I don’t care what the sucker weighs in an alternate universe! I want to know what it weighs right here. Cheese and crackers, do I have to do EVERYTHING myself? (Where’s everybody going? I wasn’t serious…)
Oh, hiya. Didn’t hear you log on. (Usually, I’m pretty good at that.) I was just engaging in a little scientific debate with our mad, mad science adviser, Dr. Mitch Macaphee, Ph.D., D.M.S.A. (that last one stands for “Diplomate of the Mad Science Academy”, and august body located in Madagascar), who claims that our weight ratios are all askew for lift off. You see, this is the problem with mad geniuses… they get this crazy idea, and it may be a really, really good idea in crazy town, but here in NORMAL-ville, it’s bug fuck nuts, okay? I mean, I happen to know (from watching repeats of Lost in Space over and over again) that the Jupiter 2 space vehicle is very weight sensitive. If our cargo is off by even just a few ounces, we could go spiraling off into deep space, rudderless and alone, waiting for bored television writers to scribble us back to civilization. This was the fate of the Robinsons, as many of you know, on more than one occasion. This will NOT be the fate of Big Green … yet again.
I mean, good God damn it! We’ve gotten lost on at least three (maybe four) of our interstellar tours since 1999. It’s reached the point where Dr. Hump (our previous mad science advisor) won’t even ship out with us anymore… unless we play covers by the Wallflowers. (I’m not 
doing it, Hump!) And though no one else seems to give a shit, I am trying my damnedest to keep it from happening again. And yet here I have Mitch trying to convince me that weight doesn’t matter, because in an alternate universe that he’s visited recently, there exists an equal and opposite counterbalance to every object in our universe. Ergo, according to Mitch, nothing weighs anything, if you think of the two universes as part of a single, infinitely massive (or not) thing. And I’m like, w.t.f., Mitch… you can go ahead and kiss the equal and opposite doppelganger of my ass in that other universe.
Oh, yeah… I feel a lot better, now. Sure, I know. It’s wrong for me to diss the creator of Marvin (my personal robot assistant), especially when he’s doubling as our spacecraft engineer/mechanic. (In point of fact, Marvin does most of the wrench work, with an assist from Posi-
Lincoln.) Downright dangerous, in fact. After all, our nefarious corporate label, Loathsome Prick Records, has chosen to send us on a swing through the terrifying Kuiper comet belt just beyond the orbit of Neptune. I think Matt spoke for all of us when he said, “WHAT THE FUCK? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” He may have understated the matter slightly. The Kuiper belt is not known for particularly good indie-rock venues, though there are one or two annual events that are relatively well-attended, I’m told. (Not sure who… or what… typically attends them, but no matter.) A whole lot of frozen ammonia out there…. which piques Anti-Lincoln’s interest.
Why, you ask? He’s thinking profit. Even in the crowbar hotel, he plots and schemes. There is no end to his ambitions for self-enrichment. SHUN HIM! SHUN HIM WITH ALL YOUR MIGHT!
