"Red Rover red rover send Rodger right over."

"Red Rover red rover send Rodger right over." ". . . Digby, is this your idea of a joke? The rovers stuck in the sand in Juventae Chasma. Copy?"

The only reply to come was wailing static. "Digby, come in! Digby!" A laughing wind ripped through the Chasma, pelting him with dust, sand, and small stones, while the sun guttered

the level of the Silicon Valley vulture capitalists. "A whore," he groaned. "Ugly. Obese. Diseased. I don't care. As long as she is free." He slimed over to the piano bar and began

to play Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag," during which the only two occupants at the bar was John, the bartender who, in his spare time, soldered together circuit boards he found in

a dumpster out back to build a spaceship, and me, who by 7 p.m was already drunk. People thought John & I were crazy, sitting there talking about our future intergalactic trips we

would take. Go ahead, laugh. We didn't care. Life on Jupiter would be way better. A month & 3 cases of Jack Daniels later, John & I climbed into our dumpster spaceship, ready for

take-off. It'll be fun, we told each other, and lit the fuse. 5-4-3-2...BOOM! The blast off didn't quite work as we planned. Instead of lifting off, it just blew up in our face.

I fell back, stunned, and looked over at my friend. His face was covered in black soot and one eyebrow was burned off. We both said "Bro! That was awesome! Let's do it again!"

I strapped on the gross of bottle rockets, checked my roller skates, adjusted my goggles and peered down the steep slope. It doesn't get any better than this, and it never did.