Gather round, kiddos – it’s Sunday again! And despite my previous three-week-break from this format in aid of my recovery from the last issue, I’m back again, to torment you and your literary passions and hopes and dreams with another piece of writing that probably would be better off not existing – The Little Ass-tronaut by Admiral Fartmore &Beau Dashington.
So, before we di(v)e in headfirst, there’s also this dedication:
Dedicated to Buzz Aldrin for that time he punched Bart Sibrel in the face. Look it up.
What can I say, I did. And it actually did happen. And it was one of the most satisfying things I’ve seen in a while. I’ll leave you with this still from a youtube video appropriately titled Astronauts Gone Wild – and move on to the main part of the book. Man, we are off to a good start.
Well, here I am, all alone on this rocket, heading to the moon for science reasons. The lift-off went well; all the girls and boys in Houston were jumping up and down and celebrating for me, since I was finally getting off this planet.
Wow, rude much? I wouldn’t be marveling about the fact people were this happy about my transorbital planet removal. Whatever. You do you.
Gotta keep Joe Taxpayer happy. The public wouldn’t support NASA if they knew we were just flying up here to fuck a bunch of monkeys like those dirty Russians do. But maybe those Russians are smarter than we are. Massive Russia won the cold war after all.
Why does every single piece of trash literature I ever pick up begin with trying to develop into a nuanced critique of US politics? Looking at you Chuck Tingle.
Ah jeez, why I am even talking into this Space Diary? I feel like a crazy man. Those NASA quacks told me I had to do it though, since they said that it would help keep me sane since I don’t have any monkeys to fuck
So what should I say? My name is Astronaut Bruce Tasking.
Speak no more. Make it work, Bruce, make it work…
I was born to be a spaceman, and I definitely got that desire from my daddy. He was a plumber and he died in a plumbing accident when I was real young. My last memory of him was a night he was working late, and he let me tag along with him. We sat outside and ate some sandwiches, and he pointed to the moon and said, “See son, that’s the moon. Its attached to the earth by gravity, which is kind of like the love that attaches me to you.”
Okay, firstly – plumbing accident? I’m intrigued. Somebody write a spin-off please. Secondly? You tried really hard. I’ll give that to you. You got something goin’ there!
It always seemed like the moon was the sky’s asshole, and that it was just begging for a good porking. A good old fashioned Montana meat BBQ, right in the shiny white asshole of the sky. Gosh, I’d just spend hours staring at it. I guess you could say I was a bit of a luna-tic.
Yes Bruce, yes, indeed. What the fuck?
And when those desk pushers at NASA offered me the first ever solo moon mission, I jumped at the chance like a crawfish jumping for gravy at a hoedown.
I’m digging the well-thought out comparisons here.
Everyone knows that there’s no gravity in space. What they don’t know is that there’s no gravity in your dreams, either. You always feel suspended in the air, like when your mommy strings you up to a tree because you spilled gravy on the sheets during Mommy-son-alone-time.
I take that back – I’m definitely not digging the comparisons.
I listen to the song “Rocket Man” by Elton John almost once an hour. It helps pass the time. That may sound cheesy – a hot astronaut listening to “Rocket Man” while he flies toward the moon – but hey, the 6 moon is made of cheese. I think my daddy would be proud of me. He loved cheese. Sometimes I like to think that he’s up there on the moon, mouth full of the moon man’s homemade cheddar, smiling down at me.
Daddy issues are being taken to whole new, transorbital level here.
Most people know that you can’t hear in space. The silence is cold and deafening, like when your mommy locks you in the freezer because you talked out of turn. Except that out here, the freezer goes on forever, and there’s no frozen peas to snack on.
I’m actually terrified by the comparisons by now.
The thought of landing on the moon sends shivers down my spine. Thinking back, it feels like I’ve spent my whole life gazing up and watching its cycle: the full moon, the new moon, the half moon, the croissant moon – I loved every shape it made. The croissant moon was maybe my favourite, not just because it was my daddy’s favourite baked good, but because I was a bit of a history nut and loved the fertile croissant where civilization first started. From the fertile croissant to the croissant moon: it was amazing how far we’d come as a Pisces .
Okay say what you want, buts this is actually amazing. Also, I’m in need of a croissant now. Don’t judge me.
I looked around and tried to understand what was going on and who had me in their arms, and I realized it was the moon itself. It was spooning me from behind, breathing into my ear as it started to take off my space-suit and rub my groin. I felt something pressing into my back. It was very large and rock hard, just like a big moon rock.
I’m out. I’m so out, you have no idea. Literally none.
You know what’s the most terrifying thing? This piece of uniquely trashy literature even has a very decent writing style. It’s… readable. I don’t want to. No. Please. Momma no.
If you want to embark on that adventure by yourself, please do so here, and let me know if you survived.
We tried to write the dumbest piece of shit we possibly could. It’s short – like, Amazon erotica-style short – but we feel still that it captures well the experience of an astronaut on a mission to buttfuck the moon.
Congratulations Admiral Fartmore and Beau Dashington, you did well.
For today, that’s all, Space Cowboys. We’re good.
Like #SadLitSunday? Cool, I’m not even going to try and promise there will be a new one each Sunday, but I’m keeping my options open. Have a really shitty book you want to suggest? Awesome, let me know!