Thursday, May 28, 2015

Space in a matchbox

"I am a Pimp. And Pimps don't commit suicide" - Jericho Kane

I went to Space again today.

Isn't it funny that apart from when we are freed from these fleshy prisons, the only way we get to go to SPACE is by donning a tiny helmet and fitting ourselves into a tyre inner tube inside a tin can surrounded by magnets?

Space technology is still so stuck in the past. It's like exploring the galaxies in a horse and trap. At least the technology (for lack of a better word) of our souls enable us to make the proper space exploration missions when released from the serious matter.
But pimps don't go early.

The space nurse was unimpressed with my bravery and refused to be a part of the mission when I had to abort and re-calibrate due to my growing claustrophobia.

The assistant in charge of the magnets was a John Knox, and was much better, as all John Knoxes usually are. I asked him if he knew any parties.

"I know parties the world over" He said
"I once did magnet tricks for michael jackson"
"Michael once told me not to blame it on the moonlight" I commiserated. But what the bloody hell else am I going to blame it on?

It turned out he had a seventies glitch and had to pipe walking on sunshine and please mrs robinson into my ears as calming tactics, not realising the latter was released 1968. Please Mrs Robinson, let an honest wo mango free.

I told him he should include 'Magnet and Steel' but he just looked at me blankly. "Because you know, the magnets?" I said and pointed to the ship. He gave a laugh that was like an albino sparrow dying of old age.

Why the authorititties don't understand that real anarchy is so much more calming than forced jollity, I will never understand.


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