Space Exploration

Space Exploration
by Albino Finch

The reason we decided to release this special issue on SPACE was because we feel that people, in general, don't think about space enough. Oh sure, many may spend a little time lying around watching space when there's nothing good on TV and the weather's nice. Space makes a nice hobby for many, but on the whole, the proportion of he amount of space there is to the time people spend contemplating it is very low indeed. Too low. So, we dedicate this issue to you, space, and your myriad possibilities.

What if, out there, somewhere (and it is probable, I think, as space is big), there exists a planet where all the people had these big jutting spikes instead of knees. Not only do they have big spikes for knees, but they speak in really whiney voices all the time (not that they're really whiney, it's just the norm to speak in a high-pitched, whiney tone). I mean, OK, I could get used to the knee thing, but the VOICE thing. That would get to me. I mean, really get to me.

And not only that, but it's their custom to stroke each other's elbows as a sign of greeting. Now this I will not stand for. I may be funny that way, but NO MAN touched my elbow, and that goes DOUBLE for some whining, spike-kneed FREAK! But that's not all, oh no, I've only begun to explore the possibility of this horrible, hellish freak-world we call space. Suppose it was among the highest of honours in the so-called "society" to be flung about in a wheelbarrow by your compatriots for hours on end, and then have the flesh burned off your finger-tips by modified waffle-irons, and then everyone gathers around you in a circle and begins yelling "MEEP MEEP!" while poking you with blunt sticks? How would you like that, you space-ignoring bastards? Not very much, I would think.

BUt I'm not done with you yet. After these indignities, this race of spike-kneed stock-poking MEEPers start extending their arms and legs off the planet and around the sun (or what passes for a sun in their land of chaos) and they pull and pull until their palms are all sweaty, and the heat from the sun evaporates all the moisture so that they're left with salty sweat residue on their grimy palms and they start rubbing it in your hair and laughing and then they set wolves on your clothing so that your best shirts get all torn and full of wolf-slobber and there's no laundrymats on this planet (of course) so you have to wash them in a dry creek-bed, full of strange alien diseases which cause your very molecules to lose cohesion so that you end up flung all over the reaches of space. So think about it, motherfucker.

If you like anything here, or if you don't, please e-mail milky@yip.org. Note: You must have access to the Internet to use this link.