Tripping the Rift

Star date... star raisin... star plum... Freckin' star fruit! Where's my damn junkfood? Only a punkass, lowlife teenager with a perverted pepperoni fetish and his brain stuffed down his boxers could accidentally hack into my ship's flight controls and honestly believe he was just playing a "sweet new video game" ... right up until he flew my ship into a planet. Coincidentally, that's exactly what my teenage nephew Whip just did. As my crew and I climbed out of the wreckage, a couple of local law enforcement goons were there to greet us. Apparently they had nothing better to do than blow holes through the heads of innocent accident victims, even though their planet had hit us just as much as we had hit it. When they saw Whip, though, they started pissing themselves with teenybopperish glee. They thought he was some kind of celebrity.

Captain's Log, cloggin' up the bowl as usual. As captain of a starship, being on-time is an important component of my professional image. That's why I was justifiably pissed off when a traffic jam made me miss a critical appointment at McHooter's with a client I'll call Mistress Shots O'Booze. As consolation, I stole some shwag from the frecked-up spaceship that caused the jam. Turned out I'd stolen ten thousand tubes of G-Y Jelly. For those of you who don't care what men do with other men behind closed doors, I'll just say it's an intimate masculine product.

Captain's Log: cruisin', bruisin' and losin' my temper a little more every freckin' minute. Christmas came early on the Jupiter 42 this year: I was charging up a storm, buying every sick freckin' porno I could find. When my crew started to whine that I was hogging all the goodies, I shared the wealth (generous guy that I am). T'Nuk, naturally, missed the point and bought a new bra big enough to hold her sagging blubber-bags. Fortunately, Whip showed a little imagination and ordered a shiny new shrink ray from the back of a comic book. Sadly, not everyone likes to share as much as I do.

Captain's Log, two steps over the line and askin' for three steps toward the door - Everyone knows the old "out of gas" trick: You fly your ship somewhere out into the void between a couple of galaxies, let the fusion drive sputter out, and tell your date the ship's out of fuel. Then you find creative ways to pass the time "until help arrives," or you decide your pelvis can't take anymore and you "remember" that there's a spare fuel pod in the cargo bay. Times like that, running out of gas can be a good thing. This was not one of those times.

Captain's Log, the self-lighting kind that never freckin' works when you put it in the fireplace, even after you douse it in gasoline - It's always such a tragedy when my ass-bouncing with Six is interrupted by petty trivialities. This time, my grandpa Benito broke out of the Fun City Retirement Home with a gang of antique cronies, then waylaid us with some wackjob story about the staff at Fun City sucking his brainwaves out against his will. Obviously, I can't be blamed for thinking that was a load of horse crap.

Captain's Log, stardate's looking ugly even after one bourbon, one scotch and one beer....My crew's pulled some fart-brained stunts over the years, but this time it was S.B.D. - "Stupid But Deliberate." Six, Gus, T'Nuk and Whip actually walked out on me, quit, mutinied! They were blathering about how they couldn't stand the "working conditions" aboard the Jupiter 42! They're all freckin' crazy. Sure, there was the screwup with the dental plan, and that minor incident with the radiation leakage, but that's nothing to leave a job over. Especially when the boss is as cool and proactively employee-focused as me. But those morons left anyway. "Good riddance," I said. I could finally get some real work done, like tackling my backlog of frozen pizzas and cold beer so I'd finally have storage space for new frozen pizzas and different beer.

Captain's Log, half-baked and fully loaded: Damn, that was a close one. And, for once, I'm not talking about premature ejaculation. I'm talking about my latest run-in with Commander Adam and his Confederation cronies. Over drinks down at Sammy's, "Assmaster" Adam got on this bragging kick about his brat son, Adam 12. In the same breath, he started ragging on my nephew, Whip. Now, if I want to call Whip a no-good worthless pissant slacker moron who's lazier than a stagnant puddle of sewage, that's my business. But nobody else better call him that, 'cause he's family. So, naturally, I bet Commander Adam that Whip could whip Adam 12's sorry ass in the spaceboarding competition at the Intergalactic X-Games. The deal was, if Whip lost, I had to give Six to the Commander. (Talk about a "sucker" bet....) For some crazy reason, both Whip and Six were pissed off when they heard the news.

Captain's Log, as thick as my left tentacle and twice as long...and Gus forgot to refill the damned toilet paper again. GUS...! Now that Whip has his learner's permit, I have to spend a crapload of time teaching him the difference between braking and speeding. Worse, during our latest lesson, some Gray freaks in a flying saucer cut us off, backed into us, and then had the balls to demand that I pay them damages! It was obviously a scam, so I grabbed the wheel and took off. They chased us, which didn't shock me (after all, I always hate it when my scam victims run away). I plunged the ship into a wormhole to ditch them, but they followed us through. Next thing we knew, we'd all crash-landed together in a place called Roswell, in the mind-blowingly lame year of 1947, on some backwater dirtball called Earth. The Jupiter 42 was banged up, but we were way luckier than our pals in the flying saucer. They'd crashed near a military base, and the local cavemen confiscated them and their ship.

Captain's Log: Star date's getting paid by the hour and she runs on batteries...Ah, vacation. A time when I can kick back, get drunk, and engage in elaborate frauds on the public. Now, I know what you're saying: That sounds suspiciously like my everyday life. But you're forgetting one

Captain's Log: Flyin' high again — and hoping I don't have to take a piss-test when those space-cops catch up to us....Proving just how jack-booted and thuggish the Confederation really is, Commander Adam's wife, Nancy, recently had me arrested like a cheap pimp just so I could do her a favor. Her hookwormy hubby had crash-landed on Vitalius IV, home of the galaxy's most infamous monsters. Nancy's big solution to this minor crisis was to dump an earwig in my ear that would eat my brain in 24 hours if she didn't remove it — and she was the only one who could. In other words, if I wanted to live, I had to rescue Adam. Convincing my crew to help me burned up an insultingly large chunk of my incredibly shrinking life-span, but we finally landed on Vitalius IV. There, the crew distracted the critters while I scanned for Commander Adam's life-signal.

Captain's Log, half-past dead and cruisin' on borrowed time...Having just pulled off one of my patented pranks against Darph Bobo, I was kicking back with some fast food when I suddenly choked on my burger. The next thing I knew, I was in the afterlife, drifting along a freaky white hallway with the taste of processed meat still in my throat. Then I spotted my horny ol' nemesis, The Devil, lounging around waiting for me. The Infernal Lord of Night whipped out his DVD collection and played me a sucky bonus feature about how great my crew's lives would have been if they'd never met me. Then, as he was about to dump me into Hell just for ruining a few dorky, pathetic lives, I felt my life returning. Someone back in the real world was giving me mouth-to-mouth!

Captain's Log, Six is one, Haffa Dozen is her Mother: When you live life the way I do -- out on the edge, stickin' it to the man ... no, strike that. "Stickin' it to the man" is more of a Gus thing. What I'm saying is, when you're a rugged renegade like me, sooner or later you're gonna wind up in a high-speed police chase. Personally, I don't even think twice anymore when I see the flashing lights in the rearview. But this time, the cops arrested Six and dumped her in jail for armed robbery. Apparently, security cameras showed her stealing dilithium crystals from a crapload of ships across the galaxy. I didn't know what pissed me off more: that Six hadn't shared the dough from her secret criminal escapades with me, or that some cop had cuffed my sex cyborg -- that's my thing!