Not Going to Mars

Okay, Jupiter I know.

But do you know, or have actually thought about, why we're never going to Mars?

Oh, sure, the Discovery HD channel has a million episodes entitled "Journey To Mars" or some-such CGI-enhanced nonsense -- you know: what will the astronauts eat, how will they relate psychologically blah blah blah.

Well, guess the fuck what. (I knew you could!, this being this blog!)

What did you do this morning? Oh, okay, if you're in my case, what did you do this afternoon? You rolled out of bed, either reluctantly or pissed off -- take a card, really, any card -- and went to the bathroom, muttering and scratching your neglected head. You lying hound, don't pretend you didn't. Then you went back to bed, for what? Maybe to drink thirstily from that water bottle and pretend that you actually had nothing to do all day so could catch up on that exotic dream you were having.

Now imagine doing all that in a space suit. Uhh, oxygen levels need to be bumped, SpaceCom, please boost O2 levels ASAP.

What the fuck? In a spacesuit, let alone your pathetic $65/hr job? Fuck, man, what happens if you have to sneeze? Do they have a pill for that? Do they know what 14 hours in a business suit in a fucking plane feels like, let alone fifteen weeks in a fucking metal coffin with no shower, no porn, no Internet and uhh, last time I checked, only fourteen million miles between you and the nearest Help Station is like?

Okay, well, I personally deny the porn. But have you ever woken up in the middle of the night feeling a deep urge to scratch somewhere? To suddenly watch $100,000 Pyramid, have a scotch and eat some chocolate pie?

Huh? Can you imagine those urges while you're in a spacesuit 3 months in to a mission to Mars?

I'll keep you posted. I'm on a mission to what might as well be Mars next week. Let's just pretend that the business suit is a spacesuit. Let's just pretend that the white wine feed is the oxygen feed, and when we get to Mars, switches to the saké feed.

Sorry, have to blow my nose . . .