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| Space Shuttle Challenger Disaster |
What, it must've been 10am ish. So my job was to link comm with this fuckin guy onboard this cardboard toon wagon we were about to light a candle underneath and shoot into god's uterus. he's barking at me to come back you know to get me on the radio stereo system and it's annoying me because I have a headache so I shout at him through the mic to shut the fuck up and I pull out my flask and dump the whole thing (warm Jagermeister) into my diet mountain dew. I was so hot. Jesus god I was so fucking hot. The only reason I was so hot was that the cocaine was finally catching up. The fact that it was probably below freezing outside didn't help my scrotum from being overly swollen. My fingers were slimy with grease from my melting ass and my snotty boner faucet. I mean I was feverish. Well after ripping a thirty-five minute anal trumpet blow and snorting a few lines of heroin, I eventually got onto my headset and belched like an Irish foghorn. This cream corn yells back at me, I think his name was Dick or Prick or Flick?? Dude I can't remember everything so don't fucking ask me to because honestly what the hell am I even telling this shit for.
Well anyway, he's shouting shit and I have to tell him to calm the hell down or else I'm going to switch on Bruce Hornsby into the headset and take the rest of the day off. Anyway he finally calms down and tells me it's Roger Boisjoly of Thiokol. "Yeah so what the fuck do you want?" I says. Well he immediately goes into this rant, something about toilet bowl rings or the urinals or his ass is too icy or something I dunno I wasn't really paying attention because The Price is Right is on my little monitor and I fucking loved that show. Bob has such sweet man pecker suckers. Ultimately, the fuck on the phone recommends an "immediate postponement for launch." I got real quiet. I've been coming to work for this fucking red rocket fuck off for weeks now and nothing, zilch nada. AND NOW THIS ASSHOLE WANTS TO POSTPONE AGAIN?!?!?! They have stopped us from setting off this firecracker about a million times already and I am fucking sick of it at this point. I licked the receiver for effect, and tell him "I am appalled. I am appalled by your recommendation. My God, Thiokol, when do you want me to launch - next April?!" I disconnected. This is bullshit I thought. No, fuck dat shit. I was going to send this rat wagon into the stars if I had to sever my boob wrench to do so. I fell out of my chair and onto the floor. I laid there for a good twenty minutes weeping softly and mumbling lines from Dallas to the horror of my coworkers. Then slowly, I began humping the floor and giggling like a mad child. Well when a woman began crying somewhere in the office I stood up and said "I was just fucking with you guys, jesus christ!" and stumbled toward the door. Before leaving, I threw open the cupboard on the wall and found the infrared camera and headed out to the launch tower. The air hits me like a stripper's slime shaft on the morning I went to take a temperature reading on the O rings of Challenger. This is January 28th, 1986.
Back at my toilet, I began my checklist. Yeah this and go that and go fuckyourself here and suck my horse wand there. I was rubbing myself real raw while staring at this kid technician. He looked extremely uncomfortable. So I hurriedly scribbled a sex note on the back of a blank check I stole from my boss's wife after masturbating on her. I was supposed to be watching the SSME computer screen, but instead I was drawing pictures of my hemorrhaging anus on that blank check. I'm starting my count down and I keep interjecting "that's what she said" into the mic after each call. T minus 10 (that's what she said) etc. Well my boss shouts at me through tears to "knock it off!!" So I finish like an ass mass and the bird lights up and farts into the sky. I was fairly relieved at first because I figured the bone rub would burst like a pent up shitter right there on the launch pad. Once the crap king got airborne, I sort of lost interest. I only glanced at one readout seeing the shuttle was passing Mach 1, that must've been oh about T+ about 35 seconds. I gave my thumbs up for go at throttle up noticing the SSME's were at %104 set by the computer before barfing all over my control panel, rendering my instruments useless. Right about the time I was wiping up old Carl's Jr. with my Journey tie was when I creamed my jeans. I hear this gasp like the sperm worm exiting a rhino and when I looked at the sky outside, I saw a plume of white shit.
A burst of static came through on my end and I just started crying like a little girl. I mean I was really balling and hamming it up. I kept banging my head on the table and saying "NO NO NO NO NO" and all this shit because I knew what had happened. Eventually this senior controller had to tell me to shut the hell up I mean I don't blame him, at that point I was standing on my desk twirling my dick around and shouting "GET ON THE HELICOPTER RIDE!" The vehicle breakup got me really really horny for some reason and I had to disappear from the control room for about a half an hour. When I came back, all hell had broken loose. I mean, I was surprised the piece of shit even made it off the launch pad. I was so drunk I figured no one would give a shit if I left early for the day. My supervisor screamed, I mean literally screamed at me that I had to stay. I looked at him and vomited, then slurred that they should install a stripper pole in the staff room. He stood there, flabbergasted. I pissed in the corner on my way out, found my shit wagon and headed home.
I never went back to the job, but that night, two beautiful FBI agents knocked on my trailer. I pretended I didn't speak English and shit myself. That sent them running. I moved to Venezuela the next day. Weeks later I got a letter that had been forwarded to me by NASA. It was my severance pay and pay it did. I installed a stripper pole in my front yard near the monkey swing.