I was rat-dipped into the secret surprise space project ALPHA in 1957, when I was MINUS THIRTEEN years old. I was equipped with particle beam straight razors and master-pant pillowcase parachute magic. My own DORB-BUSTRESS massages my guzz-pipe and leaves me ready for time travel.
I could spare you the details of INVERSE CAUSALITY gas and the adjustments to your spine and groin, all of this the TIME MASTERS demand. YOU SPREAD A NEW ASS PAN PHILOSOPHY, but instead you are locked in desperate battle, for hundreds of years, as a mind-scraping living detached in giant super battle cruisers. All fighting for the water fields of the KUIPER BELT and the OORT CLOUD and the SHEDD’S SPREAD COUNTRY CROCK.
On my first mission, after a 60 year journey to DORMUS-PRIME, I battled the 99 thryblick-blunt monks, who guarded the sacred bathing pools of Roonia. In them there pools, busty women would rub musk-oil on their big old titties all day long while periodically rubbing their boovulas. After hours of battle, I was nursed back to health by these scantily clad jizz-waifs … and after a few days of “hide the torpedo”, I jetted back to our star base on the MOON of YURG.
AFTER THE BATTLE OF TWO STARS, our cruiser the SSP VALKYRIE was missile attacked by the SPACE MEXICANS of the TACO NEBULA. These MONSTERS used HIGH FRUCTOSE neutronium core slime to cover their poop chute battery chargers. We couldn’t find them, in the dark they looked like our broken selves and the robots drew lots to carve up their sandwiches. Our space dogs were let loose upon those FREAKS, and after days of endless chase we forced them down the BLACK HOLE of CALCUTTA, to contend with rape gangs and street food covered in fecal matter.
I got shoved into a dimension once, while patrolling alone in a ME-163Z or ZED for “time skipper”. I was sent back in time to give Hitler’s girlfriend genital crabs, when a MICRO BURST of GAMMA RAYS from a nearby pulsar shoved my photonic rage goo out of this multi-present reality into another even lamer fucking timeline. There was no coffee or beer or whiskey or wine … there was no music … there were no smiles, only gray faced demon slaves staring gormlessly at glowing rectangles … and then I realized … “no, I’m back home” … my slippage into a dimensional ass crack provided me with an ideal kind of crab souffle for the FUHRER … and that ass crab buffet would keep on giving, even after he escaped to Argentina.
As a SPACE TROOPER of the 23rd RANK, my job was to combat the disillusionment and broken-heart’d cave-ladies that lived in COSMIC-ZONE 21. I’d swagger on in from the long day toasting morge-gorders, and the women would be talking about waxing their nasty bits and pulling cord-lard from the chasm sept where many a journeyman monk priest would leave their white-chowder, I tells ya …
But it wasn’t all fun and games …
Soon, STARG-VERGON NAVIES from the GOOBLIZ GALAXY would align themselves with the witches of T’yrg. After many decades of battle, our secret star fleet was reduced to just a few MASTER CLASS STAR CORSAIRS … but we were low on stoghix-fuel and the hooker robots no longer pleasured us …
So many more stories to come …
About the secret space program and my part in it.
