Monday, October 29, 2012

I Prefer Tortillas Over Bread On My Space Flights Because I Don't Want Crumbs Flying Around The Cabin

Being an astronaut can be a very discouraging job.  I wake up literally every morning with a horribly painful erection that, due to strict NASA regulations (brought fourth when they were purchased by Caumcast), I am not to touch, poke or even glance upon--lest it distract me from my mission, which is making adjustments to an unstable Caumcast satellite (so the citizenry of earth may watch Sugar Foo Foo, the child bride).  As a result, I am left feeling much like a Mormon boy, letting semen accumulate inside my bowels until I have a gallon of "milk" sloshing around in there.  Milk that is left to sit and fester, much like my mood.  Not being able to release myself is not only a boondoggling psychological strain but a physiological one as well.  At the very best I have, quite literally, a single american gallon of semen inside my body that I have to try to ignore.  At the very worst, I have that gallon of white butter PLUS a painfully hard erection (generally in the morning and afternoon hours or whenever I look upon my co-pilot Barbara, a normally unfortunate looking woman that I am now lusting furiously over due to my lack of options).
The only real joy I get out of my day is when I am left alone with a hot moistened lunch to feast upon in relative silence.  And yes, I generally eat it alone in my bed quarters while thinking of my ex-wife Theresa and her sizable feminine orbs.  Bad news is...even these fine moments have been stripped from my life.  Why, you ask?  Because of my god-damned co-worker, Brad in Engineering.  Strict NASA regulations state that we are only to make breakfast burritos on flour tortillas and NEVER make toast.  Well Brad managed to stow away two loaves of South Carolina "crumblewheat."

It's the messiest and ugliest bread on earth--and considering my knowledge of the void--I'd go so far as to say the entire universe.  So why does this bother me so?  I'll tell you!  Every time Brad so much as opens his bag of crumblewheat (being that we live in fucking zero gravity) all the crumbs fly out and are left to either levitate in the air all over the spacecraft or settle in various nooks and crannys throughout the ship...most notably, my fucking bunk bed.  Right now, my bed has more chunks of crumblewheat in it than I have memories of boning my ex-wife.  And we were married for 22 years.  I guess some people would say that I'm over-reacting but I'm staring to feel like my whole life is a miserable waste of time and it's all come down to me wishing I could sexually explode in a clean god-damned bed.

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