So, I am finally getting desperate enough to build my own space pod. I looked around the Internet and found most of the parts on eBay (quite a useful resource - as useful as can be anticipated on a planet where toilet paper is considered sanitary...eeww) Anyway, the hydrogenartic scrocks are the hardest part to acquire, but I think I can create the part myself out of paperclips, several small plastic tubes and plutonium - plus a special ingredient that I should not mention since it will contaminate the human knowledge base - ah, what the glarf - camel dung. You still won't be able to figure it out though. But even if you do, you will likely blow up your pathetic planet - no loss, just wait till I get off it before messing around.
The ship will likely take several Earth months - not due to my lack of skill or genius, but due to the frubby postal service and the dense sellers of these items who list their goods as "shipped fast" and still take a week to put it in the proper shipping receptacle. Bunch of glooberworts! They remind me of a friend I once had on Hectro Segundas who took too long returning a memory plate to its owner and ended up forfeiting half his left brain to make up for the delay - small print, you know how it is - well maybe not. I forget sometimes who I am speaking to. Anyway...
My space pod is going to be just adequate enough to get me to the nearest acceptable planetoid - Faria Vi (granted, they don't offer much in the way of plush accommodations, but at least the food doesn't constantly smell of Gnarffle fish - and they have a small - if limited - spaceport.) I can handle another couple of months here as long as I don't get any more of those droofing girl scouts coming to my residence trying to poison me with their egregiously unhealthy "cookies." The sellers seem to think that because they are smaller in size and slightly (emphasize "slightly") less repulsive in form and smell than their larger human counterparts that I should inevitably part with my easily stolen finances to procure their foul tasting goods. The ingredients of the Mint Thins would kill a large Vartioblat if ingested!
O.K. that was a slight overstatement, but honestly, it is a wonder that humankind has survived so long with the sheer lack of anything resembling nourishing food stuffs in the "grocery" distributors. The amount of harmful substances consumed by the average human monthly would do serious damage to most any corporeal species within several turns if introduced into the galactic purified food chain. Personally, I have had a really difficult time digesting anything this planet produces. No wonder the bathrooms all smell so foul (OH! and the "Air Fresheners" are nothing of the sort! I can't imagine anything being more poorly named). The prior chronicle could easily have been my last if I hadn't left the bathroom entry open. And don't get me started on the other side effects of your "food".
Two months.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Still here...not for lack of trying.
So, I had given up on the idea of writing this ridiculous farce of a chronicle, but since my various attempts to leave this planet - this festering wound of a world lying in an a polluted salt bath of an ocean that will never quite cleanse it - have failed miserably, I have decided to lower myself to once again address the mindless few who read this revolting language.
Whoever invented television commercials should be vaporized into a cloud of gas and injected into a room full of snozzlepogs to be snorted up and broken down into their constituent plezzy particles inside the rodents' bladders. Even that's too good for these people. Stories of cultures that subjected their members to this form of torture have been made legend in the Ancient Galactic Chronicles. Without exception, each culture's end came soon and in the most hideous of ways. And without exception, the members of the culture found it a welcome relief. At this stage of programming, I give Earth twenty cycles at most before blessed war brings an end to the horrors of small print and deep-voiced vehicle sellers.
On another topic, I found a piece of paper attached to my earth vehicle this morning. I do not know where it had come from - I don't remember ordering it. Annoyingly enough, I had already entered the vehicle and was in the process of engaging the drive engine when I discovered it. I had to stop the vehicle, exit, and remove the paper before continuing. Apparently, the paper belonged to a Mr. Wong who likes to cook and provides free egg rolls to complete strangers. I have kept this document in case it becomes important at a later date, or if Mr. Wong comes looking for it.
I got my first communication from the network today. It was an invitation to a solar bathing blessing that my third mother was hosting on Vino Prime Velast. I didn't even know she had procured a new sun. I know she had been trying but such things are seldom accomplished quickly with the type of legislation that is passing the Frennian Council these cycles. I don't know how many forms I had to fill in to gain access to the Frennian personal biological waste facility before I was finally allowed to go. That was a painful but most needed visit. The type of digital work it takes to explode a sun must be horrendous; especially on Vino Prime Velast - there are twenty-six indigenous life forms on the closest planet alone. Proving that these lifeforms are worthless in order to gain eminent domain over their solar system can sometimes be gruelling.
Anyway, I hope she and her friends have fun and link lots of pictures to the network because the chances of me attending are as slim as a baby Grenolian's bottom not stinking after a three moon drag through the Gnaaar fields of spew.
Whoever invented television commercials should be vaporized into a cloud of gas and injected into a room full of snozzlepogs to be snorted up and broken down into their constituent plezzy particles inside the rodents' bladders. Even that's too good for these people. Stories of cultures that subjected their members to this form of torture have been made legend in the Ancient Galactic Chronicles. Without exception, each culture's end came soon and in the most hideous of ways. And without exception, the members of the culture found it a welcome relief. At this stage of programming, I give Earth twenty cycles at most before blessed war brings an end to the horrors of small print and deep-voiced vehicle sellers.
On another topic, I found a piece of paper attached to my earth vehicle this morning. I do not know where it had come from - I don't remember ordering it. Annoyingly enough, I had already entered the vehicle and was in the process of engaging the drive engine when I discovered it. I had to stop the vehicle, exit, and remove the paper before continuing. Apparently, the paper belonged to a Mr. Wong who likes to cook and provides free egg rolls to complete strangers. I have kept this document in case it becomes important at a later date, or if Mr. Wong comes looking for it.
I got my first communication from the network today. It was an invitation to a solar bathing blessing that my third mother was hosting on Vino Prime Velast. I didn't even know she had procured a new sun. I know she had been trying but such things are seldom accomplished quickly with the type of legislation that is passing the Frennian Council these cycles. I don't know how many forms I had to fill in to gain access to the Frennian personal biological waste facility before I was finally allowed to go. That was a painful but most needed visit. The type of digital work it takes to explode a sun must be horrendous; especially on Vino Prime Velast - there are twenty-six indigenous life forms on the closest planet alone. Proving that these lifeforms are worthless in order to gain eminent domain over their solar system can sometimes be gruelling.
Anyway, I hope she and her friends have fun and link lots of pictures to the network because the chances of me attending are as slim as a baby Grenolian's bottom not stinking after a three moon drag through the Gnaaar fields of spew.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
I'd Rather be Eaten by a Crefgard Slooberwisk
So, I tried to uplink my chronicles to the Sorting Brain today and guess what? Yep, it's busy. It's been constantly able to take care of giberwits of information for more turns than a bartflee has ears but now (all of a sudden - shock, horror) it's busy - "Please try your request after 27 Kyrion Standard Time"
Being shoved down here "on location" is bad enough, but not being able to reach my public is unacceptable. This paltry outlet for my creative talents is worse than being stuck in a box on a slow ship to Frigio.
I know it's heaven for you few readers who happen upon this masterpiece of a chronicle to bask in my glorious messages, but for me it's...
Let me just pause to say there is no language on earth to convey how I feel - I spent the first few days learning them all and finally settled on English - not because it was the best - frankly there was an obscure Aboriginal dialect that was a lot more expressive in that it didn't sound like a Verol eleflat blowing its glandular appendage - but English seemed to be the most widely abused - plus getting an Aboriginal keyboard was a joke - bloody customer service!
Anyway the closest word is ghnarltifoost - though the Quijaks would strangle me by my brush hairs for attempting to scribe it into this abominable language. I actually yelled it out today while being conveyed on the horrendous public transportation you humans entitle "the tube" (which carries twice as many passengers than can actually fit into the space as defined by the laws of physics) and miraculously and immediately got given enough space to check my pockets only to find them lighter than when I entered.
Some lucky thief is now the proud owner of a Hyrinian grapple coin. You humans don't understand the concept of a physical object being a negative currency. Since it was freely taken from me, the new owner has unknowingly assumed possession of the debt associated with that coin (a few drinks in a shady bar around the rings of a distant blue planet whose name remains as fuzzy as the evening's events - though the Bynthio bartender still remembers the night down to the last borrowed drop.) And so the thief will have to pay it some way or another - shame. I was getting a little worried about that one - it was almost due.
I will stop now and try to uplink my chronicles to a place that matters.
End Transmission.
Being shoved down here "on location" is bad enough, but not being able to reach my public is unacceptable. This paltry outlet for my creative talents is worse than being stuck in a box on a slow ship to Frigio.
I know it's heaven for you few readers who happen upon this masterpiece of a chronicle to bask in my glorious messages, but for me it's...
Let me just pause to say there is no language on earth to convey how I feel - I spent the first few days learning them all and finally settled on English - not because it was the best - frankly there was an obscure Aboriginal dialect that was a lot more expressive in that it didn't sound like a Verol eleflat blowing its glandular appendage - but English seemed to be the most widely abused - plus getting an Aboriginal keyboard was a joke - bloody customer service!
Anyway the closest word is ghnarltifoost - though the Quijaks would strangle me by my brush hairs for attempting to scribe it into this abominable language. I actually yelled it out today while being conveyed on the horrendous public transportation you humans entitle "the tube" (which carries twice as many passengers than can actually fit into the space as defined by the laws of physics) and miraculously and immediately got given enough space to check my pockets only to find them lighter than when I entered.
Some lucky thief is now the proud owner of a Hyrinian grapple coin. You humans don't understand the concept of a physical object being a negative currency. Since it was freely taken from me, the new owner has unknowingly assumed possession of the debt associated with that coin (a few drinks in a shady bar around the rings of a distant blue planet whose name remains as fuzzy as the evening's events - though the Bynthio bartender still remembers the night down to the last borrowed drop.) And so the thief will have to pay it some way or another - shame. I was getting a little worried about that one - it was almost due.
I will stop now and try to uplink my chronicles to a place that matters.
End Transmission.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
I've been here 3 days and I already hate telemarketers
When you tick off The Great Drasborj by calling his significant other the equivalent of a Droonian Slubbertak you should expect something nasty to happen to you. Believe it or not, I used to be one of the most respected chroniclers that the network had seen in several Dree turns. That's right. Glicnk Hvall himself gave my career "six digits up" in his wonderful article "Who Gets Six Digits Up and Who Does Not" but that's ancient history. What's hot today is not later on today - isn't that what they say? Well if it isn't, they should. Anyway, I am stuck in the sinkhole of the Sol system with nothing but a primitive computer that still works in BINARY! and ten fingers to click with. Stupid human body! And why does it always smell so bad!!
End Transmission
End Transmission
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