I have to be quick. I’m writing this from my cage as my captors nap.

For years, every time Leopard Woman took a nap, I’ll admit it, I got upset. Really, honey? You have to take a nap on the table in Denny’s? I guess I won’t be eating those pancakes. But I promise, I’ll never complain again.

Okay, let me catch you up in the time that I have.

After coming down to Leopardia to try to change the terrible future that I experienced, I split up with Cat Munroe – big mistake – and started fighting robots. I thought RoboStrechLad was an idiot, but after meeting these robots, I actually miss the tin can. But then I dropped my guard for one second… and those stupid walking talking VCR’s tasered me in the mouth.

Did you catch that? Did you hear what I said? In the mouth. Have you ever gotten pizza mouth? Or drank hot coffee too fast? You know nothing. You have not experienced agony unless you have had 12,000 volts transmitted by your tongue.

But most of that was in my last post. What you may not have known was what came next.

I couldn’t talk. All I could do was mumble and moan. And you know what I couldn’t say? I couldn’t tell anyone that when I used my glove to make an earthquake to save Cat Munroe from a robot attack, the residual energy fried the nano-circuits in my alien nanotechnology.

That made me nano-explosive. Nice, huh? I made that up. Using my brain. So, suck it, every teacher I ever had. D minus in Englsh? I don’t think so – I made up a word.

Too bad I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t even warn Cat Munroe, and when he went to open one of his rifts… it nano-exploded! (There, now that’s an example of using my word in a sentence.) The interaction of the magic and the alien nano-technology created a wave that’s passing through Leopardia and the Center of the Earth.

And as I was running though the ruins of the battle scarred  Leopardia… I got jumped. Well, more like pounced on.

By cat warriors and dog warriors working together! I had no idea the war was so bad that these two savage enemies have joined forces! My shock was so complete that they quickly knocked me out, and without being able to talk, I couldn’t tell them who I was, or promise to take them for walkies if they let me go.

The dog warriors are patrolling for more robots, and the cat warriors are taking me back to the secret rebel base. I had a great joke about it being on Tantooine, but all I could say was “Ma ma da oo Mamoonee?” And they clawed me up something good.

They through me in a cage, but we had only gone a couple of tails (that’s cat distance) when they decided to take a nap. I’ve been furiously typing this out on my glove’s multi-dimensional comminucator device ever since.

Oh, wait. They’re waking up. I better send this before they stop me. At least it looks like they’re taking me to Leopard Woman. She’ll be able to get me out of this mess.

-sent by scifi wifi glove -

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I want my wife! Ya I know what you’re thinking, ‘What about Hot Doctor Whom from the distant past’ or was it future? I keep getting all that shit messed up. Time travel will do that to ya. Sort like James Cole (Bruce Willis) in the movie, “12 Monkeys” only I have more hair but really I’m over the good Doctor. We’ll always have our time in her dumpster and not in THAT way.

Anyways, I made my way down to the Animal Kingdoms with my pal Catmunroe only to find the place in ruins. The devastation was incredible. Animal parts scattered among robotic parts in many areas. I’m proud of those furry little smelly, bloody bastards.

So, after Catmunroe and I split up to cover more ground,  I’m jogging over to Leopardia, Leopard Woman’s Kingdom, when I noticed a group of robots carrying metal parts and cables into a ravine. I followed them in the brush till I come to the edge of the ravine. Taking up most of the area was a newly constructed power distribution center, complete with a multi-phase transmission dish. Basically, they could supply energy to every robot and piece of robotic equipment they have from here.

I had to do something. Because I’m a hero.

I slid down the ravine’s side. I should have known the robots had setup an Organic Detector grid because as soon as I hit the ground the robots attacked. Those little bastards swarmed me so fast, they pig-piled me to the ground. Yes, pig-piled. It’s like a dog-pile, but with no dogs.

I think all the digging in the far future for That Horrible Booze really helped my physique because I was able to pushup enough to slam my power fist into the ground. The shockwave sent the robots everywhere and destroyed the power distribution center. I did my best Rocky-on-top-of-the-stairs routine in the rubble.

Apparently the really smart robots carry backup batteries. The few functioning robots fired tasers. I blocked most of the darts with my power fist but a couple hit me in the mouth and the throat. So now I look a little like that kid from Mask. Not the Jim Carrey one, the old one with Cher.

Hurts like hell.

I tried to get them to call it Major Faultline money

Alright then, guys. By now, you’ve probably seen my most recent video blog, and you know that I’m back on Earth, at this specific point in time. Three fucking cheers for me. You should also know by now that because Leopard Woman has gone down to Leopardia to fight the forces of SUCKER, the entire planet is basically screwed.
But I didn’t become a Major for nothing, alright? This is a desperate situation, and in times like these, you need someone to put on their jockstrap, step up to the plate, swing the bat a few times for practice, and do a lot of other baseball-related metaphors. And that person is me, okay? I might not have been able to beat SUCKER in the future, but by God, I’ll beat him here!

So yeah, I finally managed to figure out how to get to Leopardia. I had to Google Map it (please don’t tell anyone), and as it turns out, Google Maps has actually marked the giant hole made by Les Gros Chapeau’s tunnelling machines full of robots. Isn’t technology great? So all I really need to do is just follow the devestation down into the Earth’s core, earthquake anything that gets in my way, and rescue the missus in time for some “I’ve missed you “ sex. I got it all planned out.

Of course, even an awesome military genius like myself runs the risk of getting his ass kicked (a small risk, mind you) without the proper supplies. After all, Leopardia is in the Centre of the Earth, and it would be really uncool of me to die on the journey there when I could be dying fighting the robots (Again, small risk of that). So, I decided to go to…

Canadian Tire.

Why Canadian Tire? Well, who has two thumbs, a earthquake-channeling power gauntlet and ended up creating Canadian Tire money?

Yeah, this guy. You can’t see me, but I’m typing this with two thumbs pointed at myself.

You see, back when I was time-travelling (basically until a few days ago, if you haven’t been keeping up), I ended up in 1958, and found myself at Canadian Tire, and needed a screwdriver to do a repair on my power gauntlet. Of course, I didn’t have any 1953 cash on me at the time, so all I had was Canadian Tire money. But they had never seen Canadian Tire money before. So in return for investing the $11.35 worth of it, plus giving them the right to print more, they ended up giving me a screwdriver. It was a Mitchelson head. You ever heard of a Mitchelson head? No, neither had the aliens who gave me my powers. But it did come in handy, it opened the can of scotch I found.

Apparently, Canadian Tire money collects interest too, and nearly fifty years of it tends to add up. So by the end of everything, I basically bought the store’s entire inventory. You should see how many all weather tires I got! For years, I’ll be like, hi, nice to meet you, have a tire. No, go on, have a tire. Not sure how much of my new stuff I can take to the center of the Earth, but hey, you should have seen some of those deals! Besides, Leopard Woman’s been bugging me for a new toaster oven anyways…

Oh, I forgot to get a toaster oven!

Still, I’m all ready to go now. I’m coming, baby. COURAGE OF A LION!

Behold the Baby of Time! Do you see the resemblance? (Wikimedia Commons/Sabrina Campagna/HO)

… And it’s totally not my fault, because she said she was on the pill.

I have to get this down quick. I’m in one of those sciencey chronologically loop things where all my memories of the last few days/weeks/years will be erased from this dimension. But luckily I registered the domain for this site in a time bubble so I everything I write here will be “forever unchanged.” They promise that on the company homepage.

Now I can’t go into specific details of how that works. I’m no scientist who spent all in his time in college studing time dilation, white dwarf stars and black holes; or even going to college. I was too busy having sex… once a year… when my wife was in the mood. I never got past Grade 7, but I’ve seen our universe die. Suck on that, teachers who said I’d never amount to anything. And Mom.

But even if I’m not Stephen Hawkman, (the astrophysicist superhero who dresses up as a bird in a wheelchair and occasionally doesn’t exist) I still know what it means to lose all your memories. It’s called Pub Night… BOOYAH! Sigh. Mr. Jellypants would have loved that one! What one? Oh no, I’m already forgetting! Stay on track, Major!

Like I wrote in my last post, the Lady Doctor Whom and I were trapped in the 1970′s, heading to Seti Alpha 9 to see if the Asparagusians could help me get back to my time. And we were doing it snuggled together in a stasis chamber inside Whom’s Wall-Mart dumpster because with its time jumping disabled, it was a clunker that could only travel at the speed of light. Hey, light. Fuck you, okay?

I mean, at that speed, the trip took years. 16 in fact. When I woke up I saw that Doctor Whom was looking like about 8 months pregnant. I was a little shocked. I mean, I knew had skills in the boudoir department, but I never thought I could knock a girl up through our clothes while in suspended animation.. Especially not one who used to be a man who travelled through time in a dumpster. Could any of that possibly be right? Stay focused, Major! Keep remembering long enough to get it down.

Okay, I remember she looked about as confused as I was. Apparently her race doesn’t reproduce. They are a fixed number of beings in the universe. They are neither born nor do they die. They just are. Or something like that. She also said something about the gestational period was slowed by the stasis chamber which could result in a “catastrophic chrono-event of Tesseractical proportions” whatever the Hell that means. But, at the time, I nodded along. I was like, “Oh yeah. Don’t want that to happen.”

But, really, I was too busy freaking out to spend too much time puzzling it out. I wasn’t ready to be a father. Especially if she was going to give birth to a teenager which seemed logical since may have been pregnant for over a decade. I’d have give the birds and bees talk before the kid was even house-trained.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to think about long because we were captured as soon as our dumpster docked with the Asparagians.

We were separated as soon as were taken into the Asparagusian space station. A group huddled around Whom and poked her belly and mumbled something I only partially understood and then took her away. I think they were planning an alien baby shower. Man, Earth people or alien, people just lose their minds when it comes to babies. It’s a lump in a stomach, get over it until it does something – like cure cancer or invent a self opening can of cat food.

SIDE NOTE: One of the gadgets Whom had picked up in her travels was a small translation scorpion that sits in your ear canal and telepathically translates messages into your native tongue through an excruciatingly painful series of stings. I had taken it into stasis with me so I could use it to watch Kung Fu movies when I got out. I wanted to know if the bad dubbing was even better in the actors’ original voices.

Unfortunately, the scorpion seems to think I’m bilingual and will randomly translate things into French. It’s kind of insulting, really. Just because I’m Canadian doesn’t mean I automatically know how to speak both official languages. How many Americans know Spanish? Or Germans know German? Or Reticulated Translation Scorpions of the Horseshoe Crab Lice Nebula know Sanskrit?

Anyway, all I could make out from the Asparagusian talk about Doctor Whom before she was dragged off was the word “prophétie.” I’m pretty sure in french it means baby shower.

Then I was taken to a lab and tied to a gurney. I recognized. it. It’s the same lab I go to get my yearly alien nanotechnology tune-up. Except it looked different. It seemed my doctor was a big fan of Earth culture and being 1979 there, he was clearly in his British Punk phase. He had Sex Pistols posters on the wall, wore a Clash leather jacket and a skull ring on his right plunger index finger, an eyebrow ring and a fake mohawk on his cube-ish head. He still smelled like nacho chips.

When he finished watching an episode of the King of Kensington, he took off his jacket to reveal a shirt he must have specially ordered that said, “No One’s Punker Than Al Waxman!” He then turned his attention to me and started to poke, prod and probe me.

He was interested in my alien nanotechnology. They didn’t understand how human DNA and technology that looked like it was derived from their prototypical skin-grafting alien nanotechnology could mix. He was convinced les humans would go mort in the process. I told him most do. But he was apparently quite happy with the data he got and ran off saying something about turning Sid Vicious into a cyborg.

I told him to “Rock the Casbah!” as he turned to leave but he just stared back at me blankly for a second and exited the room!

Then Asparagusians came in and I was thrown into a cell. It was dark, dank, smelled of cheese whiz and had some kind of weird sand sculpture in the corner. It seemed like I had been there for days, staring at the wall, trying to keep from going insane by reciting my favourite line from Red Dwarf: “Gazpacho Soup!”

Then one day, all of a sudden, the sand sculpture in the corner began to speak. It was talking in English – which was good because at some point I had gotten hungry and had eaten my ear scorpion. He told me to shut up already because I’d been prattling on for five minutes.

I realized at that point that sculpture was, in fact, a man. An extremely old, crusty one. He looked like God’s older brother. And I should know I used to hang with them. This guy looked like he could crumble any minute. Did I mention he looked like a sand sculpture? I keep forgetting.

His name was Gary. He knew all about me and Doctor Whom and said we were in danger. Since we had both already been captured, I told him he was a little late with the warning. And besides he looked it it was more dangerous for him just by moving his ancient, sand sculpture looking lips than it was for me and Whom. His face looked like it was about to fall off. He looked like a sand sculpture.

He said his captors did this to him. He said he was like Doctor Whom. A fellow time traveller. That is until he met the Asparagusians. They sucked out his reconstitution energy with a time-sucking device. They use it like electricity to power all their machines.

And now he has no reconstitution energy. He said that he’s immortal so he can’t die, but because he can’t reconstitute himself anymore, he just gets older and dustier. He said the same fate awaited Doctor Whom. But the Asparagusians seemed very interested in the baby. There’s a prophecy that talks about the birth of time. And he’s heard they plan on harnessing that power to start an all-night disco… Damn ’70s!

I realized I had to break out and save Whom but I was locked in this cell. Then I remembered I’m a superhero. With earthquake powers. No mere cell could hold me. I easily quaked myself an exit. Unfortunately, the aftershocks kind of turned Gary into a pile of sentient dust. I put him in a coffee mug I found in the cell. I thought Doctor Whom might be able to help.

Anyway, I eventually tracked down Doctor Whom – who was hooked up to what looked like some kind of alien CAT scanner that seemed to be sucking a glowing energy out of her belly. I quaked her free and we made a break for it. Nine afro-ed Asparagusians chased after us on roller skates … After we got back to the time dumpster, which was looking kind of worn out from years of space travel.

But then Doctor Whom went into labour. It lasted exactly three seconds. Then a burst of light and there glowing in front of me was a floating baby. When I looked at it, I could see all of existence from the beginning of time to the end – including all 36 false Judgment Days and both Garbage Pail Kids movies. They’re hilarious. Trust me, if you haven’t had the pleasure, track them down on laser disc. Instant classics.

Where was I? What was I talking about? Shopping? No! No, it was true. I sired Time himself. You could say Doctor Whom and I were the Big Bang! Badaboom! I miss my monkeys. What monkeys? Never mind, keep going.

I went to touch the kid’s head and it giggled and grew to the size of  a giant. (Not-it for eternity for diaper duty.) There was a entrance door on its stomach. With nowhere else onto run, we ran inside and discovered our offspring was actually a luxurious time spaceship. (Not bad lineage for a high school dropout, eh? What’s up now, Mom?)

We made our escape but  somehow blew up the station in the process, killing the doctor who would go on to fit me with my alien nanotechnology, (and Sid Vicious) which created a paradox the Baby Time Ship had to correct.

Which is why I’m about to lose all memory of everything that happened. But at least my new son/spaceship dropped me off back at my house in 2012. I forgot to leave Gary with Doctor Whom though. Oh well, I’m sure I’ll see her again… Oh wait, that’s why the doctor looked at me funny. Rock The Casbah was a Clash song not Sex Pis………….
Wait, where am I? The last thing I remember is digging up a bottle of strawberry wine with my bare hands on the planet in the future because those damn simians stole my shovel… God strawberry wine is terrible… And now I’m back in front of my computer finishing writing a blog I don’t remember writing. I’d read it back to find out what I wrote, but it’s really long. Like, stupid long. I’ll give it a try… nope. Gave up after three words.

And why do I have a cup of baking soda on me? Maybe it’s to get rid of the fridge odours. While I was gone, some of Leopard Woman’s cooking can get rank…

This is what Doctor Whom looks like after his reconstitution as a female time-traveling space alien. Question: If I have an affair with someone before my wife was born, is it still cheating? (Image: Graeme Weatherston / FreeDigitalPhotos.net)

So let me start off by saying, I haven’t the slightest clue about what is going on. Ever since I drank that disgusting bottle of strawberry wine and materialized in the dumpster behind Wall-Mart (except that it wasn’t behind Wall-Mart but was in the Time Urethra piloted and renamed Time And Relative Dumpster In Space And Stuff by Doctor Whom) I really have been as confused as a Chinese Dragon told he has to learn to play the nano guitar to star in Annie on Broadway.

And yes, I don’t know what the hell that means either. I don’t think Annie plays any instruments. It’s one of Whom’s expression – apparently some kind of joke. I guess when you’ve been traveling through time for 6,000 years, you become easily amused.

Anyway, this is what he told me. Since he lost the thingamachicken that let his ship travel through time, he decided to take my dumpster instead because it had “time travel properties.” And it’s been totally pimped out. Flat-screen LED TVs, surround sound, game systems, space porn (stolen from an alternate timeline) and a fully-stocked bar than replenishes itself by randomly beaming up bottles from liquor stores across the universe. And I can get as drunk as I want because if I do I just rematerialize on the other side of the dumpster.

You might think that’s a lot of crap to fit inside a dumpster… but the thing is… it’s even smaller on the inside. It’s almost impossible to move around. Let alone get some privacy with my thoughts… of the space porn I just used.

And what’s worse is that Whom’s crap at the controls. He agreed to take me back to Earth in my time so I can stop SUCKER. But Whom can’t pilot it. Half the time the thing seems to fly itself as Whom’s wildly pulling levers and rocking back and forth and we hurtle through time and space. Whom blames it on faulty equipment.

Oh, and did I mention he’s a chick now? Yeah, a really hot one. Which makes things real awkward. Not just because I’m married but because, you know, we’ve done guy things together. We’ve arm wrestled, talked about girls while watching sports, talked about sports while watching porn and stood next to each other at the urinals. And when I say urinal, I really mean leaning out of the opening of the dumpster (holding onto each other for balance) and giving a golden shower to the Time Urethra and hoping that time doesn’t piss it back in our faces. (You don’t even want to know about No. 2.)

What happened was this… We managed to crash-land in London. First, I thought great. I can just head back to Toronto. It’s only about a couple of hours by train. Then I find out, the idiot brought us to the other London. You know, the more Englishy one. And it’s 1963. Christ, like I wanted to hobnob old, stodgy Brits. Unless I ran into James Bond. That would be cool. But he’d be out saving the world, not hanging out in the park feeding pigeons.

But Whom said it’s fine because he had identified some parts that could help fix the dumpster, including the guidance system and a cloaking device to make the dumpster look less “bohemian.” Whom’s word, not mine. I don’t have a problem with Queen. But he had said if the ship looked cooler, we’d get invited to better parties. Can’t argue with that logic.

Anyway, the spare parts he found were inside some kind of blue telephone booth in a junkyard. It didn’t look like anything special and I didn’t know why anyone would need to make a phone call in the middle of an abandoned pile of junk.

But then we went inside, it was amazing. Now this was a spaceship. Rooms upon rooms, a real bridge and satellite TV. (The dumpster only got basic cable.)

As soon as we got inside, Whom went to the main controls and opened them up. I was going to suggest we just ask for a ride on this ship as it was much nicer, spacious and didn’t smell of cheap cotton and fish sticks. But before I could say anything, Doctor Whom had ripped out weird green parts out of the panel and said we were going.

As we were exiting the telephone booth, we ran into this crotchety, old man and a teen girl. He must have been the owner of the phone booth because when he saw the green parts in Whom’s hands, he pulled out a little pen flashlight aimed it at Whom’s groin. After a flash and weird sound, Whom’s twig and berries fell out of his pant leg. He seemed upset but not in pain.

I kicked them towards the old man and they squared him on the nose, knocking him to the ground. And we made a break for it. We ran back to the dumpster and took off. Through the opening of the dumpster I could see the old man aiming his flashlight at the dumpster and there was a crashing sound but we got away.

When we were safe and he installed the new parts, Doctor Whom handed me a gun and asked me to shoot him in the head. I tried to tell him that losing his manhood doesn’t make him any less of a man, especially since I didn’t want to be stuck in the dumpster and have to fly it myself. But he said it was necessary so like any good friend would I shot the doctor in the temple.

Then something happened that I wasn’t prepared for. There was a blinding flash of light (I should have been wearing sunscreen, I got burned a bit).  And Whom went through some kind of transformation. Apparently, every few years when they get mortally injured, or have put on few too many pounds from binging at interstellar buffets, Whom’s kind go through a “reconstitution.” where they become a new person, but have same memories as before and most people act as if nothing has changed – kind of like when they replaced the aunt on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

So Whom’s hair got longer, his chest got larger, his hips got curvier and his face became feminine. All of a sudden Whom was a Whomina. However, I guess it’s been some time since the doctor’s been a woman, because something went a little wrong with the voice. It’s gone much lower than it used to be and she sounds like Barry White. She refuses to sing, though.

And although we have a new guidance system and we can cloak the ship now, that old man apparently managed to fuse our time travel circuits with the pen-thingy. So we’re stuck in 1963.

Whom has suggested we seek out the Asparagusians, the aliens who gave me my nanotechnology (or rather will, since it hasn’t happened yet), as even in this time they should have the technology to fix the ship and get me home.

The problem is, without time travel the dumpster is really slow and it will take several years to make the trip. Whom has charted a course and turned on the autopilot. She said the dumpster may disintegrate before we get there and we’ll die in the vacuum of space but we’ll go into cryogenic stasis so at least we don’t age.

The chamber is only designed for one person so we’re going to have to spoon.

Don’t tell my wife…

This is the day! After all this sober time in the future, I am finally getting booze. Oh, and then returning home.

I wonder what Ronin Force buried for me, because it will make a difference, temporally speaking. Ah, I never explained this, did I? Well, you know how different types of alcohol affect different people? It’s the same with time traveling. Let me explain:

Beer has only two real forms when it all comes down to it. Dark and light. First there is the quantity needed for the effects. On average, it takes six light beers to equal the same effect of 2 good stouts. The temporal power is minimal though. I can usually get a couple days, maybe a week of temporal manipulation going… and I’m gassy. Don’t get me started on Reds.

Russian Vodka isn’t actually the best. That’s the first place everyone thinks of, I know. Think again. I know those bastards have to put up with 9 to 10 months of winter. I mean, who wouldn’t drink? But hands down, the best is Absolut. Yup Swedes. No hangovers and clean temporal traveling spanning years to decades per bender. I just get into a lot of fights. You see, the guys around me get jealous quick because their women suddenly realize how sexy I really am. The uniform helps.

Bourbon is really nice. The more it’s aged the more I can time travel. Again, little to no hangover with the high end stuff but watch out with the cheap shit. After a few drinks of the cheap shit, I get sleepy and forget I can time travel.

Bacardi 151, one word. Blackout. I can travel most of the space-time continuum blitzed on this stuff. The problem is I have no control of where I’m going or how far. I don’t know how many times I’ve ended up in some other time zone, naked, penniless and full of shame.

Ok, I found my special crystal drinking glass. I’m ready to go a digging. Oh and for the record, I’m not an alcoholic. Really. Alcoholics got to meetings. I got to parties. Rehab is for quitters.

So Many Bottles in So Little Time

I never looked good in yellow chiffon. I can’t believe I agreed to this.

Ok. Back on Star date 3045.915 cannon-by-lemon-drop, we were on our way to Earth at full warp speed. We were going so fast, the Jefferson was shaking like a tray of Jello shots held by a waitress in stilettos. Oh how I miss them. The stilettos, I mean. Oh how I miss them. Well, all of the sudden, Bobo hits the brakes. Shit flies everywhere smack into the viewscreen – and what’s Bobo doing? He’s groping his crotch.

The other crew members looked as shocked as I was but then they started to nod as one like the audience of Queen’s concert during ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ The bridge was silent except for Bobo’s eekking and oohing.

“What the hell is going on,” I screamed as I noticed my urine cistern cracked from the abrupt stop, staining my pants.

I.Q. tip toed over to me and said two words in horror and reverence, “Poontang Farr.”

“Poontang Farr?”

I.Q. explain it as their time of monkey mating and if we didn’t get Bobo home soon, he’d stroke himself to death. If we restrained him, he’d explode in matter days. Man, this was serious case of blue balls.

Before I gave the orders, the crew had already banged a hard right with the Jefferson. Couldn’t help myself with that one. In a matter of a few hours, we were orbiting the Planet of the Apes. Seriously, that’s what they called it. And you know what else, there’s not even any apes on it, only monkeys.

As I.Q. was duct-taping my urine cistern, he told me Bobo was going to have to fight with the largest male on the surface to ‘woo’ the other females. This was something I wasn’t going to miss. Bobo, Bright Eyes, Sr. Twinkle-toes, Bubbles and myself beamed into the arena of mating.

The place was a huge dome. The floor was covered with pillows, chains, a roaring fireplace and the monkey’s rendition of Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love Baby.” I felt uneasy because all eyes were looking up at me. Ya. UP at me.

I was the biggest monkey.

Before I knew it, Bobo’s mating instincts took over and he was pounding on me. He took me completely by surprise. Honest. I stepped back to get my bearings but tripped over a pillow and hit my head on the monkey ‘Do No Evil’ statue, and fell unconscious. I did NOT throw my arms around my head and weep openly. No, I did not.

I guess the females loved the fight, as Bobo puts it. I awoke days later, nodding to Bobo in this terribly tacky yellow chiffon bridesmaid’s dress. He was lining me up with the rest of the bridesmaids but the joke is on him. I’ve been married.

The bride was lovely.

We’re now back on course for Earth, and hopefully a chance to get back to my own time and stop SUCKER.

I’m keeping the dress.

It’s Stardate 3400.21.87 Blue Alpha. And you all know what that means. That’s right, it’s Reindeer Day. The day we celebrate what those antlered heroes sacrificed in the name of freedom.

It’s quiet here in the command center of the Starship Jefferson. I gave the monkeys some planet leave so they could celebrate this most important holiday here in the future. I let them have a party on board the ship for Halloween, and we’re still picking banana peels from the craisin firing accelerators. And when ask how the banana peels got there, the monkeys only giggle to themselves and no one will meet my eye. If the monkeys are embarrassed about it, I probably don’t want to know. So I figured some time on the planet’s surface for them will spare me the repair time, plus we can hightail it out of here when the bill comes. It’s win-win.

So I thought I’d take this moment and fill you in on something that happened before IQ (or, as I sometimes call him, Monkey Scotty) was able to break through the quantum barrier and transmit back in time. It was one of the darkest times for the resistance, and the one and only time that I’ll admit to being scared.

It was when I won the War Against Christmas.

When SUCKER took over the Earth, one of the first to bow down before him and declare allegiance was none other than Santa Claus. That’s right – Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick. In one night he went down the chimneys of those who opposed SUCKER, stuck them into that magical sack of his, and they were never heard from again. It was called getting Santa-ed. One day your neighbour would be speaking out against SUCKER’s latest atrocity, and that night you’d hear the pitter patter of reindeer feet on the roof and you’d lie trembling under the covers until dawn came. Terrifying.

It went on this way for centuries. In fact, Santa was one of the main reasons why Earth remained such a SUCKER stronghold. It was Santa’s trickery that finally brought down Admiral LungFish.

As I wept over LungFish’s simultaneously slimy and scaly corpse, I vowed that I would have my revenge. No mater how well defended the North Pole Fortress might be, I would look into that Christmas elf’s soulless eyes as he bleed out, like a bowl full of jelly. Okay, that last part didn’t work, but you get the idea.

Step one, raise an army. That part wasn’t so hard. The people were just waiting for a champion to lead them against Santa.

A battle hardened soldier doing the Faultline Salute

I couldn’t give them all alien-nanotechnology powered earthquake gloves. So I gave them normal, right handed gloves and told them it would make them invincible.  Too easy. Seriously, the hardest part was finding a place to store all those left-over left handed snow gloves.

And with that, begun, the War on Christmas had.

It was a bloody, hard fought campaign. The turning point was when we took the New Toy Shop, located on the North Pole of Mars. We lost a lot of brave men and woman, but we captured Santa’s main arsenal. Glass ornament bombs, bullet proof ribbons and bows, and all the candy cane munition we could carry. Whatever we couldn’t take with us, we burned. Seemed like a good idea. How were we to know that Martian soil is extremely flammable? I mean, I didn’t plan on setting a planet wide inferno that still burns to this day. It just happened! It was war, dammit!

All that remained was to storm Earth. We knew we didn’t have anywhere near the firepower to defeat SUCKER, so this was only going be a hit-Santa-and-run raid. Our flotilla arrived in orbit. And that’s when this terrifying image appeared on our scopes.

No one spoke. Santa was charging in on his space sled, armed to the teeth.

We’d been led into a trap.

First one, then three, then too many to count – our advance escort ships blossomed into brilliant blooms of fire in the cold blackness of space. Santa’s laugh, taunting us over the comm system – “And to all a good night!” It wasn’t a threat. It was what was happening. I shoved Helmsman Bananna Shorts aside and aimed the Starship Jefferson at Santa’s sled – ramming speed. One by one, our systems went down as Santa fired his energized eggnog cannons into our hull.

And then – a new blip on the scope. Rising fast from the Earth’s surface. “Identify!” I yelled. The monkey in charge of the scanner monkey-talked his answer. “Not you!” I yelled. “I know who you are! Identify the new thing on the blippy thing!” It’s good that my crew and I had learned a sort of shorthand for times like these. He monkey talked a response. But by then, everyone could see.

It was the reindeer! Rudolf, Blitzen, Dancer, Prancer, Dasher, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Vixen – the hot one. They had been hiding out on Earth, organizing and ‘toy train rainroad’ to  help those who Santa was after. They  swarmed through the blackness of space  and swooped down on Santa – clawing and biting and… hitting him with their hooves. What do you call that? Getting hooved? Sure, we’ll go with that.

I hit the airtight seal on my space helmet, and jumped through a hole blown through the hull. I floated my way to Santa. The reindeers held back – they knew that the final blow was mine. Santa begged me for his life – just like untold millions had begged him for theirs. I had no pity. I finished him. Actually, first I went back to the ship because I realized I had forgotten my sharpened candy cane. But when I got back – then I finished him.

My promise to Admiral Lungfish was complete as Santa, the Yule Tide Terror, died in my arms.

We collected our damaged fleet, and each ship raced for safety until there was only the Starship Jefferson and the reindeers. “Go!” Rudolph’s nose flashed in Morse Code. “We’ll buy you time to escape!” As our ship sped away from Earth, the reindeers turned to engage SUCKERs reinforcements…  never to be seen again.

Ever since then, the entire universe celebrates Reindeer Day – the day Santa’s Reindeers helped kill Santa and won The War on Christmas.