SsolReality

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

More Whimsey From Across the Heavens

Dear Friends,

This little bit of fiddling from a public domain image continues a recent theme. Look to the sky. Be bewildered and question. Why have THEY not yet arrived, or have they? Are they too small to see? Do THEY live in a timeframe out of our own?

Is a moment to we Humans comparable to eons for such creatures. Perhaps they are in no hurry to deal with such an infant civilization as our own. Perhaps they know that we are trouble brewing for them, and want to stay hidden. Perhaps THEY are so big that we actually live inside their beings, as bacteria and viri live in our own Human bodies. There are so many possibilities. The questions are fascinating.

Hic Finis Est,

SCS

Saturday, June 1, 2013

The Mother Ship!!!

Dear Friends,

The Mother Ship has now arrived! Thus, now is a good day to be alive, my Comrades and we rejoice. Spill down your gullets the Philuphian Ale and feast on the roasted loins of the Barsoomer Galumpher. So, ho-ho, we are off to the Home World, Adelphious.

One problems, however. We need with the getting to Luna, Moon of Earth. Some small imprecision in planning and trajectory by Central Command and the Mother Ship is a quarter million miles away on a cold or hot (depends on the sun), barren lump of stones. Fermenshup, can you get that old Apollo spaceship out of the Smithsonian? Grummphtr, we need a rocket. Off to Huntsville for you! Bring pliers and bolt cutters. The Pink Stalk Walkers have their damn giant bomb tied down like somebody was going to steal it from the freakin' lawn. Whatever. Let's get a move on!!!

In Hasty Departure, I Remain Yours,

SCS

Sunday, May 26, 2013

Our Religious Counselor, Razputine…

Dear Friends,

A guest has come to stay vid us to with to look after the children and the Tsarina. Please now to welcome Monk Razputine. Bring him now with the tea, servants. He likes a little bit of the Wodka in the brew. Oh, oh, also now he is with the live herring and the candied toenail clippings in the brew. Vhat!?! He now vants with a plates of pickled sausage served by Marina, that pert little hussie, dressed only in saucy red neglige.

Can we instead just have this man shot, shot again, stabbed, poisoned, stomped and dumped in to the freezing Moskva River. Vhat? I'm the freakin' Tsar! Get this nincompoop nannie out of the house. Do it now!!!