Personal logs, delivery notes, survival warnings, music diaries, cleaning reports and official Eric Strudelhofen regulations from across the Space 2047 universe.
MAAM hospitality includes tea, biscuits and a legally worrying number of teeth.
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.
Space Cheese distracts MAAM aliens for exactly nine seconds. Use those seconds wisely.
I do not chase dirt. Dirt flees me.
Dust level reached 0.04%. Emergency mopping protocols activated.
Space Cheese residue resisted standard mop. Upgraded to heroic mop.
Sixteen teacups entered low orbit. Recovery net deployed.
Never trust a package that looks smug.
Collected vinegar near the event horizon. Lost two chips, one receipt and most of Tuesday.
Delivered three crates of Space Cheese to Nouala. Eric immediately declared cheese a taxable emotion.
My moustache was mistaken for a diplomatic flag by a traffic warden moon. Negotiations remain itchy.
A regulation a day keeps democracy confused.
Laughing without a permit is allowed only on alternate Wednesdays.
Anyone taller than Eric must crouch during official photographs.
Any suspicious pastry is property of the state until I have finished eating it.
Every galaxy has a key. Unfortunately, mine is slightly out of tune.
Recorded a song with the engine room. The chorus exploded beautifully.
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.
If Brian says it is probably fine, put your helmet on.
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.
Gerald tried to tune his guitar using the engine. The engine now plays jazz.
If a crate screams, inventory it quickly and from a distance.
The cheese has started humming. Gertrude says this is unhygienic.
Parcel 9B walked away. It left a forwarding address and a rude drawing.
One crate of socks became three crates of suspiciously organised underpants.
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.
Brian attempted charm. Medical bay recommends rest and fewer eyebrows.
If someone calls themselves irresistible, check for hidden tentacles and unpaid parking fines.
The galaxy would be easier to manage if everyone listened to me immediately and without snacks.
Brian means well, which is often how trouble begins.
Eric Strudelhofen attempted to bow to himself in a mirror. Talks remain difficult.
Citizens of space, please stop naming moons after lunch items.
