Put your shit on the correct side of the flag, Zambia. It goes on the left, near the pole, not the right.
Okay, flags of the world, listen up. A nation’s flag is supposed to be its unique identifying symbol, a collection of colors and insignia that define its people, what they stand for, and what they hope for. It is the banner that will brand their greatest accomplishments, it will be hoisted above their competitors on the world stage, and is the oriflamme they rally behind in times of war. Yet so many of y’all are pedestrian, similar, and uninspired. You fly behind the god damned presidents of the world, ya gotta shape up.
I’m getting ready to start a lab when I realize that I don’t have any ethanol to wipe down my lab bench with. I am now faced with a choice: I can borrow ethanol from the guy to my left or the attractive girl behind me.
Tough choice. The first option is definitely safer. I wouldn’t have to worry about my voice cracking, my shoe laces suddenly being tied together or my pants spontaneously falling down as the universe’s way of getting even with me. At the same time I would not have the opportunity to begin a dialogue with the girl that I spend most of the lectures staring at.
Tough choice… tough choice. I could… tough choice. No wait… damn… tough choice.
My apartment building came with pretty thick walls—thick enough that I never heard any noises from any other apartment for months. But recently, my upstairs neighbors decided to start playing “throw the U-bend into the corner”, and I can hear them quite clearly.
Today I found PFC Wilson sleeping in a broken garbage disposal unit. He said he had thought it was his bed. When I asked him how long he had been sleeping there, his saddened reaction indicated that he had been using it as his bunk since we launched from Detria Station six months ago. This puzzled me, because the disposal unit had been operational until two weeks ago. He said that sleeping in an operational garbage disposal unit was difficult, but not impossible; that he would roll out of it every hour to avoid getting crushed and salvage what bedding he could, though he frequently lost pillowcases and sheets to its hungry maw, but he had also wondered why people always threw garbage at him.
Previously on Battlestar Galactica, Chad failed to notice when the Forums he advertised on spawned their most popular thread making fun of him. Eventually, I grew tired of the novelty of being paid to mock my advertisers, so I went all out, posting a massive omnibus article that was half-rant, part-Photoshop desecration, part declaration of hostilities, and all anger. He still didn’t notice.
I enlisted for the action of a deep space exploration mission. I never expected that a deep space exploration mission would need latrine duty. I certainly never expected to be personally responsible for cleaning it. Maybe someday, with a bit of luck, I can become Sanitation Officer, promoted through my own merits. That is my true dream. Not cleaning up shit, but telling others to do it for me.
One thing’s for sure, in the meantime, this trip isn’t about to get more interesting, and my job couldn’t possibly get more difficult. Certainly it will not do so even if we pick up aliens whose specialty is pooping everywhere.
Florida, the Chad State, has spent the last few years developing an election system that will hopefully actually work. However, they are ditching it at the last minute, and will be conducting the vote by an informal poll of who has the most bumper stickers.