Fuse here with latest bilge. As ever, if it’s no good, send it back and it shall be DESTROYED!!! [EVIL CACKLING]

“She slid her long, painted talons across the fullness of her ample…” Eh? Pardon?? Oh, there you are! I was just catching up on my strictly business-related work, confound the blasted thing. The things we do to earn a crust. Now, where were we? Oh, yes – the moon landings.
Now, I’m not a chap given to flights of fancy, hallucinations or terrifying psychosis-induced nightmares – thanks to Lobotomal, they stopped in 1964 – but a rather curious episode took place when my orbiter was completing its final pass over the lunar surface. This may sound unlikely, but as I was doing some final repairs to the Apollo lander’s three-wheeled sidecar, I distinctly heard a knock at the door. Placing my hammer and nails on the control panel, I turned to look out of the port window. There, floating in the inky blackness of space, was a postman, accompanied by what looked for all the world like a herd of goats. I gasped, rubbed my eyes and drank a half bottle of brandy, but there he still was, knocking on the door of the orbiting craft. I opened the window to see what he wanted.
“Is this the Apollo mission to the lunar surface?”, he asked. “I have a delivery of goats for Major General The Right Honourable President Wallington Fuse, Knight Of The Garter, OBE, MBE”. “I am that distinguished and celebrated hero”, I replied, taking care not to sound pompous. “Good. There’s an order from Houston for you. Would you sign here, sir? I’ll let the goats out of the van, and we can both get on with our own business”. To say I was surprised, and, I must admit totally shocked, is an understatement. I’d farted so much in fright, my space suit had inflated to twice its normal size. “Looks like you’ve got a bad case of the old stomach trouble, sir”, ventured the hovering delivery man. “I’d open your visor if I were you”. Of course, being a mere postal worker, the poor chap knew nothing of the perils involved with the cold vacuum of space. If I’d opened my visor, I’d have been circling Jupiter within three seconds, especially with the gas from my rectum propelling me at warp factor nine. “Yes, I’ll take some indigestion powders when I get back inside. There’s my signature. Is that all you want?”. “That will do nicely, sir”, he replied, and got back into his van. “Cheerio”. I watched as the delivery van made its way back to Earth, its wooden wings flapping silently in the void. In my haste and state of confusion, however, I’d forgotten about the goats, who were sitting in the command module, watching television. What was I to do? I decided to radio mission control. The conversation went as follows:
ME: “Houston, we have a problem”
MC HOUSTON:”Reading you loud and [“ZEET!!!”] clear [“AAAKKK!!!”] Fuse. Say, old feller, what’s up?”
ME: “Have you been drinking?”
MC HOUSTON “Why, of course [“EEEEEEEEEE!!!”] not. What can we do for you, you lousy old bum?”
ME” “This is an outrage! Here I am, circling the Earth at forty thousand miles per second – wearing these RIDICULOUS clothes – and the moment my back is turned, you start drinking! Get me Commander Deke Launchpad IMMEDIATELY!”
MC HOUSTON: “There isn’t a Commander Deke Launchpad, you pompous old asshole – we made him up”.
ME: “You made him up? Then who sent me those Thunderbirds ‘Space Trousers’? Never mind – you get me down from here right now!!”
MC HOUSTON: “Okay, you asked for it. You see that switch behind your left shoulder? The one marked ‘Hey – Are You Sure?”? Just press it for me, would you?”

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SPACE DIARY – APRIL 7, 2008

Have now been on surface of Neptune for seven months. Water running low. Hallucinations getting worse – goats now performing ‘Saturday Night Fever’ every hour. No popcorn. Cigarette supply near minimum, am now eating the inferior Romanian caviar, Armani slacks with velvet trim now slightly soiled. This, I fear, is the end of [EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKK………..]