a space odyssey

And here I sit in my shiny, tin-foil moon hat, an effective tool to keep out the uv, crisscrossing mind probes emitted by the silver, mouthless men who poke and prod and lodge strange objects into our rectums and guts intent to break, dominate, and inseminate. I feel like Harry Mudd resplendent in my oversized fur coat and gold loops, intergalactic peddler of poon and green skinned martian women who happen to know how to belly dance. Mysterious. Dark alluring eyes shining in half-light around the fire pit lodged there in blue cheese, cardboard moon rocks. Supersonic spaceflight once thought impossible achieved in waking dreams by brave men with feathered 70's disco hair and half-capes... High adventure. Awkward drive-in makeout sessions, hot and heavy and intense, 2 for 1 specials complete with popcorn, fogged windows, and premature ejaculations. In Dad's car, in the dark, dick sucked to flickering celluloid images of Jane Fonda in quasi-futuristic shimmering half-shirt, short skirt, and thigh-high go-go boots. Schlocking images of whirling twirling pie plates disintegrating Manhattan while people point and scatter, purses and fedora's in hand. Shock and awe late fifties pulp entertainment a reflection of the age's intense cold war belief in Roswell and zig-zagging, impossible fly-by's reported by honest air force test-pilots named Chuck, Buzz, or Charley. Strange lights. Queer sights. Jim, Bones, and Scotty, and an assortment of nameless, expendable red shirts beaming down to a parallel earth where Germany won cause they got the atom bomb before us.