The Sexual Proclivities of Aliens

You never realize just how dark space is until you experience it. On a planet, the stars seem so bright. They seem to illuminate the sky and ground. Of course, that is just an illusion. What’s really illuminating the planet is the moon, or moons. The moon actually isn’t bright either; the light is just a reflection of the sun. But, on a planet, you still get the impression that the stars make things bright. Near a city, you can’t see the stars usually and the nights are really dark. But, out in the country there can be so many stars that they blot out the black and the nights are somehow pretty bright. Of course, that again is the sun kicking in via the moon. We humans are be so foolish sometimes.
At least, I can be foolish sometimes. I pulled that lever and blew myself into the depths of space. I’d be better off dead than lost, drifting forever in an ocean of darkness. It’s really dark. The only thing providing light are the dimmed lights from the instrument panel. There are so many stars that you think they really should provide enough light to read by. But, they don’t. And the glow off the instrument panel only makes impenetrable shadows on the pages.
Why the fuck did I bring a book? I have always brought a book with me. My mom always did too. That must be why- a habit passed down from one generation from the last. Most people don’t read books anymore. Sure, they read fiction and non-fiction- but electronically. They called them “e-books” when they first came out. Damn, I’m that old. Most of my peers had never seen a book. The electronic replacements had taken over the market a hundred years before. About the same time that I got my age reduced.
Why did I do that? Stupid thing to do, it was just a fad. All the trendy people were doing it. I added possibly two hundred years onto my life. Which means I have around a hundred years to sit here, in this cockpit, eating recycled and replicated nutrients and being chemically kept in perfect health by the faithful and trusty computer.
And now we come to the computer. She’s located behind me. At least I made her a she. You see, a pilot can program his computer to be any creature and any gender. So, I made mine a human female. You can also give it a more human voice and accent. This is where I fucked up. Being a newly young and vibrant and cocky pilot, I decided to make my computer in to a bit of a joke. I made her have the voice of Frances McDormand from the movie “Fargo”. You know, a stereotypical and exaggerated North Dakota or Minnesota accent. Why did I do that? Now I am forced to sit here for the next hundred years listening to “Oh, yeah, then?” “Ya.” “Hey der!” “Yaderhey!” And other such crap.
I wonder if the computer will allow me to have a mental breakdown so my last hundred years can at least seem like fun. Probably won’t, the fucking machine. Things weren’t like that when I was a kid. “Fargo” was cool when I was a kid. No one reading this would know what “Fargo” was, aside from a city. Trust me, “Fargo” was a funny movie. The Coen Brothers, Joel and Ethan, wrote and directed it. Funny.
Wow, that was a lot of talk but very little time actually passed. I think I may sign off for a while.
I’m back, not that anyone will hear this log. I am lost in the ass end of the organism known as the Andromeda Galaxy. I have no clue how far I am from home, nor do I want to know. It’ll only make my wait that much worse. Who knows, maybe someone will find me. My beacon is going. I think. It’s probably going. I should check.
Yup, it’s going. It’ll be a miracle if anyone finds me even with the beacon chirping away. I wonder how long the radio signal will take to reach the base. Hmmm…seven over the eight…divided by twelve…who the fuck am I kidding, I don’t know jack about interstellar communication. All I know, or care to know, is that when I hit the button, it works. Your standard communication device works that way. It uses some kind of targeted beam or something. Works almost instantly. But, for that you need to know your location and your target’s destination. The beacon doesn’t work that way. Since I don’t know where home is, it’s sending out a general signal on all sides. Basically, I’m in the middle of the woods, shouting. Maybe someone hears me, maybe not. Maybe an alien will hear my distress call. “Help me, please. I am stuck in the ass end of nowhere and will die of boredom sometime in the next hundred years. I would appreciate a bit of a rescue.” Might translate into: “Your mother is ugly. No one would touch your miserable excuse for a planet with a super-laser from a movie you would never have seen. Eat shit and die you goat fucker.”
If that’s the case, my waiting for death will be over. Of course, the aliens might decide to anally probe me. Some alien races have a penchant for anal raping. Gross, if you ask me, but they really get off on it. I remember a sketch from an old Canadian show that no one knows about, called “Kids in the Hall”. In this sketch, there are two aliens conducting your usual anal rape. They have a sleeping human on a cart and insert a glowing dildo into their ass. The one says something like, “We travel three thousand light years to anally probe humans and all we find out is that one in five doesn’t mind it so much.”
I knew a guy once who was anally raped by an alien. A female one. Little did he know, though, but in this species, the female has the penis. He thought he’d be getting some hot nookie, but ended up with a sore behind and a strangely amused look on his face. You can imagine the comedy derived from that incident. He died a few weeks ago, his ship’s thermal shields were damaged and he burned in the atmosphere of a planet he had never been on before. I talked with him as his cockpit got hotter and hotter and his brains slowly cooked. He told me, “You know, you gotta always reach for the pink bismuth.” Of course, his brain was medium-well by that point. He didn’t die by cooking, though. The armor plating melted through and he was burnt to nothingness by the inferno outside his fighter.
I’m pretty tired. I may put more entries in this log, or not. I am beginning to realize the extent of my predicament. And the end of my pistol is looking pretty tasty.