Personal logs, delivery notes, survival warnings, music diaries, cleaning reports and official Eric Strudelhofen regulations from across the Space 2047 universe.
The galaxy would be easier to manage if everyone listened to me immediately and without snacks.
Citizens of space, please stop naming moons after lunch items.
I have reviewed Gerald’s latest song and declared it almost legal.
Never accept a crown from a planet that also offers you a receipt.
A regulation a day keeps democracy confused.
Citizens must salute small sandwiches because greatness often arrives in compact form.
All spoons must be admired for at least three seconds before use.
Laughing without a permit is allowed only on alternate Wednesdays.
They are friendly, affectionate and catastrophically bitey.
Space Cheese distracts MAAM aliens for exactly nine seconds. Use those seconds wisely.
Do not accept hugs from anything with more than two elbows and a bib.
Brian survived MAAM territory by pretending his moustache was an endangered species.
I do not chase dirt. Dirt flees me.
Sixteen teacups entered low orbit. Recovery net deployed.
Space Cheese residue resisted standard mop. Upgraded to heroic mop.
Robot underpants discovered in vent shaft. Sanitisation ongoing.
The universe is vast, but good lipstick travels further.
If someone calls themselves irresistible, check for hidden tentacles and unpaid parking fines.
Brian attempted charm. Medical bay recommends rest and fewer eyebrows.
Susan declared the Communications Hub insufficiently romantic and replaced one alarm with smooth jazz.
I have survived three alien invasions and one of Gerald’s rehearsals. I fear nothing except paperwork.
Crew evacuated in six seconds. Brian returned for his moustache comb and ruined the average.
Gerald tried to tune his guitar using the engine. The engine now plays jazz.
Cedric opened a crate labelled Definitely Not Dangerous. It was dangerous.
Never trust a package that looks smug.
My moustache was mistaken for a diplomatic flag by a traffic warden moon. Negotiations remain itchy.
Delivered three crates of Space Cheese to Nouala. Eric immediately declared cheese a taxable emotion.
Collected vinegar near the event horizon. Lost two chips, one receipt and most of Tuesday.
Music is the language of the universe, except on Tuesday when it is mostly feedback.
Invented a new genre called panic funk. Karen says it already existed whenever I enter a room.
My guitar picked up a distress call from a sandwich.
Misplaced guitar again. Suspect gravity, Brian, or a very ambitious cupboard.
If a crate screams, inventory it quickly and from a distance.
Found one moon, two spoons and a small legal department behind the emergency biscuits.
Parcel 9B walked away. It left a forwarding address and a rude drawing.
The cheese has started humming. Gertrude says this is unhygienic.
