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.