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.

Introductions, Dr. Leary. Part 6/6

Personal Log. Chief Physician, Dr. Timothy Leary XIII. 03.29.3001.

Haiku #12

I ate a strange plant
Now I see pink elephants
Wearing lime green pants

Introductions, Jean Sprat. Part 5/6

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 03.29.3001

The christening of the Liberace and crew orientation went well today. Dr. Leary came up with a brilliant treatment for Fergie's (the Commodore's French poodle) crab-walking condition. He placed her in a high speed gyroscope for thirty seconds. When Fergie popped out she was walking right side up again. It only lasted for thirty minutes, then she was back creeping around ass down and snout up, but it was just enough time to allow the Commodore to enter the christening with Fergie at his side. I really think Fergie's little captain's outfit was the talk of the crew.

The same couldn't be said for the Commodore's own choice of attire. He wore a vintage U.S. Civil War hat from a Union General, a large black down parka with "El Commodore" recently stitched on the front, stone-washed jeans, white orthopedic clogs and a chrome cane. He is so into his retrospective history, a fashion dubbed retro-hist. The idea is to mesh various pieces of fashion throughout history whether they actually match or not. I tried to explain that it would have been better to wear his official uniform, but the Commodore insisted he didn't want to come across as a stuffy boss to the rest of the crew. Actually, I think his exact words were, "bourgeois pimp". He prefers instead to be a "pimp of the people".

I myself wore a wonderful blue Armani X suit with a cream silk shirt. To accessorize I added a cream colored silk sash and a pair of black Maducci shoes. Admittedly, my eyes were a bit puffy this morning, but Dr. Leary was kind enough to give me an emergency lift.

I admit I am jealous of Mao Ling's hair. It's to die for. She's a sweet girl as well, though talking with her is sort of like having a conversation with a Chinese alarm clock.

I felt bad for our Cretian exchange officer, Ped Varook. Poor girl just seems lost in a human social setting. A few hours with Jean Sprat, however, and she'll be the life of the party. We exchanged a few pleasantries. She didn't seem so put out when I explained that I was once a woman. Apparently such gender changes are quite common in Cretians. It is a nice change to meet someone with an open mind about my condition.

The same couldn't be said for 1st Mate Beck. What a prick. It's men like that who make me ashamed to have a penis.

I am worried for Johnny Junior. The Commodore may have a difficult task ahead of him. His crew is young and inexperienced. Our pilot has the attention span of a thirteen year old boy in a brothel, our Chief of Security nearly called for a retreat when the volume on Mao Ling's voice box malfunctioned, and Beck (prick) looked like he wanted to vaporize everyone in the room.

I hope I can help Johnny Junior. It's been a long time since I've been on a star ship. Let's hope I didn't lose my skills when those filthy beasts took my breasts and ovaries and replaced them with a dumb-stick.

Oh, I better stop. I'm getting bitter again.

Introductions, Ped Varook. Part 4/6

Personal Log. Chief of Engineering, Ped Varook. 03.29.3001.

I do not understand my new Commodore. Upon initial introductions at the Liberace's christening, Commodore Ludwig referred to me as a "fat chick" when in actuality I do not resemble any sort of poultry as I know it and I am the required weight of a typical UIN officer. Maybe it is some sort of human greeting that was not covered in my interspecies relations seminar.

I am having difficulty acclimating myself to this unisex environment. Coming from a matriarchal society, it is unusual to be under the command of Commodore Ludwig and 1st Mate Beck. Most male Cretians were previously female, and then surgically made male for breeding purposes. Since men are an inferior gender, most natural born males are either euthanized at birth or undergo gender alterations shortly after conception. This is a common practice among families, thus creating a shortage of viable males for conception. To ensure the healthy propagation of our species, the Cretian Empire delegates certain females to undergo a sex change.

Even though it is obvious that the Human species has no shortage of males in their society, I was surprised to find a similar gender change in Liaison to the Commodore, Jean Sprat. He explained that he was once a woman, even a 1st mate on an Intergalactic Warship, but Liaison Sprat did not divulge how his gender change came about. I could only surmise that it was for similar reasons as Cretian gender changes.

Jean Sprat may provide the only means at comfortable companionship on this voyage. The only ranking femal officer on the vessel other than myself is Mao Ling, who I incorrectly mistook for a malfunctioning cyborg, what with her audio enhancement device. She has since met my attempts at conversation with a sour disposition. Even though I must adhere to the commands of my male commanders, the blunt obviousness of male inferiority prevents me from interacting with them on any social level.

Liaison Sprat may now be male, but in Cretian society, those individuals who undergo gender changes from female to male are held in high esteem. We recognize their sacrifice, both physically and socially. Though it is all but forbidden to form personal relationships with males, gender changed males are regarded with some respect. Under the circumstances, a plutonic rapport with Jean Sprat would not tarnish my social standing.

Introductions, Fran Rumson. Part 3/6

Personal Log. Chief of Security, Fran Rumson. 03.29.3001

1st Mate Beck scares the hell out of me.

There were guys just like him back in the war, always thinking with their vaporizers and not their heads. To men like Beck there isn't anything that couldn't be solved with a big gun and a little carnage. It's because of guys like him that my squadron flew blindly into an Arcadian trap. It's because of guys like him that I spent three months on an Arcadian prison cruiser, beaten and tortured. It's because of guys like him that I now have a prosthetic testicle and scar tissue all along my urethra.

Should we engage in any combat on this mission, I'm using him as a human shield. On the chance that we find ourselves stranded on a planet without food or water, he's the first one I'm grilling up for some Beck burgers. If I'm stuck in the cold expanse of space, I'm crawling into his gutted carcass for warmth until help arrives.

Introductions, Richard Beck. Part 2/6

Personal Log. 1st Mate Richard Beck. 03.29.3001.

War is hell. Wish I was there.

I'm stuck on a 2nd class cruiser set out to baby-sit a bunch of hermaphrodite Paath freaks with Captain Dip-Shit calling the shots. I should be on a warship knee deep in the blood and guts of those unholy Arcadians. Oh, what I wouldn't give to be blasting an Arcadian Raptor right now with their entrails splattering across my hull.

The Liberace is a joke. Christ, I had to smuggle in my own personal arsenal. This shit-box only has two forward plasma cannons and aft mine deploys. What's worse is that the officers are only issued stun guns. There isn't a vaporizer in the whole munitions room. Good thing I brought along Betty, Wanda and Bloody Mary. If we get in any kind of scruff, I'll be the only thing between these ass-lickers and annihilation.

After seeing Captain Dip-Shit, I can understand why Admiral Ludwig put me here. That sorry sack of cow vomit couldn't lead us out of a paper bag.

And don't get me started on our security officer. I asked for name and rank and I swear that twit pissed his pants.

Wouldn't mind putting in at that Cretian's space dock though, if you know what I mean. Varook's got legs like a ten year old boy, and a cargo bay worthy of a salute by my little 1st Mate. Ling's quite the looker as well, but talking to her is like pulling in at a Chinese drive-thru restaurant. "You want fwied wice?"

There's something about Captain Dip-Shit's nanny I can't quite figure out though. That Jean Sprat's an odd one. Something very peculiar about him. He's a solid looking man that could probably hold his own in a tussle. Heard he used to be a 1st Mate for the Admiral at one point, but had an altercation with a damn dirty alien. That's probably what it is. I've seen it before. Sometimes war can knock a screw loose from even the strongest soldier. I'll bet Sprat still has some balls left in him though.

Introductions, Commodore J-Lud. Part 1/6

Personal Log of Commodore Jonathan W. Ludwig Jr. 03.29.3001

I thought I'd work on my speech for the ship's christening today.

To my elacious constituents...my esteemed colleagues...and my mi-hos back on the crib...prepare yourselves for the maidenhead voyage of the Intergalactic Cruiser, The Liberace. I am Commodore Ludwig and today we embark on a righteous journey into the bulimic depths of space.

Though I am your magnanimous leader, I don't want you to think of me as the man that juggles your huevos. My hope is that all of you will come to view me as a friend, a Cheech to your Bong, a Huggy-Bear to your Hutch, a Smoky to your Gouda. In the adventures that await us in the vast cosmic chowder, I hope you will give me your most pandemic effort, and you can trust that I will tap every corpuscle of my herniated intestinal fortitude.

Thank you, and enjoy the fondue.

Yeah, that'll work. Short, but effective. It won't bore them with my public speaking prowess, but I think it'll show them a little of what J-Lud's about. I didn't even need a thesaurus this time. My brain was so in the zone I didn't even have to think before I wrote.

Well, it's time to meet the dogg-pound, my hommies, my chums, my chain-gang...Let's hope that I don't overwhelm them with first impressions. That tends to happen. Women sometimes can't help fawning. Some even faint. Men either feel elated to be in my presence, or jealous of my superior masculinity. An old woman once died. That's right, dead. Bad ticker. She got a whiff of J-Lud's CK20 and her heart couldn't take the testosterone.

You can't prepare yourself for this ride. All you can do is hang on and bring an extra pair of unda-roos.

Liaison Spratt & Fergie. 03.28.3001

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Spratt. 03.28.3001.

It's good to be back on a ship, even if it seems like I'm just an over-paid dog groomer. Speaking of which, I'm going to have to be more careful with Fergie, the Captain's – I mean Commodore's – French Poodle. Johnny Junior always had a tendency to kill his pets ever since he got his first goldfish. There isn't a malicious bone in that sweet boy's body, but whether it was a rabbit or hamster, they always seemed to meet their end in some freak accident. Just today, Fergie was packed away with the rest of our luggage in the baggage hold of our transport from Earth to space dock. With no heat back there, that poor pooch froze solid.

Johnny Junior never could deal with death very well, moaning and blubbering, so after a while we cloned his pets and just slid hamster #2 into the cage or turtle #3 into the aquarium. To prepare for this trip, I have four other Fergies stowed away on board the Libarace, but at this rate we won't make it one week on our voyage before their all deceased.

Luckily, Dr. Leary was able to revive the dog from a frozen animation, but the sweet thing no longer understands its ups from downs. It moves about the room in some sort of yoga back-stroke. I was hoping to show off Fergie's new little captain's uniform when the Commodore greeted the crew, but no amount of gold tassles and brass buttons will distract people from the fact that it's a canine contortionist.

It's just like one of Johnny's favorite 20th Century movies, The Exorcist, when the possessed girl crawls down the stairs – a creepy, demon possessed French Poodle skittering about like a lobster.

Fergie just crab-walked into the room. THE POWER OF CHIRST COMPELS YOU. THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU! Where's a bottle of holy water when you need it.

She just piddled on herself.

Captain Ludwig Jr. 03.28.3001.

Personal Log, Captain Jonathan W. Ludwig Jr. 03.28.3001.

Space, the last unconquered vestibule. Thus begins the adventures of the Intergalactic Cruiser, Liberace. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is to explore wigged-out extra-terrestrial cribs, hang with rad alien hunnies, and boldly probe where no dogg has probed before.

I am Captain Jonathan Ludwig.

Today I embark on a dream. Out there, in the great expanse known as space, I begin my destiny. The stars are calling my name – J-Lud, J-Lud, come to us -- and I shall rocket towards that mellow vibe as the youngest Captain ever to command an Intergalactic space vessel. With my well-trained crew and my state-of-the-art cruiser – The Liberace – we begin a voyage into the history books. As the great poet, 50 Cent once said, "dat booty is waitn' for a mad hump". Such poetry is lost on the minds of today, but I think 50 Cent would agree that space is that vast booty, and I am prepared to deliver the mad hump with a fist of fury.

As my great legacy is all but assured, I feel I deserve a more suitable title than just mere Captain. I mean, come on. I'm the youngest to ever command. Ever! I am da' man. I am the walrus. I am Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. I am Jonathan W. Ludwig and this is the Liberace. This be my ride, mo-fo. It be some fly wheels with one tricked out big-block and groovin' tunage.

Yeah, that's how I ride, what of it, bee-atch.

After speaking with Jean Sprat, my personal liaison, I discussed several possibilities for a title modification, such as Commander Ludwig, Boss Ludwig, Don Ludwig, Head-Honcho Ludwig and Daddy-Mac Ludwig. Jean was really insistent on Skipper Ludwig, suggesting the title would work well for me if I wore a fedora with bell-bottom pants. Though I do look smokin' fly in bell-bottoms, I was shooting for more of a ten-gallon hat rather than a fedora. Oh, and a cane. People who carry canes that don't need them look da' shit. "Skipper" just wasn't going to cut that cheese, so I decided on Commodore Ludwig.

As my first command I officially change my military title from Captain Ludwig to Commodore Ludwig.