You and I are not amazing people. We might be pretty decent. We might rock it: be good spouses, parents, make decent cash, have cool hobbies. Sure. We could be those things and more.
But we are not upper echelon. I’m talking like Astronaut level.
Because I am a total slut for astronauts. I mean, can you imagine waking up one morning and saying to yourself: “Today I’m going up into space to do some repairs on a 500 million dollar space station.”
No. You cannot imagine that. Neither can I. My brain is literally incapable of comprehending that.
Like that astronaut who was Congresswoman Gabby Giffords’ husband. Kinda funny looking, but still — he’s an astronaut. In zero gravity, everybody looks better. Those space suits are the final word in looking like an absolute badass.
He was on all those news programs talking about his wife’s recovery. The man’s wife, you’ll recall, was shot in the head at point-blank range.
You and I — mere mortals next to this guy — would probably freak out a bit. Some of us might take a few days off work, maybe delay going on a long business trip.
Not this guy. He’s staring into those news cameras, day in and day out, just giving his deadpan report on the situation. Talk about equilibrium.
I need about four Xanax to achieve that kind of equilibrium. This guy’s got it in spades.
I suppose you’d have to to become an astronaut. Number one requirement on the job description for an astronaut: Anything short of a total nuclear holocaust should not impress you in the least.
That’s why guys like him go to Space while guys like me go to Dunkin Donuts.
If I went up into Space, you can be sure that the mission would be pursuing a lot of non-scientific objectives. They’d want me to go up there and monitor some plant experiments or conduct a few tests using the robotic arm mechanism and I’d be busy shooting blue racquetballs at floating space debris.
I can tell you one thing: there is no way I’ll be passing up zero gravity sex. Or, at least, if there’s no one to let me into their fold, I plan on conducting one of the most elaborate masturbation rituals in the history of mankind.
I’d go into a closet, open my tub of petroleum jelly (which I brought as part of my 10 pound personal effects allowance) and start in. I don’t think they allow incense burning on the space shuttle, but if they do, I’d be burning some nice jasmine/lavender blend. I’d put on a little Pink Floyd, look out the tiny porthole window at the dazzling blue ball of earth as I cupped my own dazzling blue balls with fingers recently dipped in KY Hot Sensations. Think about how awesome that would be. And no cleanup! Your semen would just float up in little clusters and you could simply snatch it up into a small tupperware, close the lid, and let it keep floating.
If Mission Control started hassling me to finish up, I might even put my headphones on mute for a while and just let those buzz cuts blabber on:
“Unibrow. There’s a small fire in Compartment B. Please check it out.”
“Mission Control, can it wait? I’ve almost taken this experiment to its fullest completion.”
“No Captain. The fire is growing steadily.”
“Okay. Let me just grab my s’mores kit and I’ll head over to check it out.”
Yep. I’d make the world’s worst astronaut.
Ernest Borgnine, the old school Hollywood actor of McHale’s Navy and Dirty Dozen fame, once shared his favorite quote with Esquire magazine. He said:
“When I was young, I wanted to light the world on fire; now I just want to keep my nuts warm.”
That’s why I go gaga for astronauts. Next to them — and Presidents, Nascar driver Jimmie Johnson, and those guys who freeclimb 500 foot cliffs — we are all just nut-warmers.
Why not join me in the luke warm jacuzzi of the middling millions and billions?
The Astronauts among us have got it all under control.