Personal logs, delivery notes, survival warnings, music diaries, cleaning reports and official Eric Strudelhofen regulations from across the Space 2047 universe.
If a crate screams, inventory it quickly and from a distance.
A box marked Fragile bit the forklift. Forklift expected to recover emotionally.
The cheese has started humming. Gertrude says this is unhygienic.
Parcel 9B walked away. It left a forwarding address and a rude drawing.
They are friendly, affectionate and catastrophically bitey.
Brian survived MAAM territory by pretending his moustache was an endangered species.
Karen has negotiated a treaty based on snacks, distance and shouting.
Do not accept hugs from anything with more than two elbows and a bib.
Royal patience is infinite. Mine, sadly, is not.
I have reviewed Gerald’s latest song and declared it almost legal.
Citizens of space, please stop naming moons after lunch items.
Eric Strudelhofen attempted to bow to himself in a mirror. Talks remain difficult.
Every galaxy has a key. Unfortunately, mine is slightly out of tune.
My guitar picked up a distress call from a sandwich.
Invented a new genre called panic funk. Karen says it already existed whenever I enter a room.
Recorded a song with the engine room. The chorus exploded beautifully.
Romance in space requires confidence, oxygen and a reliable escape pod.
Brian attempted charm. Medical bay recommends rest and fewer eyebrows.
Susan declared the Communications Hub insufficiently romantic and replaced one alarm with smooth jazz.
Never kiss an alien until you know where its mouth officially begins.
The trick to surviving space is simple: never trust anything smiling with too many teeth.
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.
If the galaxy ends, I would like it recorded that I warned everyone first.
Never trust a package that looks smug.
Collected vinegar near the event horizon. Lost two chips, one receipt and most of Tuesday.
My moustache was mistaken for a diplomatic flag by a traffic warden moon. Negotiations remain itchy.
Parcel asked to speak to my manager. I promoted Cedric temporarily and hid behind the cargo bay.
I do not chase dirt. Dirt flees me.
Sixteen teacups entered low orbit. Recovery net deployed.
Dust level reached 0.04%. Emergency mopping protocols activated.
Robot underpants discovered in vent shaft. Sanitisation ongoing.
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.
All spoons must be admired for at least three seconds before use.
