Personal logs, delivery notes, survival warnings, music diaries, cleaning reports and official Eric Strudelhofen regulations from across the Space 2047 universe.
Romance in space requires confidence, oxygen and a reliable escape pod.
Never kiss an alien until you know where its mouth officially begins.
Three planets have requested diplomatic training after Susan winked at their ambassadors.
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.
If the galaxy ends, I would like it recorded that I warned everyone first.
Crew evacuated in six seconds. Brian returned for his moustache comb and ruined the average.
Eric Strudelhofen has made breathing paperwork-adjacent. Avoid official buildings.
They are friendly, affectionate and catastrophically bitey.
Brian survived MAAM territory by pretending his moustache was an endangered species.
The MAAM delegation greeted the crew warmly, then tried to season Cedric.
Karen has negotiated a treaty based on snacks, distance and shouting.
A regulation a day keeps democracy confused.
Anyone taller than Eric must crouch during official photographs.
Any suspicious pastry is property of the state until I have finished eating it.
Laughing without a permit is allowed only on alternate Wednesdays.
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.
Every galaxy has a key. Unfortunately, mine is slightly out of tune.
Invented a new genre called panic funk. Karen says it already existed whenever I enter a room.
Misplaced guitar again. Suspect gravity, Brian, or a very ambitious cupboard.
Played one chord so powerful the Communications Hub asked for a lie down.
Dust is not inevitable. Dust is a declaration of war.
Dust level reached 0.04%. Emergency mopping protocols activated.
Space Cheese residue resisted standard mop. Upgraded to heroic mop.
Robot underpants discovered in vent shaft. Sanitisation ongoing.
If a crate screams, inventory it quickly and from a distance.
One crate of socks became three crates of suspiciously organised underpants.
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.
A successful delivery is one where nobody sues the moustache.
Took a shortcut through a wormhole and arrived before I had left. I still billed overtime.
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.
