Blast on.

Oxygen supply? Go! Inert substances containers? Check! Highly explosive fuel cells? Gotcha – right over there, on top of that stack of souvenir cigarette lighters.

Well, I shudder to say it… because it usually ends up not being true… but I really think we’re ready to lift off this time. We’ve got the ship all loaded up. We’ve got anti-Lincoln bailed out of jail and sober as a cowbird. We’ve got our maps unfolded and our compasses oriented true north. We’ve got our tent-pitchin’ gear, our bottles of sterno, our pots and pans, our paper plates. Then there are a stack of pic-a-nic baskets, just in case Yogi drops by. Actually, Mitch Macaphee had ordered Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to load up a couple of cases of Spaghetti and meatballs, but my illustrious brother – no big fan of Chef Boyardee objected. And around here, what Matt says goes. (Unless he complains about my Rice A Roni. Then, fuck ‘im. )

Hey, you know what it’s like any time you go on a long trip. What to take, what to leave behind, right? Well, it’s no different here in Big Green land. I swear, if we had room in our rented, randomly-ventilated spacecraft, we’d take the whole freaking Cheney Hammer Mill with us, lock, stock, and hammer. That would just be indulging our worst impulses, though, and lawd knows, we never, ever, EVER do that. (If I could get anti-Lincoln away from his Jack Daniels long enough, he’d tell you himself.) So we take essentials and as many hangers-on as we can squeeze into the somewhat limited cabin space our interstellar ride affords. This time around, we’ve got a fairly lean passenger list, given the state of the economy and such. (No one can afford to leave their hovel for six weeks… it’s just an economic reality.) But I’d say we have a quorum.

Who’s going? Well, the three Big Green band members, of course. John, Matt, and… and… who’s the other guy? Then there’s our mad science advisor, Mitch Macaphee, and his invention, Marvin. (We need Mitch to keep us on course to perdition.) I sent out invitations to Trevor James Constable and several other tag-alongs from previous tours, but most of those returned unopened, postage due. (Are stamps still 34 cents or did they go up?) Big Zamboola will be staying behind to keep an eye on the mill…. that’s just a practical consideration (he takes up a bit of space). The man-sized tuber has agreed to come along as well, not that he has a whole lot to say about it. We just load him into the terrarium and he’s ready to fly. (I think that’s what they used to call getting “crimped” back in the day.) Of course, we made the mistake of having everyone sign ship’s articles this time out, so now John has taken to calling himself admiral and the rest of us midshipmen. I think we need to talk.