Personal logs, delivery notes, survival warnings, music diaries, cleaning reports and official Eric Strudelhofen regulations from across the Space 2047 universe.
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.
My guitar picked up a distress call from a sandwich.
Misplaced guitar again. Suspect gravity, Brian, or a very ambitious cupboard.
I have survived three alien invasions and one of Gerald’s rehearsals. I fear nothing except paperwork.
Gerald tried to tune his guitar using the engine. The engine now plays jazz.
Crew evacuated in six seconds. Brian returned for his moustache comb and ruined the average.
Cedric opened a crate labelled Definitely Not Dangerous. It was dangerous.
The cargo bay is not haunted. It is administratively unsettled.
Found one moon, two spoons and a small legal department behind the emergency biscuits.
The cheese has started humming. Gertrude says this is unhygienic.
A box marked Fragile bit the forklift. Forklift expected to recover emotionally.
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.
Brian means well, which is often how trouble begins.
I do not chase dirt. Dirt flees me.
Sixteen teacups entered low orbit. Recovery net deployed.
Brian described the floor as clean enough. Brian has been reported.
Dust level reached 0.04%. Emergency mopping protocols activated.
The universe is vast, but good lipstick travels further.
Brian attempted charm. Medical bay recommends rest and fewer eyebrows.
If someone calls themselves irresistible, check for hidden tentacles and unpaid parking fines.
Susan declared the Communications Hub insufficiently romantic and replaced one alarm with smooth jazz.
Never trust a package that looks smug.
My moustache was mistaken for a diplomatic flag by a traffic warden moon. Negotiations remain itchy.
Took a shortcut through a wormhole and arrived before I had left. I still billed overtime.
Delivered three crates of Space Cheese to Nouala. Eric immediately declared cheese a taxable emotion.
They are friendly, affectionate and catastrophically bitey.
Brian survived MAAM territory by pretending his moustache was an endangered species.
Space Cheese distracts MAAM aliens for exactly nine seconds. Use those seconds wisely.
Karen has negotiated a treaty based on snacks, distance and shouting.
Nouala is free, provided everyone does exactly what I say before I say it.
Anyone taller than Eric must crouch during official photographs.
Laughing without a permit is allowed only on alternate Wednesdays.
Citizens must salute small sandwiches because greatness often arrives in compact form.
