The Chronicles of Smith & Jones

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Generation Ship

CAPTAIN'S log, Stardate 7112.8. The USS Something Dirty has departed on its four-hundred-million-year journey to what might be an Earthlike planet of the Goldilocks-zone variety. Our top scientists aren't quite sure, seeing as how our telescopes can't see that far. I suppose we'll know when we get there. Most of the crew is already bunkered down in their cryopods, and I myself will join them—once I finish off this log and clear my bowels. Cryostatic turds are a real pain in the ass to pass, literally. I sincerely hope this world we are travelling to is a good one. I would really hate to wake up my four-hundred-million-years-older crew just to tell them we've got to go back home. I suppose we'll see when we get there. Captain Earl L. Greytea out.

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THE USS Something Dirty sped through the empty void that was space. Traveling at 0.89c (that's the symbol for light speed, numpty) and shaped with phallic architecture in mind, it was quite the sight for any gawking extraterrestrial life. And I assure you, there were plenty. They looked up, saw the cylindrical shaft penetrating their skies, powered by two circular thrusters (one on each side, near the back end of the ship) and burst into laughter. They laughed and rolled around on the ground with their fingers raised to the hilarious spacecraft until the female members of their race came out of their huts and slapped them, before making them go back to work. It was hard being a male member of the Devilicious species.

If the crew had been awake, they could have stopped their ship quite happily at any of these inhabited systems, but alas, they were hibernating, so they did not. Which was a real shame, too, as the engineers from Earth had actually gotten the destination planet's coordinates wrong, so they were really just heading for a barren part of space, only occupied by a few lonely asteroids, a frozen Donald Trump, and a rogue Walmart—which would probably be out of business from lack of customers by the time they got there, anyway.

While the crew were hibernating, two members were not. Well, they were still "hibernating," suuure. But together.

If... you know what I mean.

Banging noises could be heard coming from one of the cryopods.

"Fuck no, Jonesy! Not in there, ya shy-cocked dimwit... Put it in here."

"In there!? I do say, Madam Kris... Are you even allowed to put it in there?"

"UGGGGGGH! YESSSSSSSS! JONESY! YEEEEEESSSSS!!!"

"It's getting a bit dry, Kris."

"SPIT ON IT!"

"Is that hygienic, milady? I would hate to need a doctor—"

"JUST DO IT B'FORE I CHANGE MY MIND 'N' WAKE UP SMITH INSTEAD!"

"H-Have you done this before, Kris, dear?"

"WITH EVERY GUY I MEET!"

"Oh, ugh. I— I think we'd better st—"

"GRAB MY TITS 'N' HOLD 'EM LIKE THEY'RE HANDLES!"

A sigh. "Yes, milady."

On one side of the cryopod of horrors, Smith was on the ground, rocking on his buttocks with his thumb in his mouth, clearly distressed by the sounds. And who wouldn't be?

Boogaloo, obviously, as he sat on the other side of the cryopod, taking care of business with a deeper kind of fury. If he wore pants, they'd be down at the ankles of his back legs.

A high-pitched scream from the cryopod: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"That's all ya got? Well, I'm glad ya enjoyed yerself, Jonesy." The pod opened and Kris stepped out, a little shaky on her feet. "Ain't nothin' quite like gettin' back-doored in a Generation Ship cryopod— Oh, hey, Smithy."