the Funnelwhich

NASA concludes alcohol investigation, says astronauts were “high on life”

After extensive reviews and interviewing, NASA has concluded the astronauts riding the C400 missile were “high on life” and “posed no risk to the aircraft, which was worth twice their life savings combined.” NASA’s investigation started after routine C400 missile launches and landings exhibited larger and larger wobbles until its motor crooned and had to be petted into a state of relaxation by NASA’s official missile whisperer.

NASA’s 405-page report documents the astronauts’ increasing exhilaration at escaping from their family for periods of six months along with the romantic sexual freedom space travel provides. Says one anonymous astronaut Mary Kann, “The stars out there make me feel tingly. Oh yeah, all tingly inside.” before she began to uncomfortably grope the interviewer. NASA has long struggled with space sex ever since Neil Armstrong copped a feel from Buzz Lightyear in their movie Apollo 9, which documented their ongoing efforts to fight the Greek God not with violence but astrophysics. Eventually, the resorted to violence after Lightyear discovered Apollo had not fireproofed his bow with asbestos as NASA had done with their astronaut suits, just in case any emergency landings on the Sun had to be done.

NASA’s report went on to excerpt from the Kamasutra, a 19th century novel written by Charles Dickens that revealed the sordid life of orphan pornography rings whose creeds of “Abelian to the max.” transgressed law and human morality. Ostensibly, NASA’s report is designed to further stimulate and arouse, raising questions among NASA watchdogs like PLUTO (Pluto Likes Uranus; Train Orgasm) on whether NASA is dedicated at all to combating these missile joyrides that, as each day passes, bring back fewer and fewer clouds. For CBS News, this is Rusty Jacobs.

Scientists find evidence of plants, seeds, fertilizer, soil, and water at a Mars Home Depot.

[AMBALA, INDIA] It’s here in the remote region of Shropshirefarmbriar that Marvin, a local boy of ten who attends the preparatory school in nearby Shimla (London), discovered commerce on Mars. But all is not well in Marvin’s family. It all began when the Royal Academy of Scientific Royal Astronomy visited this young lad of twelve years.

“How was your experience with the RAS, Marvin?” I ask, sitting down for crumpets and trumpets … music. “They’re more like royal douchebags,” Marvin replies in a tone as bitter as the tea I’m served. They swarmed this tiny apartment wearing monocles, fluffy suits, and fluffy monocles.

“They stole my ideas, plain and simple,” Marvin says.

“What were you saying? I couldn’t hear you over the bitterness of this tea.”

“I said they stole my ideas.” He grows quiet, perhaps also disgusted by the bitterness of this tea.

The astronomers, however, paint a much different picture. “He clearly used our data,” says spokesman Cory Starr. “We run the machines, we control the data. Do you have any idea how hard it is to arrive here day in and day out to make sure the machines are still doing all the work? Pretty hard, I’d say. I wouldn’t know. I’m just a spokeswoman.”

“I mean spokesman!”

“Don’t you think you’re being too hard on the kid,” I say.

“He’s 14! He should be able to handle this sort of healthy scientific competition.” “No, he’s 12.”

“I’m 8, actually,” Marvin says as he pops through the door segregating Marvin’s office from the hallway.

“You said 12!” I accuse him. “Actually, I said 10, but I was lying. You should really take better notes.” I blush and wait for a change in the conversation. It came, but only after three hours of silence.

“So, do you think life exists on Mars?”

Cory replies, “Well, we know commerce exists, which means CEOs exist. Are CEOs alive?”

We stare at each other before mutually agreeing that no, they in fact are not. But without consensus between the RAS and Marvin, the question remains hotly contentious among the scientific and the surprisingly well-informed pornographic community.

To resolve this dispute, I brought the two parties together for some one-on-one face time, which seriously cramped into my three-o’clock massage.

“Look, I think you should be reasonable,” Cory says to Marvin.

“I should be reasonable? You’re calling it Cory’s Depot. And you’re just a spokeswoman! I mean spokesman.”

“It’s our data.”

“I found the depot first on my telescope.”

“Prove it,” Cory yells, knocking Marvin’s telescope out of its painstakingly found coordinates. Cory runs away, giggling insanely. Marvin sighs and swivels the telescope to the planet. He asks me to look through. Instead of seeing a Home Depot, I see dejected Martians disassembling their Home Depot and scribbling a gigantic symbol into nearby rocks.

“What are they writing?”

“It’s the Greek symbol for impending doom or impending hope. I don’t know which; it depends on the context. The Greeks were an ambivalent lot, you know.”

I nod, pretending to condone their ambivalence when—in reality—I loathed them for it.

“I don’t think they want our attention anymore after they saw this dispute air on our news networks,” Marvin says quietly. “Can you blame them?”

Marvin brooded for a while before walking to his local county courthouse, changing his name, and then buying a cape and pistol from the costume and weapons shop right next to the pharmacy and peep show store.

“Marvin, where are you going?” his mother asks, fear in her eyes and elbows. “Don’t call me Marvin. Call me John Wilkes Booth. Booth because I love telephones, Wilkes because I love the names of old people, and John because I love farewells. I’m leaving to set some things straight in this twisted world of ours.”

I try to ask for an interview, but he swooshes his cape at me and walks away. And that’s how I inadvertently caused the deaths of a million human beings.