International space station 9 was on fire

International space station 9 was on fire again. I turned the channel to a sitcom shot entirely from a scrotum's point of view and immediately began to cry.

I tried to cheer myself up. As Told By Scrotum usually did, but this time I was inconsolable. Was he okay? And how could NASA let this happen again?

I dialled and got NASA's automated Spanish answering service, AGAIN. "Um, Hola, donde es Greg, uno of your mucho best astronauts. Last location, far side of the luna, heading for

Urano." "Where?" A pause. "Uranus, muchacho." What the hell? Why would Greg have gone there without asking first? I said thanks and hung up with NASA's answering service.

I thought about it for a while, then it all began making sense. Greg's affection for fashion. His perfectly neat apartment. His well-buffed fingernails. Astronaut, MY ASS! Uranus

was my destination, not Greg's. But ol' Greg wouldn't give up. He made thinly veiled jokes about his "rocket" & "blasting off" to Uranus. Being heterosexual, I felt a little

uncomfartable and rushed out off awkwardness

and unconditional gnomes excrete blue chicken mind games!" The high school commencement was dead silent. Mr. P ran for the podium. "Woah did I just say that? What I m- ALL HAIL THE

mumbled the Principal to the High School assembly, "Now let's return to some spirit activities for class competition while the pep band socks it to us with 'We Got The Beat!'"