing important.

Interviewer: Just describe what you saw.

Sprat: Look, this may sound crazy, but I swear I saw the original Yo-Yo Ma – not that cyborg hack that plays for the Pluto Orchestra. He had red hair and he was standing over me holding a cello made out of spiral pasta. He was completely naked, and I found it very odd that he didn't have any genitalia. Incidentally he was a natural red head.

Interviewer: Yo-Yo Ma?

Sprat: Look, I said I was probably drugged you dip-s@#t. Why are we here? I want to be out there hunting down the a$$hole that did this to me and force him to give back my t$ts and ovaries. I'm a pissed off woman with a c#$k. Don't f*#k with me.

Interviewer: Right, how about we take a short break.

Little more could be gleaned from Sprat's memory. A UIN warrant was issued for a sexless species, or possibly a unisex species with reddish hair and resembling a 20th century classic cellist, but the search still continues without much success.

Dr. Leary Sample Poetry #2

I know, I know, I'm wwwwaaaaayyyy behind. Lately I've been devoting my time to working on my second book, "Demontastic", and I've neglected the S.S. Liberace. Stick with me here, Jean Sprat's story will be told. In the mean time, here is some lovely poetry by our dear Dr. Leary.

-Ryan Robbins

Poetry by Dr. Timothy Leary XII

Essence of the Haiku

One two three four five,
I'm trying to make this rhyme
In five – seven – five


Stuck in a bathroom in Starbucks at Outpost Larry – Curly – Moe
#1

The graffiti says
Call here if you want a lay,
Or just a play date

Stuck in a Bathroom in Starbucks at Outpost Larry – Curly – Moe
#2

Flush – flush goes the bowl
Down and down into the hole
Where to no one knows.


Haiku #122

It is not a crime
To drink coke and turpentine
With a slice of lime.


Haiku #143

Love is a long road
When her face looks like a goat
And feet like a toad's


Flashback to the time when I was stuck in a bathroom in Starbucks at Outpost Larry – Curly – Moe

The head as my bed,
Where many defecated.
I wish I was dead.

A note from your exalted author, Ryan Robbins

I know, I know...it's been some time since the last entry of the S.S. Liberace, and I left you hanging with the red-headed Yo-Yo Ma...but hey, I've got to take a break sometime. Think of it as a television show, and this is the cliff hanger of season one. Now you've got to wait a while before you can read the conclusion and will ultimately be disappointed because I have failed to live up to expectations - just like Fox TV.

Until then, I'm going to enjoy my little summer break and spend some time with my significant other. As J-Lud would put it..."I'm gonna be crunchin' with my Betty while slappin' back a forty. If da pad's a rockin', come on in, cuz I'm a freak like that..." or something along those lines.

See you September 1st bee-atch!

Jean Sprat in Wonderland, Part 1/4

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 05.08.3001

(Part 1)

I go over the last few days and I want to vomit. It hasn't happened yet. After running to the bathroom twice now, I've only come away with the nasty taste of acid reflux. Surely, someday, when I look back on the events that took place, I'll wonder if I didn't just run my head into the wall a dozen times or so and imagined the whole thing in some sort of comatose delirium. It's all just so bizarre and unbelievable it actually makes more sense that I was abducted and fed false memories. There are certainly species in the universe that have such abilities. Maybe I was out partying too hard with Dr. Leary. I'm sure there is a bevy of noxious fumes at Dr. Leary's disposal that could make me hallucinate for several days.

It all started at Regina Five. The Slurs, after colliding with us and pulverizing our engines, needed to tow us into space dock in order to repair the Liberace. Regina Five wouldn't have been my first choice, but it was the closest. The space dock is quite infamous for its ill repute ever since the Guinness Book of Universal Records honored Regina Five for most punctured eardrums due to interspecies misunderstandings of anatomy.

Luckily, I had found in a remote section on level five, a quaint little cafe and pastry shop. The owner was a Pendore-bat, a species known for its incessant and sometimes insufferable optimism. Of course, only a Pendore-bat would set up a cafe in Regina Five. I heard Starbucks tried to franchise there, but the entire shop was jettisoned into space by a customer with levitation abilities who had explicitly asked for a latte with skim milk and received whole.

I was sitting, enjoying a cup of vermouth mocha and a wonderful crumb cake when I happened to catch sight of a man entering the cafe. Right at that moment I was taking a sip, and I thought for sure I was going to snort mocha.

It couldn't be, I thought. It's impossible. For one, I thought I had imagined the whole thing before. For another, what were the odds that I would find him here in a remote cafe on Regina Five of all places?

There he was, though. The same face, the same red hair, the same eyes that had stared down upon me several years ago. It was the only face that I could remember – the last face I saw before waking up and realizing that I was no longer a woman, but had been changed into a man.

There, unmistakably, was the red-headed Yo-Yo Ma.

Getting to Know the Crew, Jean Sprat

Official Transcript of Interview with 1st Mate Jean Sprat.

While serving as 1st Mate on the Battle Cruiser, Wendigo under the command of Admiral Jonathan Ludwig Sr., 1st Mate Jean Sprat was attacked on an away mission to Aldercott. Eighteen days later a search crew found her shuttle adrift in space and an unconscious male aboard. That male after DNA testing was determined to be Jean Sprat.

Here is Jean Sprat's official interview following that event.

Interviewer: Is it true that you used to be female?

Sprat: Yes.

Interviewer: And now you're male?

Sprat: Isn't that obvious?

Interviewer: Right. Do you know how this mishap occurred?

Sprat: Mishap? A broken leg is a mishap. A fender-bender is a mishap. I have a f*&$ing d#@k, you moron.

Interviewer: Yes, I'm sorry. We're just curious how it happened.

Sprat: How the hell should I know? All I remember is being attacked and losing consciousness during the firefight. I woke up only once before I was rescued and I'm pretty sure I was drugged.

Interviewer: What did you see when you woke up?

Sprat: Nothing important.

Interviewer: Just describe what you saw.

Sprat: Look, this may sound crazy, but I swear I saw the original Yo-Yo Ma – not that cyborg hack that plays for the Pluto orchestra. He had red hair and he was standing over me holding a cello made out of spiral pasta. He was completely naked, and I found it very odd that he didn't have any genitalia. Incidentally he was a natural red head.

Interviewer: Yo-Yo Ma?

Sprat: Look, I said I was probably drugged you dip-s@#t. Why are we here? I want to be out there hunting down the a$$hole that did this to me and force him to give back my t$ts and ovaries. I'm a pissed off woman with a c#$k. Don't f*#k with me.

Interviewer: Right, how about we take a short break.


Little more could be gleaned from Sprat's memory. A UIN warrant was issued for a sexless species, or possibly a unisex species with reddish hair and resembling a 20th century classical cellist, but the search still continues without much success.

Jean Sprat is now the official liaison to the Commodore on the S.S. Liberace.

Greeg'u's Punishment, Emperor Plu'boi. Part 3/3

Selection from Arcadian Emperor Plu'boi's Memoirs. 05.05.3001

(English Translation)

Today was a good day. I got to put some poor schmuck through the Flooed Gauntlet. It was hysterical. I laughed so hard I wet my throne. By far the Flooed Gauntlet was the best punishment I ever came up with. It was funny enough that I decreed that the reproductive organs of humans are trophies of war, and then everyone started putting them on their mantles and bedside tables. Being such an enigmatic ruler, I took it a step further and invented a reprimand where I get to watch somebody get lambasted with testicles – it's just priceless.

Oh, it's so good to be Emperor.

I'm thinking of going even further – maybe douse the punished in something really sticky, and then cover them in human hair before bombarding them with human genitals. That'll get so many laughs. I've heard of a human custom called "show tunes". As an added kick we could dress them up in a ball gown and make them perform these "show tunes." You can't go wrong with really hairy and emasculated live entertainment.

Oh, I might as well get a throne that flushes.

Greeg'u's Punishment, Greeg'u. Part 2/3

Personal Journal. 1st Lieutenant Greeg'u. 05.05.3001.

(English Translation)

Today I went before the Arcadian High Command to hear their judgment on my failure. I was much surprised to see Emperor Plu'boi in attendance, and even more amazed that he was there to pass judgment personally. After my crime was read back to me, Plu'boi stood to a thunderous applause by the hundreds in attendance and with two words determined my punishment.

"Flooed Gauntlet," he yelled to an equally boisterous applause.

On the outside I was careful to keep my head held high and level and my tentacles in a respectable motion, but inside I was drowning in mortification. The Flooed Gauntlet is one of the most grievous humiliations. It was devised by Emperor Plu'boi himself, and entails the condemned to walk a long stretch of road with counsel members crowding the sidewalk on either side of you. As you walk, the counsel members pelt you with the testicles of captured humans. Since the conflict with those repugnant humans began, their reproductive sacks have been considered prized trophies. So to be bludgeoned by human testicles is a vile degradation.

Still, I am an Arcadian, and I walked the Flooed Gauntlet with as much dignity as I could muster, even as testicle after testicle in varying degrees of freshness, slapped against my exposed body.

Despite the jeers by all who watched and the lasciviousness of the situation, Emperor Plu'boi appeared impressed at my resolve to accept my punishment. He has granted me the opportunity to regain my pride which can only be achieved by hunting down the vile humans that escaped me in the first place.

When I returned home I threw out my past trophies. I'm about to start a new collection. It will begin with the testicle of the commander of that ship – the one our intelligence has discovered to be the S.S. Liberace.

Death to humans.

Greeg'u's Punishment, Plu'ngi. Part 1/3

Personal Journal. Plu'ngi, Wife to Arcadian 1st Lieutenant Greeg'u. 05.05.3001.

(English Translation)

Oh, my poor, wonderful Greeg'u – my pitiable husband. How I wish I could whisk away the past few weeks for him, and save him from the humiliation he has endured. He came home a week ago, dejected, head hanging low and totally beside himself. There was almost no life left in his tentacles, and he just lumbered to the couch, turned on the proto viewer and watched game shows all day and infomercials about floor wax. It took me the whole afternoon pestering my husband before he would explain what was wrong.

"I totally 'flooed the coodle' (screwed the pooch)," Greeg'u said. "After what I did I'll be lucky to be a commander of a sewage transport."

Apparently he abandoned an extremely important mission into human territory because of a misinterpretation of mission codes. He allowed a human vessel to escape, compromising an assault that had been planned for months.

I tried to console him, but he just moped around the house in his bathrobe drinking hot cocoa, and playing with his collection of human testicles.

Then today, Greeg'u went before the Arcadian High Command to answer for his actions. He refused to allow me to attend, not wanting me to see his embarrassment. When he returned Greeg'u refused to say what happened, but he went straight to his office and dumped his entire testicle collection in the incinerator – even the one that looks like the Arcadian celebrity, Sung'du'kee, which Greeg'u has pined over since he sliced it from the human's scrotum.

I don't know what happened, but at least he will be allowed to make amends. He ships out tomorrow, which means I should give my husband a very special night to remember. I'll have to break out the lotions and jiggle-nibblers.

Death to humans.

A Brief Description of the Arcadians

United Intergalactic Nation (UIN) Archives:

A Brief Description of Arcadians

The Arcadians are a skeletal looking creature, often referred to with the cliché "skin and bones". Their head is asymmetrical, being more prominent to their left side. They have two eyes, two slits that may or may not representa a nose, and no distinguishable mouth, hair, or ears. The odd shaped head is perched on a stick of a neck. Their chest is a spatter of ribs with a bit of flesh stretched over them, and a long, slender torso. Their legs when at rest resemble frog shaped legs, but rather than hop, their legs work on rotator cups – one at the hip and one at the knee. When they move, their legs rotate in a forward or backwards motion in a pedal like fashion. Instead of walking or hopping, they sort of motor.

Arcadians have four arms – two on either side. They are boneless appendages, comprised mostly of ligaments and muscles. The arms are constantly moving, flittering about them like wiry ribbons. When they "motor", their arms are less fanatical and take on a wave like motion. Their speech or means of communication is a "gulping" of the throat, sort of like a bull frog. To humans they sound like they are saying "gump", "gump", over and over, but the Arcadian language is known to be quite diverse.

It is often disputed when the rivalry between humans and Arcadians began, but Buck O'Neal, the famed UIN Captain and Adventurer attributes the ill will back to his first encounter with the species. Apparently, Arcadians find hair, especially human hair to be truly disgusting physical traits. During that first contact, the Arcadians were quite insistent that they be allowed to shave every bit of hair off all the humans' bodies. O'Neal, who was heading up the peaceful delegation, and who is well known for his flowing golden locks, poignantly refused the Arcadians saying, "Hey, your head looks like a mailbox, but I'm not about to start whacking it with a baseball bat." Relations went downhill from there.

Slur Run In, Dr. Leary. Part 5/5

Personal Log. Dr. Timothy Leary XII. 04.25.3001

Haiku #62

My cure for the spins
is gin and hash with a hint
of fresh peppermint.

Slur Run In, Mao Ling. Part 4/5

Personal Log, Chief of Communications Mao Ling, 04.25.3001.

1st Mate Beck and I met with the Slurs that collided with our ship. I had met the Slurs once before. Given the state of my stomach and their grotesque appearance, I asked Dr. Leary to give me a nausea suppressant. When we greeted them 1st Mate Beck couldn't keep his cool. He barfed before we could even give our names. To say the least, the Slurs were not sure what to make of a human puking on their ship. As I am well accustomed with interspecies relations, there were a number of excuses that popped into my head, but I caught Beck checking out my ass on the way over to the Slur ship, so I couldn't help myself.

I explained to the Slurs that this is a common human greeting. They shrugged and regurgitated their lunch, which traditionally consists of mealworms and blood sausage. It had the desired result. Beck started hacking up meals he had ten years ago. Then, unfortunately, I felt a bit queasy myself. Despite the nausea suppressants, I began to vomit along with the rest of them. However, I believe this actually led to them not just repairing our engine, but improving them. It was like a weird and disgusting brotherhood was formed during our vomit share group, and the Slurs proved most generous.

Still, I've heard of blood brothers, but puke pals?

Slur Run In, 1st Mate Beck. Part 3/5.

Personal Log. 1st Mate Beck. 04.25.06

God damn Slurs. I should have vaporized their hairy asses. If it wasn't for our little side agreement, I would have hunted them down, skinned them and hung their grungy pelts from our hull. They would have mad a nice coat and maybe some slippers.

After the Liberace stopped spinning and I was able to get away from my toilette, Chief Communications Officer Mao Ling and I met with the Slurs. I had never encountered one before. They are sort of a cross between a slug, hippo and gorilla. Their fur was thick, but where you could see their gray skin it was scabbed and slimy. And the smell – oh god the smell.

I couldn't help it. I vomited before I could even shake their truncated flipper. Mao Ling said something to them, then for whatever reason, both Slurs started vomiting too. It was a chunky, yellow and green vomit that smelled like Tabasco and sour milk. So I vomited more. Then Lang started barfing and it was a good ten minutes of "guess what I had for lunch".

The Slurs did agree to repair our ship. I saw an opportunity and convinced Ling to talk the Slurs into actually giving our engines a little boost. Unfortunately they couldn't do anything for our weapons. As Ling explained it, a homemade potato gun would do more damage than a Slur phase cannon.

It was a lucky for Jean Sprat the collision occurred when it did. Before the accident, we were engaged in combat training and I was baiting him the whole time, completely pretending he was kicking my ass. I was about to unleash a whole world of hurt when we were hit by the Slurs.

Slur Run In, Jean Sprat. Part 2/5

Personal Log, Commodore's Liaison Jean Sprat. 04.25.30001

Today, a Slur Explorer clipped us, causing our thrusters to fail and turning the Liberace into a child's toy top. When the Liberace was struck, I was in battle simulations with 1st Mate Beck and we were pinned to the walls of the training room like mounted mackerel. When Pilot Vasquez finally managed to bring the ship under control, Beck and I gave the floor of the room a nice gooey vomit coating.

Later, after things had "settled", Chief of Communications Mao Ling and 1st Mate Beck met face to face with the Slurs. After a meeting that Beck refused to go into details about, and Ling could only snicker over, the Slurs have agreed to fix our engines.

However, our run-in with the Slurs (or their running into us) has caused a supply issue on the ship for Maylox DX. The collision had a ship-wide affect, creating varying degrees of illness throughout with the exception of Dr. Leary, who has apparently developed immunity to "the spins". Oddly enough, the debacle also cured Fergie, the Commodore's French poodle. After being frozen in space, and then rejuvenated by Dr. Leary, the poor dog could only walk upside down, sort of like a crab. We discovered high speed spinning temporarily solved the problem, but the collision with the Slurs has apparently cured Fergie permanently.

On a more personal note, I was upset that my training session with Beck was interrupted. I was kicking his precocious ass and was about to end our little competition with a strike to the wind-bags balls, when everything went to hell. I can't wait for the rematch – as soon as I can parry, thrust and slash without retching.

Slur Run In, Commodore Ludwig. Part 1/5

Personal Log. Commodore Ludwig. 04.25.3001.

Uh...gaw...J-Lud's got the blow chunks man. He's tossing cookies like a bulimic after a Girl Scout cookie rally. Not cool man, not cool.

We was cruzin' along, keepn' things melo' and on the d-low, when out of no where, some crazy kat side swiped us a mad fender bender. The impact took out our big rigs and left us without juice – y'know what I'm say'n.

Oh gawd, ug blurp...

That other kat bare-backed us a wooly one and it turned the old Liberace into a tilt awhirl, spinning us round and round on a not so merry go round.

Uh...grrrawl...blrawl....ga...

...before I knew it, I was a whirly bird flying all over the main deck. Cruel vibes, man. Cruel vibes.

I've been barfing up eggplant parm ever since.

burp...ggggrrraaaawwwlllbrlrbb...

A Brief History of the Slurs

United Intergalactic Nation (UIN) Archives:

A Brief History of the Slurs

The Slurs are a space travel capable species, whose home planet resides in the Nanook sector. They are a mammalian species recognized by their thick fur, of which they are quite insistent in calling burnt umber in color. Their most distinctive trait is that their sole purpose in life is not to have a sole purpose in life.

About four thousand years ago, the Slurs were a species of remarkable intelligence. It is even said that they had cracked the aged old puzzle, "What came first, the chicken or the egg?" Unfortunately, their race was nearly obliterated by an army of "Lurrquips", which is similar to a human invention called the Slinky. In an effort to create the never ending Lurrquip, the Slurs imbued them with a nuclear power supply and an artificial intelligence. Unfortunately the Lurrquips were tired of descending staircases over and over, and rebelled against their creators.

Since then the Slurs, go to extremes to stem their intelligence and prevent advancement. For example, Slur infants are induced with a stroke to retard their brain development. Most Slurs have severe facial and muscle damage because of this process. Due to their speech impediments, they were named the "Slurs". They have also adopted an attitude of "no goal in life" rationalizing that by not striving for anything, they'll never receive it.

Despite this, they have developed a star-ship capable of speeds dwarfing that of any vessel in the Intergalactic Armada. Unfortunately, due to their propensity towards misdirection, their ships are heavily lacking in navigation technology. Since they tend to run into things during their travels they have heavily armored hulls for protection, but woe to the ship that may lie in its path.

Voncats, Greeg'u. Part 4/4

Report to Arcadian Command by 1st Lieutenant Greeg'u. 04.15.3001.

(English Translation)

After high-jacking a Voncat ship, the task force was on route to the UIN outpost at Sigma Prime under the guise of a Voncat Peacekeeping envoy. Our mission was to sneak into the central command station in that sector and disable there defenses, whereby an Arcadian Fleet would takeover the sector. The plan was sound. This section of space is virtually unguarded by UIN patrols, the foul humans believing that it is beyond our touch. A successful mission would have granted us a sizeable advantage in our war against the insipid humans.

Five Hours from our destination, we encountered a UIN Cruiser. Keeping with our cover as Voncat Peacekeepers, we attempted to convince the repugnant humans that we wished to dine with them. When their commanders were on board we would have slaughtered them and then gorged on their insides in victory. By means that are beyond my reckoning, they saw through our plan and fired upon us.

We took up a position behind their ship and were preparing to target their engines when they emptied their waste. I was at first confounded by this strategy until our sensors picked up the signature of a canine corpse of poodle origin that had been scalded by high temperatures. This of course is the secret code to abort our mission. Only later did we discover it was all a ruse.

How the wretched humans were able to discover our mission codes, we'll never know, but their captain must be a cunning man in order to pull off such a feet. I will enjoy engaging him in battle and when I have defeated him I will drive an Arcadian lance up his anal cavity and mount him on the front hull of an Arcadian Raptor.

Death to humans.

Voncats, Jean Sprat. Part 3/4

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 04.15.3001.

The Commodore had a trying day, yesterday. First, he fell very ill. Apparently he forgot that he was allergic to clams and had New England clam chowder for lunch. He was delirious all night, claiming that thieves were out to steal the recipe for clam chowder.

Fergie #3, one of the Commodore's replacement poodles, met her end yesterday as well. Johnny Junior's pets have always had a low life expectancy, so I keep replacements close by just in case. Well, Fergie #1 is still walking upside down like a crab, and Fergie #2 was given to the Corinthian's to make amends for destroying a couple of their satellites, so I went to Fergie #3. It was just a matter of time, though before an unfortunate accident terminated on of the dogs. Unfortunately for Fergie #3, it met quite a gruesome death. Likely due to his illness, Johnny Junior, went to give Fergie#3 a bath and inadvertently set the shower sprays to clean a Cretian Dune Bug instead of canine. A Dune Bug, which can withstand extreme heat, is washed in significantly higher temperatures.

Luckily, I was able to dispose of the charred poodle corpse and replace it with Fergie #4 before Johnny Junior knew anything was amiss. That leaves me with one healthy dog, and another that looks like it's possessed by a demon.

While I was tossing Fergie #3 into the waste ballasts, apparently the severely ill Commodore had an unfortunate incident with a Voncat peacekeeping ship. At least that is the story 1st Mate, Beck spewed at me while ranting about the Commodore's incompetence. I tried to question him about the incident, but Beck was spitting so much vinegar I couldn't learn much.

It all seemed so strange. In my experience with the Voncats, they show as much interest in peacekeeping as they do in warfare. There's a Voncat proverb that states: Quibble during the day, apologize during the night, why not forget it all and drown ourselves in a pint.

Which reminds me of a lesson I learned while in a Voncat pub. Never do shots with a Voncat unless you want to make your bed on the barroom floor and wake up the next morning with nothing more on than a hangover.

Voncats, 1st Mate Beck. Part 2/4

Personal Log. Ludwig from 1st Mate Beck. 04.15.3001.

That moronic piece of varicose ass is going to have us busted down to shipping duty transporting herds of rat swine.* There is no way I'm letting Commodore Suck-nut flush my career down the crapper.

At approximately 1700 hours, Commodore Ludwig engaged in combat with a Voncat peacekeeping cruiser. Upon first contact, the Captain of the Voncat craft extended an invitation to dine with their crew where upon the Commodore inexplicably grabbed the controls for our forward phase cannons and fired upon the vessel. If Commodore Dim-wit's aim had been true, the poorly defended ship would have been annihilated. However, the Commodore's targeting was so poor you'd think a child who had been dropped on his head was playing with the controls. The Voncat ship took up a defensive position to our stern, unable to fight back.

Then, mumbling incoherently about New England clam chowder, the Commodore dumped our waste while trying to deploy a mine spread in our wake. Believing our own garbage was the wreckage of a destroyed ship, the Commodore ordered us to continue on our way.

Chief of Communication, Mao Ling tried to issue a sincere apology to the Voncat craft, but it flew beyond our scanners without a response. Later, it was determined that the Commodore may have been suffering from the flu. Personally I think he's a bombastic baboon fresh out of the booby hatch.

I don't care what Admiral's loins he's the rotted fruit of. One more, just one more cockamamie antic from that gangrenous cow teat and I'll atomically attach his head to his butt cheeks so he can see just how far I can shove my foot up his Hershey highway.


* A rat swine is a product of the cross genealogy craze in the 2990s. It is a half rodent, half pig splicing. Most such creatures were destroyed or died out due to the inability to reproduce. Rat swines, however, showed a propensity for survival and are incidentally delicious barbecued with a side of cheddar mashed potatoes.

Voncats, Commodore Ludwig, Part 1/4

Personal Log. Commodore Jonathan W. Ludwig Jr., 04.15.3001

Success! In the first combat engagement with an alien species by the Liberace, we handedly thwarted a dastardly plot by a Voncat Destroyer to steal some of our vital systems information. Upon initial contact, the Voncats opened fire on us, obviously trying to destroy our thrusters. We returned fire and a heated battle ensued. Their Captain who was a crafty adversary – a bow-wow with the know how – then set up in an attack position on our stern. Tactically a UIN cruiser is no match to the fire power of a Voncat Destroyer and if they had been able to bust a cap on the ol' Liberace, we would have been space dust. However, due to my totally dope strategizing, I emptied our waste ballasts and the Voncat craft was disabled as it flew through the refuse. That's one crack head that won't be dissn' J-Lud's posse again.

I ordered Mao Ling to call in for a UIN clean up crew. We could have mopped up those douche bags ourselves, but I felt it was more vital to continue with or mission to Terraquadonis.

I also issued a command today that every Friday, Chef will serve New England clam chowder for dinner. I've never been to New England, but if the Chef's soup is any indication of their cuisine, J-Lud is laying out his pad in N-Gland fer-sure bra'.

Prolific Prose

Sample poetry by Dr. Timothy Leary XII


Haiku #14

I am ill at ease
Seeing Joan Miro's paintings,
Cartoons of disease


Haiku #22

It's hard to doodle
Old people who canoodle
On beds of noodles


Haiku #48

Mix Gorgonzola
With a strain of Ebola
And get crap-ola

Getting to Know the Crew, Dr. Leary

A Brief Biography of Dr. Timothy Leary XII

Dr. Timothy Alfonse Leary XII is the descendent of the infamous 20th century Leary of the same name. Graduating from the Jamaican School of Medicine, Dr. Leary earned instant notoriety for his doctoral thesis on the healing effects of his ancestor's LSD drug when treating Mad Duck disease. It was an affliction the Doctor himself suffered from. He apparently had become infected with Mad Duck while experimenting with a fungus that grows on fowl dung.

Outside the medical field, the Doctor is also a writer of some cult popularity. He is most recognized for the volumes of Haiku poetry he has written. Dr. Leary is touted by many as spawning the "Regurgitation Movement" of the modern Haiku. Some of his more noted poems are Pickle my Feet, Greased Suppository and Euphoric Brownie. More recently Dr. Leary has abandoned titles for his works stating that a poem should stand on its own. It is often conjectured that he writes so many Haiku poems he has in fact just run out of ideas for titles. None the less, Dr. Leary now simply labels his poems as Haiku #32 or Haiku #56.

Not respected by all, one of Dr. Leary's more staunch critics, Snell Silverstein, lamented that Leary's work represented "carnival prose". In which Leary responded, "Blow my pole."

Besides poetry, Dr. Leary has also written "The Event Horizon of Cream Cheese." It's a novella about a man who believes a bagel's empty center is the black hole for cream cheese everywhere. Some speculate that the book is autobiographical.

The Story Thus Far...

Admiral Jonathan Ludwig Senior
04.13.3001

I have received the first report from 1st Mate Richard Beck on the S.S. Liberace's exploits thus far into its maiden voyage. Though it hasn't exactly been exemplary, at the very least no one is dead...yet. Given my son's past and his inexperience as a commander of a UIN vessel, I should be glad that the ship and the crew for the most part are still whole.

1st Mate Beck's writing style leaves something to be desired. I counted no less than fifteen words that would give it an NC-17 rating. As well, I am forced to blatantly ignore some of his suggestions for improvement. Eradicating the planet of Mirald Prime with a photon bomb wouldn't sit will with the UIN Council. Plus, though at times I myself would have liked to jettison my son out a port hole, I don't feel it would be appropriate to do so while he is encased in lime green gelatin.

Things started out simply enough with the christening of the S.S. Liberace. I would have attended myself, but knowing my son, Johnny Junior, it could only lead to another scuff mark on my reputation. Given Beck's description of the attire my son chose to wear – an outfit Beck described as a mesh between a 1970s circa pimp and General Custard – I'm glad I wasn't there for that photo op.

Then the voyage began with a detour - a little off mission stop at Chinook Delta. Chinook Delta is an outpost most known for its liberal view on carnal pleasures and its delicious Philly Cheese Steaks. Not that I know personally. It's something I heard from a friend.

God knows what debacle Johnny Junior got into at Chinook Delta, but luckily the voyage continued with out any public incidences.

Thereafter, Beck reported some issues involving damage to his personal property. He was hazy on exactly what was damaged, or even how, but he wasn't vague on his anger.

"Whoever invaded my personal domain should be gutted, and then choked to death by their own intestines."

I wasn't sure if this was a serious problem that should be addressed or not. Then I looked at the date of the occurrence and realized it was April Fool's Day, a day my son often claims should be made an official Intergalactic holiday. Given the other odd things that occurred that day, including the annihilation of Corinthian satellites, I have no doubt my son's fingerprints were all over that mess.

I was much surprised to hear about how Johnny Junior personally piloted through an asteroid field. Thinking back to all the trouble I had just trying to teach him how to parallel park a hover car, it's difficult to believe that he could maneuver a ship with such skill. Apparently Beck was just as dumbfounded.

"No disrespect Admiral, but when Commodore Ludwig piloted through that asteroid field I nearly sucked my uniform up my anus and crapped it back out again,"

Beck's quite the colorful linguist.

Oh, and I'm not too sure about this "Commodore" nonsense. It makes me wonder if he's walking around with a feather in his cap and a giant parrot on his shoulder.

Finally, Beck described the crew's first away mission, something I tried to make as simple and safe as possible. Wouldn't you know it, three of the six members of the mission were afflicted in some way, my son included. Beck encountered his own problems, stating he would have sent his report earlier if his injuries would have allowed. He didn't specify what harm had come to him, but I noticed an expense report for Viagra 23 filled out by Beck. His reason for the purchase was "latent results of his wounds."

On the whole I should be glad my son didn't create a paradoxical anomaly in the space time continuum that would have destroyed life as we know it. That's my therapy. I think the worse, and then the nut-job antics of my son don't seem so bad. I tried drinking my woes away every time he screwed up, but I showed up to too many of Johnny's misconduct meetings snookered off my ass. Still, he is my son, and I do love him, as any Father should. We'll just have to see how things progress and hope he doesn't inadvertently fly the ship into a super nova.

Mirald Prime, Team Harriet. Part 4/4

Miraldese Pygmy Historical Annals. Chief Fred. 04.10.3001

(Translated)

A group of humanoids happened to cross our quaint abode once again, undoubtedly looking for the fabled "Great Intelligence". We gamely donned our loin cloths and face paint and hefted our faux idol of a tree frog. Inviting one of their members into our "prayer circle", we chanted an old child ditty they like to coo before dinner.

Good food
Good grog
Be a chap
And pass the frog

Then we gave the human a frog to suckle which he thought would bring him a sort of euphoria, but will only result in noxious emissions erupting from his arse for two or three days. It's sort of a little joke we like to play. It always gets a good laugh.

Then one of the humans ran out like a bloody lunatic into our circle and destroyed the tree idol with a plasma powered, photon vaporizer – an archaic weapon by our advanced standards. Before he could harm anyone, we collectively agreed to paralyze him with our minds. Of course we hid our higher cerebral abilities by shooting him with blow darts giving the impression that he was poisoned.

At that moment, a female human appeared, one that we sensed could understand our extremely diverse and dense language. Our forefathers stipulated that should any species decipher our language, then they are advanced enough to be led down the path towards the "Great Intelligence".

When the humanoid female spoke to us, mentioning something about shrimp egg rolls in a voice that was both mechanical and indicative of Earth's East Asian continent, we were somewhat perplexed. Apparently the human fast food conglomerates had decided to expand to our planet and this female represented a Chinese drive up microphone.

We were getting ready to order when they grabbed their frozen friend and departed. I have heard of a human saying that appropriately relates to this situation. "That's the way the fortune cookie crumbles."

Well it's off to work. Apparently one of the vacuum transports in Giroque malfunctioned. Our job as enlightened keepers of the "Great Intelligence" and caretakers of the Miraldese primitives, while keeping up the guise of a pre-industrial Pygmalion tribe, is never done.

Mirald Prime, Team Harriet. Part 3/4

Personal Log. Doctor Timothy Leary XII. 04.10.3001

Haiku #56

Sucking on frog's ass
Can give visions unsurpassed.
It just gave me gas.

Mirald Prime, Team Harriet. Part 2/4

Personal Log. 1st Mate Beck. 04.10.3001

-Ucking -ittle –astards. I'll –ip out d'ere –alls 'n ram dem down d'eir droats. Soon az I kun –ove.

Translation by Mao Ling: 1st Mate Beck is unhappy about being paralyzed by the pygmies and now he has to be propped up in the corner of the bridge and someone has to wipe his mouth every fifteen minutes.

I'll krind dem up –nto –ogfood n' fleed dem to da –ommodor'z –rench –oodle.

Translation by Mao Ling: Though he is completely humiliated, 1st Mate Beck realizes it was all a misunderstanding and wishes the pygmies all the best, even though he has to borrow adult diapers from Chief of Security Rumson.

I –idn't –ay dat. I –aid I –ill dem –all. Gut –em –ike vish.

Translation by Mao Ling: He wishes peace to all.

-eath to –ygmies

Translation by Mao Ling: Goodwill towards men and pygmies.

-uck you.

Translation by Mao Ling: Thank you.

Mirald Prime, Team Harriet. Part 1/4

Mission Report. Chief of Communications, Mao Ling. 04.10.3001

Mission Code Name: Harriet

I am making the Mission Report because 1st Mate Beck is incapable of doing so due to ailments sustained during the mission. At this time he is completely paralyzed and is unable to either manually enter the report, or dictate it as the computer can not understand the garble that comes out of his mouth.

Our objective was to study the Mirald Prime rainforest. Extraordinary discoveries have been made in the vast ecosystem on the planet. There is also a fabled Pygmalion species rumored to dwell in the rainforest. It is said that they have an advanced knowledge and intelligence, though our primary objective was to study the fauna and wildlife. Dr. Leary, 1st Mate Beck and I entered the forest to collect samples. In order to cover a wider range of geography, we separated in three different directions, keeping in touch by communicator.

After a half hour I received a transmission from Dr. Leary that he had found something unusual. Actually his exact words were, "A man is big at six by six, but I found me a tribe of tiny pricks. They're four by four and not an inch more. They have to be the men of lore. They say their friend, but if they take my head, please bury me with the Grateful Dead." He said nothing more and did not respond to my own transmissions.

While following the homing signal of his communicator, I later found it abandoned in the forest with no visual sign of the Doctor. However, I heard in the distance the chanting of many voices and the beating of drums. Pursuing the sound, I discovered a group of ten to twelve small men sitting in a circle around what looked like a large wooden idol of a frog. They were all of dark complexion, black hair, adorned with various face paintings and wearing only a leather loin cloth. I estimated them to be about four feet tall.

Amid the group sat Dr. Leary. He himself was without his uniform, sitting only in his underwear. Otherwise he appeared unharmed.

I decided to hide in the outlying brush and keep my presence unknown as the Pygmy men didn't seem to be a threat to the Doctor. If they were the Pygmies of myth, I did not want to ruin this rare opportunity to observe them and this unusual ritual.

As they chanted, they passed a live, yellow and green frog from one man to another until it reached the Doctor. Then he did something I did not expect. He placed the frog in his mouth.

Being a linguist, I was able to translate the chant to mean something like:

Good Food
Good Grog
Be a Chap
And pass the Frog

Suddenly, from the other side of the clearing, I heard Beck's voice yell out, "No member of my crew is going to be humiliated and tortured by a bunch of derelict dwarves." 1st Mate Beck broke from the forest firing wildly with a non-issue vaporizer. Luckily those little guys were quite spry. The only thing Beck managed to hit was the wooden frog idol. It instantly went up in flames.

The Pygmies didn't take to kindly to that. Before I knew what happened, Beck was hit by several blow darts. Apparently poisoned, he was instantly paralyzed – stiff as a board.

At this point I abandoned my position to see if I could quell the situation. I don't think they've seen a female in quite some time because there was much to-do behind their loin cloths. Suddenly forgetting the situation and letting my female ego get the best of me I said, "If you think you're getting anywhere with those shrimp egg rolls you've got another thing coming."

Apparently they haven't heard a Chinese accented voice box before because they jumped back squawking, "Pooladoolafukaroola". As best as I could tell it meant, "Devil in the guise of an ethereal goddess." Or something along those lines.

Not wanting to know how a mythical Pygmy exercises a demon, I grabbed the Doctor – who still had the frog in his mouth – and we both carried the catatonic Beck out of there.

Mirald Prime, Team Ozzie. Part 4/4

The National Mirror *
04.10.3001

Our top story today...

Doctor's have revealed that Amanda Cordes has been successfully implanted with a monkey embryo, the first medical procedure of its kind. Mrs. Cordes agreed to the procedure after an unfortunate collision with a sidewalk entertainer and his dancing monkey. The furry performer was injured in the incident and is now on her way to recovery, though the then pregnant monkey was unable to continue carrying its unborn child. Feeling responsible, Mrs. Cordes agreed to an unorthodox surrogacy, despite strong reservations by her husband.

Originally unsure how a lower primate would react to the womb of a woman, after Mrs. Cordes' first ultrasound her doctors agree that everything is progressing positively. When asked what her first impressions were when she saw the images of the ultrasound, Mrs. Cordes said, "It was quiet at first, but I think it realized it had an audience because it began to move all over – like it was dancing. I think it knows its roots. I feel so blessed."

Mrs. Cordes went on to say that she has formed a bond with her monkey fetus, and she feels it will be difficult to give it up once it is born. It is currently unknown whether the monkey's biological mother will be able to care for a child. Asked how she would raise a monkey baby, Mrs. Cordes' responded, "I would treat it as if it was my own. But I would make sure to teach it about its heritage, both as a monkey and as a street performer."


In other news...

A transit tube was backed up today after an accident occurred over Pahn Street. Authorities claim that it was a mechanical malfunction of one of the carriers, but we here at the Mirror have exclusive evidence that it was no accident at all. In fact, we believe that the carrier was purposefully sabotaged by an alien race visiting our planet. It could only be left up to speculation as to why they wanted to damage our public transportation, or what their intentions were on our planet. Whatever their mission, it must have been botched because our sources say that two of the aliens were injured in the event.

When questioned, official authorities vehemently denounced any such alien visitation as preposterous.


* The National Mirror is similar to Earth's National Enquirer.

Mirlad Prime, Team Ozzie. Part 3/4

Personal Log. Chief Engineer, Ped Varook. 04.10.3001.

I take full responsibility for the failure of our mission to Mirald Prime. As I was the only person to have even visited the planet before, I suggested we use their Vacuum Capsules to explore the city of Giroque. They are the most efficient means of transportation on the planet. I had no idea that human anatomy would react in such a way.

What happened to Chief of Security Rumson, and the Commodore reminded me of an old Cretian story where the infidel Posnoke was punished by our supreme goddess, Kundak, for being born a male. Posnoke was tied to a flhan tree and then his skin was secured to two rhoos beasts. Kundak whipped the beasts into a charge which resulted in pulling Posnoke's skin clean off his bones.

My actions I feel were not adequately punished by the Commodore; therefore I will give myself ten lashes to the back of my thighs with a Cretian barbed switch.

Both Commodore Ludwig and Chief of Security Rumson lost control of their bowels. Given my heightened senses, I could deduce that Officer Rumson ate a ham sandwhich for lunch and Commodore Ludwig had lamb chops with Gouda cheese, if I'm not mistaken. The stench to my sensitive Cretian nasal passages nearly caused me to evacuate saline drops from my tear ducts.

Such a reaction from a Cretian female is horrific. On top of my other punishment, I shall give myself ten lashes to my buttocks as well.

Mirald Prime, Team Ozzie. Part 2/4

Personal Log. Chief of Security, Fran Rumson. 04.10.3001.

I am forced to type in my log because my face feels like pudding. Ironically, that is one of the few things I'm still able to eat. Pudding. I prefer vanilla.

Today was the first away mission for me in over six years. And now I look like a British Bulldog. My skin is so loose I can pull my cheeks up over my eyes. Dr. Leary said he could get me back to normal with some simple cosmetic surgery after the swelling went down.

Our mission was to observe the Miraldese and take note of their culture. Being a member of the UIN Armada for over fifty-two years, I realize a crock mission when I see one. Culture observation is just a way for new crew members to wet their wick. Nothing to get your britches in a bunch. Not like having your scrotum removed by an Arcadian Torture Officer.

When we landed I was afraid that we would stick out like a virgin in a whore house, what with the Commodore's exotic attire. I felt like it was Mardi Gras and he was the Grand Marshal of Ceremonies. However, Communications Officer, Mao Ling taught us a Miraldian phrase that seemed to appease anyone who eyed our appearance. "Chi und po-dunk", which is similar to "We're from France."

We boarded a transportation system much like Earth's subways only the Miraldese use a vacuum tube to propel capsules about the city. It's similar to the message delivery chutes once used in old, large office buildings. Air pressure pushes the capsules through the plastic tunnels.

Ped Varook, having visited Mirald Prime before, suggested the tubes to traverse the city quickly. What we didn't know is that the Miraldese, along with Varook's Cretian people, though similar in physiology to humans are more resilient under intense G-Forces. What is a normal pressure force for the Miraldese is potentially threatening to humans.

I swear, when our pod kicked into gear, I could feel my face splayed out against the back of my seat. My testicles pushed into my gut so hard, I thought they were going to pop out my ass. Lucky for me I was wearing my adult diaper. I can't say as much for the Commodore.

I think it was after he ripped one that he drew his stun gun and fired into the controls of the capsule. The result was a pod pile up and one constipated vacuum chute.

When we tried to duck out during the confusion a group of curious onlookers stood in our way. I thought our goose was cooked, but suddenly their eyes rolled to the back of their sockets, heads turned towards the sky and the Miraldese let loose a high, piercing chortle. I'm not sure what the hell was going on, but they all appeared incapacitated by this behavior. Whatever had caused it probably saved our ass.

Mirald Prime, Team Ozzie. Part 1/4

Mission Report. Commodore Jonathan Ludwig Jr. 04.10.3001

Mission Code Name: Ozzy

It is with utmost regret that I must report that the Mirladese of Mirald Prime, once known as a peaceful planet, has developed into a potentially hostile environment. Due to the seriousness of this serious discovery, I will use a serious tone.

Incidentally, due to injuries sustained during Mission Ozzy, I am forced to manually type in my Mission Report versus dictation as I have yet to regain full control of my lips and facial muscles.

Our mission involved two teams: Team Ozzy and Team Harriet. My group (Team Ozzy) jettisoned down to Giroque, Mirald Prime's largest city, whereby Chief of Security Fran Rumson, Chief Engineer Ped Varook and I instantly integrated into the local population.

Or so we thought...

During our investigation of Miraldian culture, we discovered a Top Secret vehicle capable of sustaining untold speeds. This advancement in technology obviously escaped UIN detection as it was disguised as normal public transportation. However, once we boarded the vehicle, the Miraldese must have become aware of our presence because Team Ozzy was immediately struck by some invisible force. This unseen energy made us immobile, prayed upon our sanity and even began to deform our bodies. Obviously the Miraldese meant to incapacitate us and then torture us until we divulged vital information.

Luckily, I was able to fire my stun gun, thereby disabling the mechanism that powered this heinous device. We then escaped capture by melding into the crowded city streets. If it wasn't for my quick reaction we would have surely perished.

It is my suggestion to the UIN council that a list be tallied of all such questionable planets that pose a threat to our magnanimous coalition. Mirald Prime, particularly the city of Giroque, should be placed on this list. Possible titles for this inventory could be the Foundation of Evil, the Axis of Infamy, or maybe the Nefarious Nations of the Nebula.

Mirald Prime and Jean Sprat Moping

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 04.10.3001.

I am a bit remiss. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm pissed off.

It's no secret that my position is cosmetic at best. In a way, I'm the foundation to Johnny Junior's leadership blush. Still, I think I could be afforded an amount of respect by the Commodore, given that I practically raised his regal ass since he was in his pampers.

Today was the first away mission assigned by Central Command. Two teams were to jettison down to Mirald Prime to study various aspects of their culture. It was a perfunctory mission, one designed specifically to give the crew experience without putting them in harms way. We have several such away missions before we rendezvous in a couple months with the Paath for our primary goal to relocate their Terraquadonis mining community.

Mirald Prime is inhabited by a pre space travel humanoid species, one that shouldn't pose any threat. Chief of Communications, Mao Ling said that there isn't even a word for "war" in the Mirladian language, though they have several words for canoodle. Still, given my experience, I thought my presence on one of the teams would be beneficiary. Chief Engineer, Fran Rumson, said that he would be more than willing to give up his position on the Commodore's team, but Johnny Junior was adamant about adhering to the predetermined team rosters. That little brat even went so far as to pull rank. "I'm the Commodore," he said. "My word is final." Who would have thought my dutiful tutoring would have produced such a pompous windbag.

Oh, I guess I can't fault Johnny Junior. He was following orders, something that he was never really good at before. Still, I would have liked to visit Mirald Prime. The Mirladese are renowned for their shoe making abilities and Miraldian footwear is very difficult to obtain.

I guess I could have had Johnny Junior pick up a pair for me, but God knows what monstrosities he'd come back with. Per military code, the group wore attire indicative of the Mirladian fashions, but the Commodore insisted on wearing a pair of white leather loafers with a large gold decorative buckle. He said they went well with his cane, which looked more like a parade conductor's ceremonial baton than a cane.

However, I do feel somewhat comforted by the fact that neither team had much success. Johnny Junior's team was required to set down in Mirald Prime's largest city, while 1st Mate Beck's team investigated a Mirladian jungle said to be home to an ancient Pygmalion tribe. I haven't spoken with the Commodore or 1st Mate Beck since their return, as I'm still moping in my quarters, but from what I heard on the grape vine things down there were not all lemons and oranges. In fact, it got down right nasty.

Whatever happened down there, all I can say is, "good." Serves them right for denying me my right to luxury footwear and being the envy of all women (and men who were once women) throughout the galaxy.

Mirald Prime

United Intergalactic Nation (UIN) Archives: A Brief Background of the Miraldese of Mirald Prime

Mirald Prime is a relatively small planet located in the Gary Brooks Google sector (The grand prize of Gary Brooks being the 10 to the 34th power Google user)

The Miraldese are a pre-space travel species known for their exotic footwear, a national past-time called "oolapu" (sort of a combination of hula-hooping and river dance), and their propensity towards nonviolence. In fact their last documented act of violence was an overtly brisk "talk to the hand" by a frustrated wife to her husband. Apparently, the woman could no longer tolerate shopping with a husband that didn't know the difference between egg-white heels, pearl, mother of pearl, or vanilla bean. The incident was so out of Miraldian character, it was the focal point of news stories for weeks and an official judgment by the Miraldian High Court is still pending.

In appearance, the Miraldese resemble your typical human with the exception of a black patch on the back of their neck which is responsible for releasing pheromones. This single physical trait is attributed to their peaceful existence. Anytime a person is agitated the chemical is discharged into the air and they along with anyone near by experiences a blissful euphoria. When a Miraldese is in heat, the potency of their pheromone increases tenfold. The affect is likened to a rooster's caw after being strung up by its testicles.

Humans, on the other hand, tend to find the smell of the pheromone less pleasing. It is often described as defecated lamb chops and smoked Gouda cheese.

Sharing the planet with the Miraldese is a pre-industrial Pygmalion species. There is nothing remarkable about this tribal people other than a fable that they hold the key to a vast cache of knowledge. The UIN officially denounces this myth as a gross fallacy.

Flyn' Solo, Jean Sprat. Part 5/5

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 04.05.3001

I averted a potentially catastrophic situation today. I didn't have any shoes that would match my pinstripe gray suit. Ultimately I took a pair of black loafers and placed them in a high intensity light chamber until they faded to a reasonable gray tone.

Oh, and the Commodore thought it would be a good idea if he piloted the ship today. Growing up with a personal driver his whole life, I wondered about his ability to fly an Intergalactic Cruiser. Unfortunately I wasn't able to say something in front of the crew, thereby undermining his authority.

Therefore, I transferred control of the Liberace from the Commodore's navigation panel to Pilot Vasquez and ran a session of the video game Asteroid 3000 on the Commodore's screen. Just to be on the safe side, I sent over Ped Varook to stand next to him while showing a healthy amount of cleavage.

If I've learned anything from being a woman, then a man, it's that men's attention span is severely debilitated when a pair of dirty pillows are bobbing in their face.

I was still a bit on edge, however. Officer Vasquez is so erratic. Without his medication, he could be mesmerized by just a shiny coin and never even notice that a star just went nova. Even when he is on his meds, he has the energy and fortitude of a slug on dopamine.

Flyn' Solo, Ped Varook. Part 4/5

Personal Log. Chief of Security, Ped Varook. 04.05.3001

Today, Commodore Ludwig decided to pilot the ship. I did not find this unusual as Cretian captains often pilot their own ships, even though all Cretian captains are female because males are inferior.

Former female, Jean Sprat approached me and said that I should go and stand next to Commodore Ludwig and watch his progress. Before doing so, though, former female, Jean Sprat said that I looked warm and proceeded to unfasten three of the top buttons on my uniform. I found this to be unusual as I didn't feel any variation in my core temperature.

As I observed the Commodore pilot the Liberace, I was quite impressed. Cretians being a matriarchal society, I am unaccustomed to male leadership and I had no idea that human males could pilot a ship with such skill. Especially since the Commodore's eyes were never on the navigation screen, but instead they remained fixed on my chest. I guess this was his way to prove his leadership abilities.

Flyn' Solo, Pilot Vasquez. Part 3/5

Personal Log. Pilot Vasquez. 04.05.01

The Commodore came up to me and was like, "give me the controls."

I was like, "what?"

And he was like, "I wanna be a pilot."

And I was like, "OK."

Then the Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat came up to me and asked if I had like taken my meds today.
I was like, "Yeah."

And she was like, "Good."

Then she was all fiddly-diddly with the computer and she said I was going to fly the ship instead of the Commodore.

I was like, "But the Commodore wanted to pilot."

And she was like, "What the Commodore doesn't know won't hurt him."

And I was like, "But he'll know he isn't flying."

And she was like, "Leave it to me."

She went over to Officer Varook and they had their own little pow-wow for a minute. Then Varook went over and stood next to the Commodore.

I was like, "What's that all about?"

Jean Sprat was like, "Don't worry about it."

And I was like, "OK."

Then the Commodore said he was taking us into an asteroid belt. Jean Sprat asked me if I could fly through an asteroid field.

I was like, "A big one or a little one?"

And she was like, "Are you sure you took your pills today."

And I was like, "Yeah, I think so."

Flyn' Solo, 1st Mate Beck. Part 2/5

Personal Log. 1st Mate Beck. 04.05.01

I don't know how Commodore Dip-Shit did it, but that crap stain navigated through a class five asteroid field without so much as a fender-bender. I'd sooner vomit tacks than admit that he might be a better commander than I thought. Something stinks and I aim to find out exactly what that stench is.

At first I wondered if he had two brains in that hollowed out melon on top of his shoulders. Sort of like the Crumgrog who have one brain for going moving forward and one brain for moving backwards (Unfortunately they have not evolved a brain for left or right). Maybe in his noodle he has the brain of an exemplary military leader and a brain in his ass that has corroded due to overexposure to noxious butt fumes. A quick bio scan proved that to be false.

Then I figured it was all a show, his whole "d to the ickle" and "p to the enis", but no one can pass such an erroneous fallacy by my scrutiny. Finally, I thought maybe he was an idiot savant, but I'm damn sure he's just an idiot. I'm not ready to believe that turd is a pilot of any caliber.

And what was up with Officer Varook. She was at his side the whole time, her giant mangos only inches from his shnoz. If Cretians get that worked up over flying a ship, I should take that lovely alien down to the VR training room and show her what I can do with a P-13 fighter and sixteen hundred rounds of plasma. That'll get her nice and juicy.

Flyn' Solo, Commodore Ludwig. Part 1/5

Personal Log. Commodore Ludwig. 04.05.01

The Liberace has been out of central command for over a week now and the J-Lud has spent the better part of that time gettin' the 411 on his pepes. Today, I thought I'd pay some homage to the Liberace, cuz a cat that don't know his ride just ain't jive. We were cruisn' on through the Gold Nugget Solar System – so dubbed cuz a posse of 49ers found some major bling in an asteroid belt hummin' through the system – and I decided to bust out my piloting moves.

Now as numero uno of this bad boy, I can't just pop in a few commands and let the auto pilot do its thing. I've got a reputation to consider, being the youngest ever to command a star ship and all. So, I thought I'd get more props flyin' solo through that bitchn' plague of roids.

Let me tell you, jaws dropped when the crew witnessed J-Lud's mad piloting skills. Bet a wad of Benjamins none of them figured a dude with only thirty hours of simulation pilot training could cut such cool lines, but the J-Lud's not your run of the mill chinco. I got instincts like a Milotopian Wombat and reflexes like a Koosh Koosh tiger fox.

So impressed in the way I handled my hot rod, Officer Varook couldn't help but crunch on the J-Lud's rad vibes. I swear she was standing so close you couldn't pass a radio signal between us. Though she is one dope dame, I didn't let her feminine bits distract me from slicing scintillating s-curves around those rockin' roids.

April Fool's Day, Dr. Leary XIII. Part 8/8

Personal Log. Chief Physician Timothy Leary XIII. 04.01.3001.

Haiku # 36

It's a crime, a wine
Of my own divine devise
Is now a vile bile

April Fool's Day, Jean Sprat. Part 7/8

Personal Log. Liaison Jean Sprat. 04.01.3001.

Unfortunately, Fergie #2 is no longer with us. Apparently, a series of events including a flight plan deviation, a weapons malfunction, the destruction of Corinthian television satellites and a miscommunication between Officer Mao Ling and the Corinthian government resulted in the bartering of a French dog. I had no other choice but to give them one of the Poodles I keep should the Commodore's pet dog meet her end and I need a quick replacement. Let's hope the poor pooch finds a good home.

There's no doubt that the Commodore had his dirty little fingers in the mix of things. I've known Johnny Junior a long time, and I'm more than prepared for his April 1st antics. He doesn't know that I know he dictates his pranks on his I-Pod cuff-link. My one regret is that I didn't check his other entries and only listened to "Jean's Sprout", and then maybe I could have prevented this mess.

For my part, Johnny Junior thought it would be funny to copy over my favorite movie, the 11th remake of Titanic (the director's cut) starring Leonardo Dicaprio's clone, with hermaphroditic pornography. So I switched my Titanic with the recording of his inauguration into the United Intergalactic Armada – his most watched personal video. He so loved his hair that day.

Then later, I had Fergie do her business in his Lebron James VIII classic up-towns.

April Fool's Day, Mao Ling. Part 6/8

Personal Log. Chief Communications Officer, Mao Ling. 04.01.3001.

Today, I was speaking with the Corinthian alliance, trying to explain why we deviated from our set flight plan, circled two of their moons and for reasons that are still unclear, destroyed several of their cable television satellites. All of a sudden, my voice box malfunctioned and I was only allowed to speak in rudimentary French. It was most disconcerting to be limited to phrases like Voila le stylo (There is the pen), Ou sont le mutard (Where is the mustard) and Je voudrais travailler ton dindon (I would like to work your turkey).

Luckily Corinthians are fascinated with all things sensual and erotic. They have a deep fascination for French Cinema ever since the space explorer, Jacques Cartier Goldman exchanged a copy of Le Placard* for a pound of the Corinthians favorite delicacy, Jimmy Dean's Sausage. After a half hour of French misnomers I was able to communicate our apologies. Although, I fear in exchange for their forgiveness I may have bartered the French remake of Weekend at Bernie's and "une chien de Francais" (a French Dog).

After the debacle, Ped Varook discovered an outside carrier signal to my voice box that appeared to be the cause of my French dyslexia. However, we were unable to find the source.


* Le Placard is about Francois Pignon, or as his coworkers like to think of him, "Pignon le mignon"(Pignon the cutey). Pignon pretends to be gay so that his bosses can not fire him from his job in a condom factory.

April Fool's Day, Pilot Vasquez. Part 5/8

Personal Log. Pilot, Juan Vasquez. 04.01.3001.

While piloting the Liberace through the Corinth Solar System today, I caught sight of like, this beautiful blue comet with like, orange specks glittering in its tale. It reminded me of this shirt my sister used to wear. The shirt was like, blue with orange glitter and it had like, a unicorn on the front and I wondered like, if my sister's spirit was somehow in the comet and she had flown out here to say, like, "Hi," or something.

So I was like, "Hi, Sis."

And then I decided to call the comet, Consuelo, because that's like, my sister's name.

Then like, 1st Mate Beck came up to me and he was like, "What the hell are you doing?"

And I was like, "What?"

He was like, "You've been flying off course for nearly fifteen minutes."

And I was like, "No way. Really?"

Apparently, I had like, steered the ship around two Corinthian moons while following Comet Consuelo. I had been so out of it, I didn't even realize that our ship had a weapons malfunction and had like, destroyed some alien satellites. At first I thought I just had the Mun-days, but then I realized it was like, Thursday.

I reported to Dr. Leary to see if I had like, a flu bug or something. He checked my meds and found that my bottle of Ritalin 10.9 was full of like, Tic-Tacs. Like, spearmint flavored Tic-Tacs. At first I was like, "What the hell", because I like orange flavored Tic-Tacs, not spearmint. But then I took like a double dose of Rit-10 and the whole thing just sort of like, slipped from my mind.

When I felt better, I went back to the bridge to like, say "Goodbye" to Consuelo.

April Fool's Day, Chief Rumson. Part 4/8

Personal Log. Chief of Security, Fran Rumson. 04.01.3001.

Today, while running an integrity check of the hull, I initiated the program that commands the Liberace's nanobots to wash the ship's windows. Suddenly, our forward plasma cannons targeted four Corinthian satellites, destroying them.

We later discovered that the programs for the plasma cannons and window washers were switched, probably by some nit-wit junior programmer. If we had encountered any hostiles in that condition, we would have been caught with our pants down. (Unless of course those hostiles happened to be microscopic and could be easily destroyed by a mist of Windex Shine)

Still, after seeing those satellites explode, I couldn't help thinking of the war, recalling memories that I've tried so hard to bury - memories of that Arcadian P.O.W. camp, and the malicious ways in which we were tortured.

Later, I tried to take a nap to calm myself, but I had a dream where all around me I heard the voices of many men screaming. In the dream I was tied down and all I could see was an old hot-dog cooker slowly rolling several hot-dogs over the fryer. Even though I couldn't see the men who were screaming, I had this sixth sense about why they were in so much pain. It was because they were being forced to eat hot-dogs while their captors performed ritualistic circumcisions. Just as I saw a hot-dog floating towards me, and felt my zipper being pulled down, I woke up.

I explained the weapons malfunction, the recollection of my capture and the subsequent dream to Dr. Leary. He offered me a valium, but I explained that unless it erased my memory, it wasn't going to be much help. The Doctor pointed to his nose, gave a 'wink, wink' with his right eye and said, "Memories bad, memories sad, Dr. Leary make them go bye-bye with a quick dab and a jab." I declined, not really understanding his mumbo-jumbo. However, given that I briefly lost control of my bowels in both incidents, I did accept a package of Depends with black hole absorbency.

April Fool's Day, 1st Mate Beck. Part 3/8

Personal Log. 1st Mate Richard Beck. 04.01.3001

When Satan defied God, He cast the infidel into the pits of hell where Satan spends eternity enduring the fiery inferno.

Satan got off easy.

When I find the crotch sniffer who stole my guns and froze them in Jell-O molds, they are going to know the true meaning of pain.

After my daily hand to hand combat simulations, I returned to my quarters today to find a cornucopia of gelatin laid out on my kitchen table. I hate Jell-O. It is my belief that Jell-O is the dessert snack most preferred by candy-asses and rump rocket riders. Then, to add to the insult, I discovered that within the fruity guts of those quivering molds was my entire arsenal. Betty was trapped in lime green, Samantha was encased in tangerine orange and Mary –sweet, innocent Bloody Mary – was being violated by a towering husk of Strawberry and Banana delight. The hairy palm-pumper that caused this sacrilege even garnished the plates of Jell-O with melon balls and minced avocado.

When I find the repugnant slug that dared to touch my babies, I'm going to take a power washer connected to a vat of raspberry blue gelatin, shove the nozzle up their puckered rectum and fill their bowels with J-E-L-L-O!

April Fool's Day, Ped Varook. Part 2/8

Personal Log. Chief Engineer, Ped Varook. 04.01.3001


When I returned from my second daily consumption, I discovered that my living quarters were reversed. Every item of furniture and decoration was on the exact opposite side of the room from which I had left it.

At first, I thought I had entered the wrong living quarters, but quickly deemed the conclusion to be false. To my knowledge, I am the only Cretian on this vessel, therefore the only one who would have a ceremonial Cretian breast flogger.

My second deduction was that I was suffering from a synaptic malfunction of my frontal cortex. After shocking my brain with an electro-neural stimulator, thus effectively rebooting my memory, that possibility proved false as well.

Afraid that we may have flown through a temporal disturbance or spatial anomaly, I ran various structural tests and space/time scans. All seemed within normal parameters.

Obviously the ship had been invaded by an alien species who sought to disorient us before trying to lay claim to the Liberace. I informed Chief of Security Rumson immediately, but a bio-scan of the ship showed no signs of an alien presence. There is the possibility that it could be a species that can evade detection, but it appears that only my quarters had been altered. Since it was a one time occurrence, Chief of Security Rumson did not see any impending threat.

As it stands, whatever force reversed my room remains an unsolved mystery. However, I found the rearrangement more pleasing to my mood receptors, and thus left my quarters as is.

April Fool's Day, J-Lud. Part 1/8

Personal Log. Commodore Ludwig. 04.01.3001


I find myself conflicted. On the one hand, I am the Commander of an Intergalactic star ship, responsible for the lives of my crew and my ship, the Liberace. It's a serious business, being The Man. On the other hand there are expectations of being the youngest to ever command a ship. I have an image of being one cool cat – a home dogg of exceptional esteem. Therefore, it is difficult form me to decide on how I should proceed.

Should I stick to the true and tried April Fool's Day pranks of old – whoopee cushions, fake dog poo, fly in the ice cube – or should I seek to be more progressive?

Ultimately I decided, while tradition has its place, I must realize that I'm J-Lud. My peeps expect a little flava' from el Commodore, and there ain't no flava' in plastic vomit gags.

Through extensive research of my esteemed crew members, I devised personalized April Fool's Day pranks for each one. I feel that my doggs will appreciate that I took the time to know them and will respect the individual effort I put in to this endeavor. It will bring us closer together as a family and increase their confidence in Big Papi.

If nothing else, my hommies will realize, J-Lud's gots mad skills, and he came to represent.

Herbal Excitement, Dr. Leary. Part 4/4

Personal Log. Chief Physician Timothy Leary XII. 03.31.3001.

Haiku #32

I woke from a dream
In a pool of my own pee
And pants full of cream

Herbal Excitement, Ped Varook. Part 3/4

Personal Log. Chief Engineer, Ped Varook. 03.31.3001.

At 1:32 AM, while I was in the second stage of nightly unconscious recuperation, I was visited by Commodore Ludwig and Chief Physician, Dr. Leary. I have not observed such behavior from humans as my superior and Dr. Leary were exhibiting. However, I have had little contact with the human species; therefore I concluded it to be a part of their nightly unconscious recuperation.

I allowed them entrance into my living quarters, whereby the Doctor spent much of his time studying a representation of the Cretian Goddess, Mulduk, the model by which Kundak created female Cretians. His only response was "Whoa, two vags. Wild, man, wild." He repeated this phrase exactly seven times. Commodore Ludwig wished that I partake of a human custom, or as he put it, "take a puff of this here blunt." The pungency of the emissions of the burning herb was too much for my sensitive nasal passages to endure, and I was forced to refuse. The Commodore's response was "Drag, man, what a drag. Bee-atch bringin' down the J-Lud. Yo' doc, let's hop-scotch this Debbie downer."

As the two left, Dr. Leary turned to me with a very peculiar expression and said, "Two vags, two muffs, let's DP this hunny like a pair of Chinese finger cuffs." The Doctor's words are a mystery even after I ran them through the universal translator. I asked Chief Communicator Mao Ling, a human linguist who understands over three dozen languages if she could make light of the Commodore's and Doctor's unusual behavior. All she said was "burnt-out, dead heads" while shaking her head. These humans are truly perplexing.

Herbal Excitement, Jean Sprat. Part 2/4

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 03.31.3001.

Yesterday, on the second day out of central command, the Commodore decided to put in at Chinook Delta for what he said was a last minute supply run. I reminded Johnny Junior that it was unorthodox for an Intergalactic Starship to dock with a nonmilitary port unless in need of immediate repair, but the Commodore was insistent. After speaking with Dr. Leary, Chief Physician, he was convinced that the health of the crew might benefit from a certain herb that could be acquired from Chinook Delta.

I really couldn't complain because I found a lovely Borlean silk that will make a wonderful scarf or possibly a sarong for beach season.

Upon my return to the ship, however, I found the Commodore in an unusual state. He was gorging himself on Lunacious Ranch Doritos, watching episodes of a 20th century television show called CHIPS, and laughing hysterically while saying over and over "cool, man...cool, mop up that pooty, Panch." As far as his physical state, his eyes were bloodshot, his attention span was severely compromised, and he had an erection that lasted four hours. I know because I timed it.

I also measured.

For a proper diagnosis only, I swear. He was at eight inches which is larger than average, but nothing to warrant any concern.

I called Dr. Leary, however, when Johnny Junior started singing, "Baby Got Back" and getting "jiggy" with his easy chair. After a half hour I returned to the Commodore's room to find the Doctor under a similar state of disarray.

5 ½ Inches.

Fearing some sort of outbreak I immediately quarantined them to the Commodore's quarters and hoped the illness would run its course.

Lucky for all of us, both Johnny Junior and the Doctor showed signs of recovery this morning, though neither recollects much of the previous night.

Herbal Excitement, Commodore Ludwig. Part 1/4

Personal Log. Commodore Jonathan Ludwig. 03.31.3001.

Yesterday we hitched our rig at Chinook Delta to paw us up some supplies for our mega-righteous deep-space excursion. Dr. Leary said he knew of a brilliant botanist that could hook us up with what he called "a little herbal remedy". When I pushed for the 411 on these buds, he said it would make J-Lud one mellowed out hombre, which I took to mean that it was a treatment for relaxation and stress reduction. I laid out some greenbacks for fifteen pounds hoping to share with my home-boys on the Liberace. Don't want my posse gettn' the sweats if we have a showdown with any low-downs.

Last night the Doc and I sampled a little of this herb to test out its meditative properties. It didn't seem to have much of an effect on myself, but then again, I've always been more virile and effervescent than your average man.

The Doctor and I thought it necessary to inform Chief Engineer Ped Varook, our vivacious Cretian exchange officer, of this herb as we were curious of its effects on a female of a different species. Dr. Leary also had questions about Cretian anatomy for his medical records. Unfortunately she was in a totally heinous mood. Maybe it's her time of the galactic month' if you know what I'm sayn'.

This morning I felt no ill effects of the herb though J-Lud's got one odious case of the munchies. I think there's a Popeye's on the K'un D'hor outpost. We can cruise on in for some hot wings and slap em' back with a little gin n' juice. Got my mind on some munchies and some munchies on my mind.