NASA ground controllers briefly lost contact with astronauts aboard the International Space Station on Tuesday. The sexy pinnacles of American, Russian and Canadian physical and mental prowess were left unattended for three hours due to a computer problem.
Who knows what they were doing up there, all alone, with no supervision, gravity or rules …
We, the people of Earth, welcome the U.S.-Russian-(really?) Canadian blackout super-baby as our new overlord.
(Yes, The Guys are fully aware that all six members of the current ISS crew are men. But, who knows what space radiation does to a man, and have you seen Chris Hadfield’s Swanson of a mustache? Who could quit that?)
Sorry about missing “Take it from Snee” last week. If you were busy watching those crazy British kids getting married or the end of the “Do you remember where you were on 9/11?”-era, then you may not have noticed that Alabama was trying to kill me. (Did you see what I did there, McBournie?)
Believe it or not, this is actually my second draft of this post. I tried to live blog the tornado warnings that, in Alabama, come with World War II-edition sirens. These interrupted me so often that by the time I worked a game out of it, the power shut off and was not restored to my neighborhood until last night.
You wake up naked on a couch you don’t recognize … well, not entirely naked thanks to a strategically-placed sombrero. It’s daytime, though your hot, stinging brain wishes it wasn’t, but you can’t tell the time: a VCR flashes 12:00 over and over again.
Stumbling around using couch cushions as crotch- and butt-covers, you knock over the world’s largest beer can pyramid, to find the bathroom to this mystery apartment. “PENIS” scrawled across your forehead. You pray that it’s dry erase, but your futile wiping proves that, alas, it is Sharpee. Blood is dried at the corners of your lips, but it does not taste like your own.