Nobody's creekbed

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The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Friday, July 27, 2007

Tony's Thunder
A blog of, by and about Tony

The cat is in the bag, people:

Drunken astronauts allowed to fly, panel says

I've been saying this for years. Those fuckers are drunk. They're wasted. You've heard me.

Sweet, sweet vindication.

If only I were to be vindicated.

Every time that shuttle takes off from Cape Canaverille, I say, "Drunk."

Every time we see low-quality video of those moon-humpers floating around in zero gees, I say, "There's Hurricane Fucking Shit-Face."

You've heard me.

I've famously lost friends over my "Neil Armstrong, Lush" theory. "One small sip for man, yadda yadda." I've blown that picture of Neil on the moon up. You can clearly see "bubbles" inside his helmet. Bubbles mean "take me down the dead seashore, I'm sloshed."

"Wait a second. [BARF] Where'd I park that shuttle?"

Vindication tastes so sweet.

I hope one day to taste it.

In the article I link, one Bert Gordon, some kind of congress man from "d-tenn", says "That's not the 'right stuff' as far as I'm concerned."

And a goddamn hero steps out of the goddamn dark. Shut the fuck up, Bert Gordon. Where you been all my life? Where's my vindication papers?

Fucking hilarious. "That's not the right stuff". Gordon's got Dave Barry writing for him. Barry's been silent on this issue from Day 1 too. The whole lot of them. It makes me sick. Makes me want to puke. Not just want. It makes me actually puke.

Okay, I'm back.

To lie down and sleep with vindication.

I have a box of condoms ready.

Every time we see that big erector-set "space station" adrift in that hellish, empty void, I say, "The drinks are on me, assholes! Come down out of the air and belly up!"

A giant erector-set whorehouse is what it looks like to me. I keep waiting for them to throw a huge, flashing neon sign out front. "Zero Gees to the Wind". Or "Slutcity".

"Neil's Place".

Who all's in collusion on this? Too many to name. But if you've spent any time around me during the last few decades you've heard a pretty long list. It grows every day. I love seeing them scramble now, putting stories like this MSN shlock out there, trying to cover their asses.

Hey, boys: I've seen your asses. You're too late. And by too late, I mean you're a zoo full of fucking monkey dicks.

Every time that shuttle comes coasting back into Earth's atmosphere, I turn to my mother and say, "Smells like a gin-soaked bum."

It's been decades of extravagance. Cocky grins and swaggering around. "Ho ho, maybe we can go to Mars next." Better call Al Capone.

This is all woven into the whole shebang of moral fiber weaving. Moral blankets. "Hope you're warm, dingbats." Fucking christ. Captain's Log, Starship Decadence: looks like the future's a hung-over corpse. Everybody gets a free fucking ticket. Don't forget to pack a shot glass and lamp shade. Don't forget to pack my heart attack.

Vindication is a hot bath.

I am freezing. Dirty.

It's been such a long time.

My left arm is numb.

See you in Orbit, Tau Kappa Fucka.

I guess this answers the famous question about rainbows in space.

"Better strap yourself in, Neil."

"Too late, Shirley. Pass me that cask."

Life in space is going to be just like life on this planet: Worthless.

In the article I linked, some kind of "former NASA flight surgeon" (read: soiled dove) says, "How are you going to explore the universe without taking risks?"

How do I shit standing up? Easy.

You better believe I will continue to blog on this. Check back often. A few of you have let me know that you depend on me. I hope that a few thousand more just haven't said anything. But you know what? It doesn't matter. I was born to do this. My mom used to say I was born with a silver stain in my mouth. Every book talks about times of cowards and one hero. Christ. We can see all the cowards. I'll allow you to fill in the blank on the exception.

Hope you ordered a shit-ton of adult diapers, Special Cowboys and Special Cowladies. Gonna be a long ride.