Tripping the Rift

When I saw an advertisement for a trip to the Beginning of Time, I knew I had to go, if only for the free booze on the plane. I graciously allowed Gus to come along as my carry-on slave, on the condition he shut his whiny gripehole as soon as I proved there was no God at the Big Bang. The Timeport was full of Gus-like religious dipwits, security guards suffering from cranial-rectal infractions and the usual would-be suicide bombers. The flight itself was full of the same old trippy time-travel crap until we hit some turbulence. (I did not wig out and scream like a prison bitch, and if Gus says otherwise I'll rip him apart and weld what's left into vibrators for T'Nuk.) Despite my inspirational coolness, however, the spineless wonders in the cockpit turned the plane around and flew us back to the Timeport. Since our bet about the nonexistence of God remained unsettled, Gus and I had no choice but to steal the Timeplane and jaunt back to see the Creation ourselves.

Captain's Log, date unknown, because Gus didn't flip the calendar... again. It's so damn hard for a guy to watch a big mutilation ball game in peace. If it ain't T'Nuk whining 'cause she didn't get to buy some piece o' crap dolly off the shopping channel, or Six and Gus giving me their "we're so superior to sports" gripefest, it's Commander Adam of the Confederation beaming onto my ship and ordering me, at gunpoint, to commit crimes that he's too much of a pansy to commit himself. Basically, the hero of the Confederation Cougars mutilation ball team used to be a jock named Malak. Adam demanded that we kidnap Malak out of retirement in time for the Cougars' big game against the Dark Clowns.

Captain's Log: Some people just don't deserve to judge beauty pageants — for instance, the twerp whose ass I kicked in the rest room to get this all-access judge's pass. He put up a helluva fight, but my intestinal fortitude proved too much for him.... OK, so I knocked him cold with a fart that could've stopped a charging rhino. I never said I fight fair. I had the perfect, can't-miss plan: I'd enter Six in the competition, rig the vote to make sure she won, and then pocket the million-dollar prize. Six pitched a fit (some crapola about pageants being "degrading," I think — I'm not sure, I wasn't really listening), but I'm a damned persuasive hunka burning Chode. I gave her a dose of my famous mojo, then stuffed her in a bikini and told her to go look pretty and help make me rich.

Captain's Log, somewhere between Six and 69: Some days start off bad and get better. Today, that was half right. I was getting my freak on in the hot tub with Six when I saw an ad for cloaking devices. Figuring one of those babies would keep us off Darph Bobo's radar, I decided to drop everything and go to the planet Snozzle to buy one from a used-cloak dealer named Sailor Pete. (With a name like that, he's got to be trustworthy, right?) I decided to set a course for Snozzle ... right after I finished letting Six "baby" me. Then my nephew Whip comes crashing through the door, gets an eyeful of my diaper and goes stark raving blind on the spot. I've asked Gus a hundred times to put a lock on that freckin' door! Anyway, I decided the simplest, most honest way to deal with Whip's hysterical blindness was for me, Six and Gus to go on a road trip and leave the little green whiner on the ship. Then, for one shining moment, I thought my day was looking up.

Stardate: April Fool's Day -- a.k.a. Tax Day Minus Two Weeks. While my crew and I were watching the enlightening sociological documentary Joe Bachelor, Bob got so distracted by its insights that he flew us straight into a black hole. While I was busy devising a complex and brilliant solution, the Devil appeared and offered us an easy way out. (Apparently, the ship's internal sensors recorded the events of a close parallel universe in which I panicked like a wussbag. I'll have to order Gus to erase that, um, glitch.) I secured our safety for the bargain-basement price of my eternal soul, and Dumbass McHellfire even threw in a big-screen TV. As I expected, there was a sphincter-pounding loophole in the contract.

Captain's Log, little hand on the big thingy, my hand on her thingy. Today, I had a classic bad-news, good-news scenario on my hands: 1) My Grandpa Benito was coming to visit and generally stink up my ship; and 2) Baltar Industries was recalling Gus because of a potentially explosive defect. Baltar even said they'd replace Gus with the Gus XP, an ass-kicking new robot — no charge and no strings attached! Woo-hoo! Free upgrade, baby! The new robot arrived long before the old coot, which was no surprise. Gramps flies like he frecks — slow and sloppy. Our busted-ass, broken-down, worthless old Gus selfishly claimed that he didn't want to be sent to Baltar's internment camp for obsolete robots. Boo-hoo — cry me a river, sissybot.

Captain's Log: Kinda nutty, a little corny, need to get my commode fixed now. When I stick a funky monolith on a primitive planet in exchange for a hefty payoff from Darph Bobo, I usually don't give a flying crap about what that monolith does to the planet's innocent, unsuspecting natives. But this time, Bobo himself popped out of the monolith with a bunch of his stormtrooping minions, declared himself the planet's god, and converted all the tribesmen into his private legion of gold-mining slaves. The moment I saw that, I knew he had gone too far — he had to be stopped. I wasn't gonna be part of a scam like that if I wasn't getting a fair cut.

Captain's Log, six of one and half a dozen of the other. Most of the time I have no idea how we end up in these messes. This is not one of those times. During an important booty-finding mission on Floridia 7 (a.k.a. the "Spring Break Planet"), the crew and I got busted on some trumped-up charges. To get out, we took on a job for Klak Klownman, a Dark Clown presidential candidate who was about to get his fat, red nose handed to him by his Confederation opponent, George Goodfellow. Klownman promised us a big payday if we helped him win the election by bringing him proof that Goodfellow was really a Sleazefellow.

Captain's log, stardate way past my bedtime: Darph Bobo had found us at last. In other words, again. The crew thought we were done for until I implemented my legendary "Ice Cream Stratagem," crippling Bobo's ship while we escaped to Muldavia 5. The Muldavians gave us a worshipful welcome. And by "us" I mean me. It's truly insulting that Six is so damn suspicious every time natives embrace me so lovingly. I mean, Six embraces me lovingly all the time. Just because she's an enslaved sex android whose programming gives her no choice but to fawn over my glorious, purple — um...majesty — doesn't make her love for me any less genuine. At least, not as far as I'm concerned.

Captain's log: The ship is fully loaded and we're skipping out on the bar tab. Let me tell you why. I had been hoping to enjoy a nice, normal day — making millions by pimping a singing, self-spanking monkey encased in a diamond — but my dumbass A.I. Bob went and got himself shot up by Harmonia VII's defense system. I had to crash-land the ship on that backwater planet to buy him a replacement pink Tuscadaran patch cord. I took Six, Whip and Gus with me (because misery loves company).

Captain's Log: Whip's sixteenth birthday and umpteenth hissy fit. Like every other punk-ass kid I've ever met, Whip dissed the present I gave him for his sixteenth birthday. (What self-respecting teenager doesn't want a paint-by-numbers kit? Sheesh.) He slouched off to his room to sulk, then opened a spam e-mail from Darph Bobo. My old Dark Clown nemesis yanked Whip through his computer, all the way to some dirtball planet — where Bobo strung him up over a vat of flesh-eating Melties and gave me a call. Bobo insisted that I beam down to a precise point on the planet's surface. Yeah ... like that wasn't a trap.

Captain's Log...stardate unknown (because I'm too hung over to read the frecking chronometer). Lugging a giant load of cocoa-butter skin cream was going to make me some handy extra cash, but Bob let go of the cream too early. He prematurely let 'er fly straight into a star, leaving me totally unsatisfied. Financially speaking. Fortunately, I had a plan: I decided to invent a fake reality show, invite Darph Bobo's daughter Babette and Commander Adam's son Adam 12 to be "contestants" and make them fall in love. Their families would stop being mortal enemies, the Confederation and the Dark Clowns would cease their cold war and I'd earn the Peace Prize and the million kronigs that go with it. I couldn't believe no one else had hit upon such a sure-fire scheme.

Captain's Log, stardate unknown (because Whip shorted out the main computer with a fluid so disgusting I don't even want to know what it is).While I battled an antifreeze hangover (gotta remember not to let Whip label things in the liquor cabinet), T'Nuk took Six to a strip club to watch a bunch of robotic hunks shake their lugnuts. One of the degenerates performing in the club was Six's former fellow slave, Ten. Ready for the kicker? When Ten and the other sexbots decided to escape from their enforced employment after the show, Six went with them! Why, God, why? Is it because I hit you with my starship at the beginning of time? I thought we sorted that out!