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.
The cheese has started humming. Gertrude says this is unhygienic.
A box marked Fragile bit the forklift. Forklift expected to recover emotionally.
Parcel 9B walked away. It left a forwarding address and a rude drawing.
Never trust a package that looks smug.
Parcel asked to speak to my manager. I promoted Cedric temporarily and hid behind the cargo bay.
Took a shortcut through a wormhole and arrived before I had left. I still billed overtime.
Collected vinegar near the event horizon. Lost two chips, one receipt and most of Tuesday.
I do not chase dirt. Dirt flees me.
Sixteen teacups entered low orbit. Recovery net deployed.
Robot underpants discovered in vent shaft. Sanitisation ongoing.
Space Cheese residue resisted standard mop. Upgraded to heroic mop.
Nouala is free, provided everyone does exactly what I say before I say it.
Citizens must salute small sandwiches because greatness often arrives in compact form.
Any suspicious pastry is property of the state until I have finished eating it.
Laughing without a permit is allowed only on alternate Wednesdays.
If Brian says it is probably fine, put your helmet on.
Gerald tried to tune his guitar using the engine. The engine now plays jazz.
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.
They are friendly, affectionate and catastrophically bitey.
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.
Space Cheese distracts MAAM aliens for exactly nine seconds. Use those seconds wisely.
Music is the language of the universe, except on Tuesday when it is mostly feedback.
Misplaced guitar again. Suspect gravity, Brian, or a very ambitious cupboard.
Played one chord so powerful the Communications Hub asked for a lie down.
Recorded a song with the engine room. The chorus exploded beautifully.
Royal patience is infinite. Mine, sadly, is not.
Brian means well, which is often how trouble begins.
Never accept a crown from a planet that also offers you a receipt.
I have reviewed Gerald’s latest song and declared it almost legal.
Romance in space requires confidence, oxygen and a reliable escape pod.
Susan declared the Communications Hub insufficiently romantic and replaced one alarm with smooth jazz.
If someone calls themselves irresistible, check for hidden tentacles and unpaid parking fines.
Three planets have requested diplomatic training after Susan winked at their ambassadors.
