Good morning, sunshine. Stop that blinking – just rub the sleep right out of your eyes and get back to work, you shiftless mo-fo. If you want me, I’ll be… in the top bunk… just up the stairs… zzzzzzz…
Yes, exchanges like that take place regularly here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, where your friends in the Big Green collective are now warehousing themselves. When we’re not discussing anarcho-syndicalist theory, we’re making onion dip using sour cream and that cheap-shelf powdered soup mix. (You know, the kind with the crispy onion bits… mmmm, boy!) Then there are the 6-hour meditation sessions over a ceremonial plate of Ramen noodles. (The one who doesn’t fall asleep gets to eat the noodles. If you stay awake two sessions in a row, you can even boil them before you eat ’em.) So don’t think we’re an undisciplined gang of louts over here – we know how to keep the rabble amongst us in line, yessir. (It’s sorting out the rabble from the worthy that gets me confused…. so confused!)
When we are not testing ourselves physically, mentally, or spiritually, we are… well… 
dealing with the day-to-day pressures of life at the top. Did I say “the top”? I meant the other end. Always get those two mixed up. Oh, sure, we’re not exactly a hit factory here on the terrestrial music scene, however much applause we garner on other planets (and asteroids… don’t forget asteroids). But then you know that – that’s why you’re here. (You are here, aren’t you? AREN’T YOU???) You don’t want the kind of pop band that plays stadiums and makes millions and shows up on your favorite television shows and on the boxes of your favorite toaster waffles. You love Big Green because you want a band that lets a man sized tuber help with the mixing console… one that lets the robot assistant drive the spacecraft every once in a while. That’s because, well, you’re special. (And I’m not pandering, so don’t look at me like that.)
Speaking of which… as you may recall, we did, in fact, let Marvin (my personal robot assistant) drive the spacecraft last week. And as a reward for our broad-mindedness, he crashed the son of a bitch. (To be fair, Marvin was just trying to get into the spirit of our flapjack-fueled saturnalia, so he shouldn’t be saddled with all of the blame. Fucker.) In the absence of our scientific contingent, we undertook the task of repairing the vehicle, desperately trying 
to keep to the looming tour schedule our corporate paymasters at Loathsome Prick records recently handed down. But, of course, we had never assembled a spacecraft before… we had no guide for putting the pieces back together. (That sounds vaguely familiar to me.) And I have to say, it looked a little different before Marvin crashed it into the courtyard. Just possible we did something wrong, but…. ain’t no tellin’ until we hit that thruster control. (Insert dramatic tension here. Okay, that’s enough.)
Anyway, another week will tell the story. The countdown to Mars (or Armageddon) has begun. T-minus one six days and counting. Now it’s six days, eleven hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds. Now it’s…..
