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.
