never try new things

i've never had much use for novelty or fads… when people get their dicks hard, or their orifices wet, or their whatevers whatever over some useless gadget, or suit of clothes, or pen, or pet, or ship, or person, or whatever-the-fuck… well… what i'd really like to do, is beat them stupid.

cosmoose's last supper

cosmoose comes from a very strange place... i believe the planet his people are from is very cold, very snowy and very depressing... sometimes, i'll be at zargle's, getting drunk by myself (it's a thing i do) and i'll see cosmoose, sitting at the bar, weeping, for no good reason, looking like he doesn't have a friend in the world... must be tough for him.

you two-faced piece of shit

so now that the shack is back, i am privy to the combined problems of however many squillion fucking losers live in this floating tin garbage can... lucky me... for some reason, people with problems also seem to be people with money...
the shack has been doing great... apparently all this civil strife has done nothing but to make people more anxious, so we've picked up exactly where we left off... swimming in coin and in tribute... it's good to be a messiah.

the shack of beration is back, ye of little faith!

the whore fortune likes to play games with me... i've mentioned before her cruelty and kindness... once again, she rolls over and accepts another at her teat to suckle... this is why i like her

robots are like cold, metal prostitutes

all i know is that if someone is trying to hide some shit from me it must either have to do with me, or be so fucking interesting that i have to know what it is... that's just the way things are

the shack of beration is temporarily closed

there is a time in every boy's life when he has to accept the mantle of responsibility and become a man... usually this takes the form of children, or jobs, or wives, or whatever stupid fucking thing people get themselves into... for me, it's because captain spacefuck shut down the shack of beration...

hey kids... want to be cool?

so ever since this insurgency thing has become a bigger deal and the fancyship has been hanging out outside the station, this fucking place is crawling with unitarded assholes, looking important and showing off their packages.

help us angry spaceman, you're our only hope...MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA

politics and me... we don't mix... i am usually unaware of who controls the government, how they get there, or what they are doing. this suits me just fine, as the less i know about them, the easier it is to flaunt their laws.

hyperlift shitbags need to be thrown down the shaft

so, as i've mentioned before, this fucking place has a lot of levels... how many, i have no clue, although i'm sure i'm supposed to. so many in fact that they had to install these hyperlifts, not quite a teleportal (since those are expensive and we all know that management won't spend a fucking dime if they don't have to... think of them as an elevator that goes really fast... potentially at relativistic speeds.

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY CUTE LITTLE GALACTOPUS GIRL

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time travel is a bitch

those interdimensional glory holes i've mentioned before have another, more illicit use... if you can imagine something more illicit than getting a a blowjob from halfway across the galaxy performed by someone you've never met nor seen nor are sure of their gender...

what in the name of fuck is going on?

as you well know, something has been very wrong with me lately... i've been nice to people. this must stop.

cute little galactopus girl

seriously, i'm losing my fucking mind... just the other day, i felt pity for someone who came into the shack of beration... me... this is bad... if i'm not angry, i'm not making any fucking money... luckily, i managed to pull my indignation at not being angry into some semblance of anger and got a bit worked up...

the shack of beration

my duties as 'the angry one' have been taking up more and more of my time. which is fine, as i don't really enjoy being a janitor anyway. besides skip and flappy can take care of most of that shit.

the diversity of nature at its best

the baroness klob is a horrible worm... pale, disgusting, lumpy, over sized, floating on a bed of her own excreted gasses and surviving entirely off other people's efforts. this has made her perfect for her position: station chief of propaganda.

don't believe any prophecy you hear

as i've mentioned before, i've become the focus of a certain cult which regards me as 'the angry one.' this has not been too profitable, but it has been entertaining.
a few days ago, their leader, who can usually be found drumming up new recruits in the ragged parts of the station, came up to me to speak, privately. i obliged, mostly cuz he takes me to zargle's when he does this and gets me loaded... besides, he'll often bring one of the cuter members of the cult and offer her to me... this i can never complain about.

it's my party and i'll destroy this fucking place and everyone in it if i want to

a few days ago, someone (with some encouragement) forgot what appeared to be a very large, very dangerous, very radioactive and very explosive bomb in hangar 23. as my birthday was in a few days, i chalked this up to the universe, finally, trying to remunerate me for all the wrongs it's committed over the years.

don't let your kids grow up to be starclowns

in this part of the galaxy, the weather is usually shit. how else could the cheapshits that run this station afford the real estate... we've got cosmic rays, fucking space debris, dead satellites banging around, and sometimes it seems like every fucking comet that's ever existed is magically attracted to us... causing a lot of tourists to shit themselves which then comes to me to clean up...

the angry one

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precious little angel

the miracle isn't childbirth... the miracle is that you don't kill the little fuckers before they get old enough to kill you...

it's like a slow, controlled fall into hell

crazy shit happening here... two nights ago (are they even really nights) the fucking power on the station just shut off... fucking scary...

roboderby dreams part 1

i'll be straight... i'm fucked. i lost a lot of money in the master/slave races the other day (which is an entirely different story) and now various unsavoury elements on this station are on my ass.

the fraternity of man

we just got an all-station memo that morale is at an all-time low... like anyone really gives a fuck.

the administrators decided they wanted to cheer themselves up, so they called a meeting. each department had to send a representative. we played a game of 'rob the tourist' and i, sadly, got the least valuable shit off my mark, so am forced to go.

the invisible hand of capitalism

sometimes i suspect that the world conspires against my attempts to defraud it. i, like anyone else, enjoys taking a little time off of my shit job in hangar 23, and sometimes i don't want to spend my own vacation time. sometimes, i want to get something for free... some people call it 'throwing a sickie,' some people call it 'playing hookey,' i call it 'evening out the universe's attempts at fucking me.'

our perverted natures will always find a way

from time immemorial, all living beings have had two desires - teleportation and gloryholes.
the first, the instantaneous, secure travel between any two points in the (or any) universe, is easily understood.
the second, the wish to stick their reproductive organs into holes in bathroom stalls in the hopes that someone will pleasure them is also simple to understand.

fucked by the fickle (robotic) finger of fate

so, as you know, cosmoose cooked me dinner the other day, which consisted of space monkey five ways. apparently, shitzilla somehow got wind of this and is now super pissed off, what with us eating one of his cousins.

bit hypocritical if you ask me, since i've been with him while he personally ate a dozen soft-boned space monkeys in one sitting. he'll get over it.

mal-aka's murderous rampage

i was out drinking with mal-aka. he comes from a very harsh, rocky, sandy awful place and resembles something like a gigantic locust dipped in bronze. this tends to make people uncomfortable. on a shit station like this, we get a lot of weird looking visitors, so if people here get freaked out by him, it's a sign that something is different

flapjack fones home

the other day, flapjack comes to me in tears... the blubbering monster barely makes any sense when he isn't shooting salt water out of his hideous face, but today, his suffering made him completely incomprehensible... and hysterical.

even computers need a holiday

there is little doubt that sentient, carbon based species are lazy. hell, we only get jobs so we can earn money and holiday time, which basically means we work so that we don't have to work. this also makes us particularly stupid.

another pointless task

the thing about a station this size is that it's a work in progress, which is a more polite way of saying it's falling apart. it's so fucking big that if we had waited to move into until it was finished, i'd be an impotent, drooling old man before i stepped foot off the shuttle in hangar 23.

fucking cosmoose

so, fucking cosmoose invites me to dinner the other day, says he has a special treat, as i helped him out lifting some fuel from a shuttle that came into hangar 23 a while back. i get all excited, as the last proper meal i had wasn't exactly the relaxing dinner i had planned.

won't someone think of the robots

some war broke out on some fucking planet somewhere, can't be bothered to find out too much about it but, while skimming the news, found it interesting that this entire war was fought with robots. and that the generals and strategists and soldiers were all several planets away, while they were controlling their respective robo-armies.

trouble at the old watering hole

i often run into some problems with strangers... the problem being that they end up listening to my conversations (about them) and get offended. it's not my damn fault that they've been eavesdropping on my private discourses.

who will defend the space monkey?

yet another of the myriad joys we experience here on the shithole is the complete lack of fresh oxygen. while it's true, we're a bit beyond the old 'lime-in-a-bucket' days of yore, it's still the same basic principles... gotta keep as much co2 out of circulation as possible. now i think they might all pump it to the fucking farm-levels or whatever... anyway, not my problem.

it's like a printer, only more stupid

so, i am forced, sometimes, to use matter compilers. as a rule, i can't stand them, for a couple of reasons

guess who's coming to dinner

apparently, the fool in charge of the fancy ship wants to meet some of the 'real' people who work and maintain this piece of shit. somehow, i got roped into it. that's cool. i could use a decent meal with good booze and hot alien females.

new fancy ship, same retards at the helm

so, the pride of the new pan-galactic fleet is coming to town. some gigantic starship. it's so god damn big, and so fucking new, that there is no existing port on the station can handle it. instead, the visitors have to tender in on shuttles. naturally, they aren't going to be headed for hangar 23. hooray for small victories.
or so i thought..
apparently, this is a really big deal for captain spacefuck. they won some kind of contest to be the first port of call for the ship. all the internal messages are for us to be on our best behavior, get clean, not be drunk... that sort of thing, as this will be over all the news. hoo-fucking-ray.

message to time traveler/readers who live on earth, circa 2043

life here is awful, as you may know. so, if you enjoy any of what i am writing, please do the following: find an engineer named frizzant skint, who invented space stations, and kill him.

although, it just occurred to me that if any of you have succeeded at this simple task, i would never have written this entry. thanks for all your help. dicks.

that poor, fat alien monster girl thing

remember how i had that little wormhole to the paradise beneath my berth? well, owing to some too-clever-for-his-own-fucking-good engineer, it appears that some sections of this station were made with a self-healing alloy. so, my magic portal shut itself. fine, no problem, cuz i've got the antidote, my little robot burden skip.

alien tourists are the worst

so this station gets a lot of tourist traffic. inevitably, this leads to conflict, as many alien species don't particularly care for each other. not usually a problem, because in conflict there exists a chance to profit. i don't care if they knock each off or jerk each other, as long as they keep dropping their expensive shit into my grate.

what i do care about, however, is the way they get around.

a delicious turn of events

sometimes fortune smiles on those who deserve, those tireless souls who try to fix the world, make people happy, unite the species and foster peace and understanding.

those days are awful, those people are pathetic and fortune can go fuck herself... it's much better when people like me get a little luck, like last night.

nobody knows how to laugh anymore

so, a while ago i discovered robo-porn. as i said before, it doesn't do much for me, but that doesn't prevent me from watching it whenever i get bored. it's usually good for a laugh.

skip update #1

i heard a nasty rumor that some cadre of space cadets is coming to the station - a kind of convention of losers who, when faced with the option of staying on a planet (shit), staying on a station (really shit), or staying on an interstellar cruiser (complete shit) feel that the cruiser is the way to go. brain damaged.

poor, sad, stupid robot

as you can imagine, the floor of hangar 23 gets pretty fucked up. this is where, after all, they send all the shitty ships, the broken ones that got banged up in asteroid fields, ships with engines falling off them, barely flying, shooting sparks all over the place. it's a mess. sometimes they only just get the doors open and some piece of shit zooms in, clipping the doors and crashing into the wall.

explosive decompression... hell yes

i've mentioned before that we have this artificial sunrise system that wakes us up. it works for most of the people most of the time, but rarely me. i've gotten used to waking at 3 am and staring out the window, the stars poked by god's own hand in the velvet, comets fly by on their thousand year orbits, reminding me of the majesty of the universe and why i came here in the first place....

another thing that does not turn me on

technology, for the most part, is a waste of time.

sure, we can live in space. but why the fuck should we? it's cold up here. always cold. we drink each others recycled piss and breath in each others old farts. would i rather be on a beach somewhere, surrounded by topless girls feeding grapes and booze? no, cuz then i'd have nothing to complain about. so i'm fucked either way.

for sale: one weird looking baby alien

age: fuck knows, young though
found: last night, stuffed behind a garbage can in hangar 23
color: greenish, grey
texture: scaly, yet soft
answers to: spazz
race: dunno, never seen one like it
eyes: three
mouth: wet
shits: all the fucking time

any offer considered, he's cramping my style

gravity kills

or damn near tries to.

I don't have a problem when people drink on the job. or do drugs, or steal or whatever. none of us are saving lives. hell, even the medics are pissed most of the time. but there is one guy who, when he drinks on this fucking rig, fucks everything up for the rest of us. his name is longshanks. he is in control of the artificial gravity. last night was his birthday. he likes to get drunk on his birthday, to the point where his teeth are drunk

so we did. and this morning i woke up floating upside down with my head in the toilet, surrounded by globules of my own vomit. happy birthday longshanks. asshole

flapjack, a simple soul

as i've mentioned before, i work a pretty menial job. it's thoroughly unfulfilling, as you can imagine. on top of the misery of mopping vomit and surviving by stealing stupid tourists fancy crap, i have an idiot partner. his name is flapjack, he is seven foot six, 400 pounds and dumb as fuck. he is also an alien.

the company he keeps

The scum of the east village, shoreditch, hackney, LES and every other hip, young, trendy fuckbag pretentious part of the world has been skimmed off and deposited in large ladles on my god damn rig!!! (apologies to papa)

one of my only vices

if you haven't heard from me for a while... here is why:

lots of people do bad things in the name of pleasure. and i am ok with every one of them. especially if they inconvenience or injure another. after all, einstein proved that your pleasure is increased just by decreasing someone else's.

the best part of my job

i'll be honest... my job isn't fucking hard. at all... mostly it consists of mopping up the puke of day-trippers who get all SASed when they hop out of the airlock.

To make this easier, the floor has a grating about 12 inches off of it. This way, the vomit slides through. At the end of each shift, I remove the grating and clean the puke.

moonshine in space

Lots of philosophical questions around this one: should we still call it moonshine if it's made in space? Or on the moon? would it be sunshine then? or earthshine? or starshine? One gets thoughtful in one's times of rest...

bullshit. No one fucking cares. All I do know is that a liter of that shit last 'night' made me sleep past that dickbag Wiggins little prank and straight through my shift. I have a headache so fucking bad I can't see straight. Call it what you will...I call it a good time.

plan didn't go to plan...

in order to combat the inscrutable Wiggins and his hated 3am wake up calls, I decided to smash every single bulb and fluorescent in both my cell, and the hallway adjacent. Apparently this inevitability was planned for, because security came up here right fucking quick and chucked me in the brig.

but.. at least the sun didn't rise at 3am... prisoners get up at 9am. finally, a lie-in.

Bad Morning...

Wiggins, that dick who's in charge of the artificial environment on this shithole, has it out for me. Everyone else can control their sunrise as they see fit... a nice, clean, pleasant way to ease into the awful life we have up here. Except for...wait for it... you're getting closer... now close the deal...... YES THAT IS RIGHT. ME. That fuck programmed mine to go off at 3 am. And no matter how many times i yell at the control panel, or hit the wall, or threaten to chuck him out the airlock, it won't fucking change.

But today, i have a plan...

Guess what's on the menu... again?

Space is awesome. What with all the radiation, lack of pressure, weird aliens, clanging metal stairways and AIs achieving consciousness and fucking things up, an angry spaceman can build up a massive appetite.

And what does the cafeteria put out?

More reconstituted vegetable based protein from the hydroponic farm-rooms. Hooray! I love reconstituted vegetable based proteins! They are delicious, and not at all distinguishable from real protein. Who wants a fucking cow when you can milk a fucking carrots and make a faux-steak out of it.

Fuck me... I think I might wait until another one of those fucking alien greeting parties show up, pick off a straggler and cook him up.

In space, no one can hear you complain

I've fucking had it with the Captain. How is he even a fucking captain? This station is in an ORBIT... ORBITS are FIXED. It doesn't even have a fucking steering wheel. And for all that hard work, he gets his own fancy cabin and double rations on whisky... what a dick.