BEAM ME UP, FIZZY!
In Which Our Hero Looks At The Space Program
“I haven’t eaten this much citrus fruit in twenty years. But I’ll tell you one thing, in another twelve fucking days I ain’t never eating any more. ……. I like an occasional orange, I really do. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be buried in oranges.” --An unnamed astronaut on the Moon, complaining about the orange juice in space, as quoted in Zero G, by Peter Bond, a very interesting and informative book
My Fizzy Americans, it gives me great pleasure to report to you that the turkey has landed. The space shuttle Discovery has made it safely to the ground, and we no longer have to worry about falling space junk clobbering us over the head when we go outside.
It was certainly pretty hairy for a while there. Or so the media made out. From lift-off to landing, You couldn’t turn on a TV or radio without getting an earful of the latest problem on board the shuttle. The first launch had to be scrapped due to a faulty backup fuel tank which somehow went unnoticed until the countdown had started. A second launch was scheduled for two weeks later, for a variety of reasons. For one thing, the astronauts aboard the space station were running dangerously low on toilet paper, and didn’t think they’d be able to make it until the proposed September rain-check. “And send up some more Cheet-O’s!” Also, NASA desperately needed a big success, after the Columbia disaster a couple years back, in which a normal re-entry suddenly turned into a rain of random space shuttle components over Texas. NASA generally took the blame for that one, due to shoddy safety inspection, for allowing the thing off the ground to begin with.
So anyway, no sooner did Discovery blast off than damage reports began trickling in. Oops! Some heat-resistant tiles may have fallen off. This could be a problem on re-entry. “Nah, it’ll be fine,” NASA said, secretly cringeing. “Nobody’s found any tiles lying around, at least. If anybody sees one, call us.”
The real trouble arose when it as discovered (this IS the Discovery, after all) that some insulating fabric had somehow worked its way between those pesky tiles and was now dangling off the underbelly of the shuttle. “Shit!” said NASA. “This is going to look bad on TV.” Also, the fabric might catch fire upon reacquainting itself with the earth’s atmosphere, and that could lead to something even less telegenic. Luckily, though, an astronaut went out on a space walk (after drawing the shortest straw back inside), and snipped off what he could of the protruding fabric. Unluckily, the fabric turned out to be another astronaut’s pant-leg shut in the door, and a fistfight ensued. (It had been previously thought that the fabric was an Indian blanket somebody won at a county fair.)
I realize I haven’t said anything yet that’s news to anyone, but here’s the part that is. I have obtained, via a secret meeting in a deserted parking garage at 3:00 A.M., some highly classified documents that are sure to shock you. For instance, I bet you think space shuttles are extremely sophisticated pieces of equipment, marvels of modern science and technology, built by the country’s top engineering brains. Right? Well! Wouldn’t you be surprised to find out that the Discovery is actually a modified Chevy El Camino! It’s true! NASA bought it from a guy named Clem in Bean Station, Tennessee for $200. Not only that, but it was sent into space with a broken taillight. Our tax dollars at work!
I have also gotten copies of some cockpit recordings from the shuttle. You probably think the astronauts would be discussing technical matters, using words like “SRB’s.” In reality, the quote at the top of this page is more accurate. In-flight conversation included the following gems:
“Are we there yet?”
“Quit kicking my seat, dickhead!”
“Do we HAVE to listen to this music? Can’t we listen to some Barry Manilow for a while?”
“I can’t move my leg! Something’s got ahold of my pants!”
“Let’s play the I’m-going-on-a-trip game!”
“Oh, shit! What did you do to my PANTS? I paid $127 for these, and now you had to go and cut ’em all to hell!”
“Hey, nice SRB’s!” [directed at shuttle commander Eileen Collins]
“If you assholes don’t shut up, I’m turning this space shuttle around and we’re going home!” [from Eileen Collins, immediately following the previous remark]
Happily for everyone, the mission was a success. The space station cosmonauts got some more T.P. and a supply of those tasty freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches. The shuttle landed safely, but in California, rather than Florida. Commander Collins took a wrong exit. (And no, that wasn’t a sexist comment; if a man were in charge, they’d still be floating aimlessly around up there, every so often radioing mission control to assure us, “Okay, all right! Hot damn! I know where I’m at now! Whoooo!”) The shuttle astronauts get to walk on solid ground, probably away from each other as fast as possible, after being cooped up together for two weeks. The media got a solid month of play out of the whole thing, and just in time, because ratings were slumping, with nothing to report but some more gangsters in turbans blowing some more stuff up. And NASA got their success story.
Hell, the whole country got a success story. Amid all the reports of soaring oil prices, terrorists running amok, corporate fraud and perverts moving in next door, it’s nice to know we can still do SOMETHING right.
You say, “But Fizz! The space program isn’t important. Nobody cares, and nothing useful comes of it.” Ah, friend, you are wrong on all counts. I could fill up a page or two with all the scientific advances that have been made with data collected from space or techniques first used in space, and which have gone on to improve our everyday lives, but you can go look them up as easily as I can. And when you’re done, think about this: if we keep up the space program, and eventually establish bases on other planets, you know what that means? It means we’re getting the hell out of here! Maybe not me, or you, but wait and see, SOMEBODY will be waving this planet bye-bye. Probably only rich people who can afford a condo on Mars, not to mention the airfare. But who needs them anyway? At least they’ll leave us alone, and we can take what they left behind, and then spread out and breathe a little bit. And eventually, it’ll be feasible for the little guys like us to set up shop on the moon or another planet, and WE”LL be the ones bidding this ol’ world adieu, headed off into the Cosmos, bound for pastures new. Let’s see how long it takes us to fuck up another planet!
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, chaos and anarchy will most likely reign supreme. Of course, the ones with power will be the first out the door. Somebody will have to take their places, and many somebodies are sure to want to. And believe me, you won’t want to be left behind for THAT.
And that is why you, the loyal Fizzbunker visitor, need to whip out your poke (that’s a wallet, you sick bastard!), and reserve your spot now, on my own privately-funded space colony. We’re leaving as soon as I attach these SRB’s to my El Camino.
Today’s inspirational song lyrics are brought to us by the very forward-thinking Montrose:
“Oh what a time we had, living o the ground. I’m moving to station #5, see you next time around!”
8/15/05
