Happy Holidays from the International Space Station!
Hello Dear Friends,
It's that time of year again, the time when I send out my annual report on all things related to me,
Captain Franklin Dickerson, USAF. A lot has happened this year, but before I give you the rundown, I
wanted to tell all of you who have been living in caves or under rocks for the past 365 days that I am a
proud member of the crew of the International Space Station, and right now sailing around the big blue
globe at about 17,500 miles per hour. And I'm not even wearing a seatbelt!
In about an hour I have to help out on a spacewalk to install the brand new external motor for our brand
new internal refrigerator. My fellow astronauts and I are very excited about this. Yesterday we installed
a new toilet. I digress.
Anyhow, here goes! I decided to go month to month this time in the interest of chronology, just hitting
the high points. Hey, I'm a military man first.
Also: Hi, Mom! Hi, Grams! Hi, everybody else! Love you guys!
January:
I started hearing rumblings from the higher ups that NASA was looking to train new shuttle pilots, and
put my name in the hat. I was both apprehensive and excited. I'd flown a whole lot of big equipment
before - big bombers and the like - but never something as technologically involved or large as a
shuttle. But the idea of living my boyhood dream of being an astronaut was too great, and I pushed any
anxiety about the matter I had to the side. A few weeks later, towards the end of the month, I heard that
I was being considered for the position. Things were looking up - until February.
February:
The bitch left me.
You guys remember Sonia, right? If you suddenly turned retarded and forgot, she was the mother of my
three children who I'm no longer allowed to see because she told her smarmy Jew lawyer that I had
"rage" problems and was a "violent, abusive, womanizing drunk." I'm still convinced she and that shyster
were screwing. He's probably sleeping in my house right now, or wherever she hid herself and those
little rug rats from me.
Anyhow, I got my promotion to captain and accepted into the shuttle pilot training program, and it was
about time because I'd been bustin' my ass for years while I watched every mamby-pamby, mincy, little
kiss-ass around me soaring up the ranks like my beloved Voyager spacecraft taking off from Ol' Cape
Cav. Anyhow, this officially meant I had a chance at proving I had the so-called "right stuff" to be an
astronaut. Honestly, I don't see what the big deal is. They let broads, foreigners and botanists onto
space shuttles these days. Gone are the good old days of tough, tail-chasing test pilots with flat tops
and gnarled hands planting flags on the moon.
March:
I officially began my training at NASA orienting to the shuttle, also known (at least by me) as the "fat pig."
I swear, she handles like that portly chick I went home with on my twenty-first: bouncy and slow! You
remember that story, don't you, Great Aunt Sue? Member how her dad came home and I punched him
in the face and took his wallet, then ran out the front door?! Then remember how I used his credit cards
to pay for a thousand copies of the picture I took of his flabby teenage daughter in the nude and posted
them around town?! Ha! What a classic gag! That's the first time I used that one.
Ah, memories.
April:
April rocked for about a minute and a half when this totally hot little piece of ass named Regina started
training with the crew. She was a geologist, apparently studying space rocks or some crap like that.
She was supposed to conduct an experiment looking for some liberal bullshit like alternative fuel
sources. I didn't care. She was hot, so I gave her a little bit of the old Franklin Dickerson suaveness. I
rolled up to her one day after zero-G practice in the pool and told her I was happy to help her out of her
bathing suit... with my tongue. Then I flicked it at her to show her how fast I can do it, just like you
taught me, Grandma. She just scowled at me and, naturally, I figured she was a dyke.
I asked her if she was a carpet-muncher. She told me to buzz off, looking all disgusted. Then I asked if I
could get in on some of her hot girl-on-girl action. She proceeded to slap me, storm away and then act
all high and mighty; she wouldn't even talk to me for the whole next month. I wrote her a card saying I
was sorry that she was molested as a child (or something) and was afraid of what I had to offer. I
promised her I'd take it slow if she changed her mind and wanted a first-class ticket into my underpants.
No change. If anything, her rude behavior got even worse.
May:
I started my guerilla campaign of sabotage to get Regina back for being such a dried up snow queen. I
began stealing Regina's mail a few times a week, unbeknownst to her. (This gets good. Trust me.)
June:
I made sure to pick the right pieces of mail, ones that had just a bit of Regina's lesbo name showing on
them and wrote angry letters to the black members of the staff calling them darkies and saying they had
no place working anywhere near science except in the food service. I sent about thirty such letters in
total, over the course of a week, some more obviously from her than others.
July:
Speculation about the source of the letters was minimal. Everybody knew they were from Regina (even
though they weren't) after the first round, or so I overheard. Just to keep me in the clear, I put an ACLU
sticker on my locker. (Don't worry; I'll burn it some day, guys!) Some of the mucky-mucks confronted
Regina after we got off the high-G maneuver simulator. She denied having anything to do with it. I
pulled one of the darkest guys aside and told him to open Regina's locker. The guy (I don't even think
he's black. I'm pretty sure he's Indian, but whatever; close enough) demanded Regina open her locker
up for inspection. She gladly complied, figuring that would help her clear her good name. She didn't
know I grabbed some of the Nazi paraphernalia and literature I had laying around and plastered her
locker with it. Regina was kicked out of there quicker than I could say, "Auf Weidersehen." You should
have seen her face.
August:
Sonia called me to say that she was suing me for back child support payments. I told her to send her
checks care of the goddamn Man in the Moon because I was headed up to the big black on the tenth, a
few days later. I hear the process-server arrived a day after the launch, which was successful thanks to
my mastery of my (space) craft. Get it?
September:
The morons at Mission Control finally made the right call and asked me to stay up here at the station.
They said it's because they needed my experience fixing stuff, but I know it's because they want me to
make sure that creepy Russian commienaut, Yuri, doesn't sabotage the place, and to keep the hippie
scientists from turning the station into a big orgy inside an even bigger bong. I gladly accepted the invite
and have been watching Yuri like a hawk since. I figure he's the biggest threat. I keep a log of my
surveillance for good measure. Some of the other fag scientists think that I'm being paranoid, and have
told me to take it easy. I don't even bother explaining myself to them (just like you taught me, Mom). I
just steal their toothbrushes when they're asleep and use them to clean the vacuum nozzle in the latrine
(just like you taught me, Mom).
October:
I started oiling my forty-five automatic in front of Yuri so he knows not to mess with this representative
of the good old US of Asskicking. I know I'm not technically supposed to have a gun up here... NOT!
Okay, well, yeah; technically I'm not supposed to have it up here, but you can have my gun when you
pry it out of my cold, dead hands! I'm the only law up here when you think about it, so I make sure I
keep people in check when they spend too much time in the can or at the exercise station. I basically
volunteered for this position, which I invented, meaning I don't get paid. I make up for it in an extra meal
or two out of the new fridge when nobody is looking. Also, I go on quite a few panty-raids.
November:
The frickin' anti-christ got elected to lead us all into certain death at the hands of terrorists. I ain't even
gonna talk about this anymore, because it makes my IBS flare up.
December:
I've gotten the death-farts, big time. I could change my diet up and that'd probably help. But I'm going
double beans instead because it's just so much fun to make the prissy scientists and the commienauts
float away quickly holding their undershirts over their noses.
Yuri, who thinks he's tough because he grew up in the pit of evil, keeps telling me to go to the other
side of the space station - which I call "The Fartbox" because it's funny - when I gotta blast one.
Instead, I generally float silently up behind him, drop jumpsuit and then cough. That makes him turn
around, face right at ass level. Then... BAAAAAAAM!
After I blow him away, he looks at me mean as hell with them beady little commie eyes, but I keep
Gracie (the forty-five) on my hip and just give her a little pat. Then I laugh at him and go lay one on his
pillow for good measure. He hasn't figured out I do that yet. Can't wait until he does and starts yelling at
me all red-faced with his weird accent. Ah, good times.
It's great up here. Viva la exploration!
Anyhow, I miss you all. Julie and Matt, congrats on the new baby! Can't wait to see him when I touch
down in 2010!
Love to everybody,
Capt. Frankdick
Hello Dear Friends,
It's that time of year again, the time when I send out my annual report on all things related to me,
Captain Franklin Dickerson, USAF. A lot has happened this year, but before I give you the rundown, I
wanted to tell all of you who have been living in caves or under rocks for the past 365 days that I am a
proud member of the crew of the International Space Station, and right now sailing around the big blue
globe at about 17,500 miles per hour. And I'm not even wearing a seatbelt!
In about an hour I have to help out on a spacewalk to install the brand new external motor for our brand
new internal refrigerator. My fellow astronauts and I are very excited about this. Yesterday we installed
a new toilet. I digress.
Anyhow, here goes! I decided to go month to month this time in the interest of chronology, just hitting
the high points. Hey, I'm a military man first.
Also: Hi, Mom! Hi, Grams! Hi, everybody else! Love you guys!
January:
I started hearing rumblings from the higher ups that NASA was looking to train new shuttle pilots, and
put my name in the hat. I was both apprehensive and excited. I'd flown a whole lot of big equipment
before - big bombers and the like - but never something as technologically involved or large as a
shuttle. But the idea of living my boyhood dream of being an astronaut was too great, and I pushed any
anxiety about the matter I had to the side. A few weeks later, towards the end of the month, I heard that
I was being considered for the position. Things were looking up - until February.
February:
The bitch left me.
You guys remember Sonia, right? If you suddenly turned retarded and forgot, she was the mother of my
three children who I'm no longer allowed to see because she told her smarmy Jew lawyer that I had
"rage" problems and was a "violent, abusive, womanizing drunk." I'm still convinced she and that shyster
were screwing. He's probably sleeping in my house right now, or wherever she hid herself and those
little rug rats from me.
Anyhow, I got my promotion to captain and accepted into the shuttle pilot training program, and it was
about time because I'd been bustin' my ass for years while I watched every mamby-pamby, mincy, little
kiss-ass around me soaring up the ranks like my beloved Voyager spacecraft taking off from Ol' Cape
Cav. Anyhow, this officially meant I had a chance at proving I had the so-called "right stuff" to be an
astronaut. Honestly, I don't see what the big deal is. They let broads, foreigners and botanists onto
space shuttles these days. Gone are the good old days of tough, tail-chasing test pilots with flat tops
and gnarled hands planting flags on the moon.
March:
I officially began my training at NASA orienting to the shuttle, also known (at least by me) as the "fat pig."
I swear, she handles like that portly chick I went home with on my twenty-first: bouncy and slow! You
remember that story, don't you, Great Aunt Sue? Member how her dad came home and I punched him
in the face and took his wallet, then ran out the front door?! Then remember how I used his credit cards
to pay for a thousand copies of the picture I took of his flabby teenage daughter in the nude and posted
them around town?! Ha! What a classic gag! That's the first time I used that one.
Ah, memories.
April:
April rocked for about a minute and a half when this totally hot little piece of ass named Regina started
training with the crew. She was a geologist, apparently studying space rocks or some crap like that.
She was supposed to conduct an experiment looking for some liberal bullshit like alternative fuel
sources. I didn't care. She was hot, so I gave her a little bit of the old Franklin Dickerson suaveness. I
rolled up to her one day after zero-G practice in the pool and told her I was happy to help her out of her
bathing suit... with my tongue. Then I flicked it at her to show her how fast I can do it, just like you
taught me, Grandma. She just scowled at me and, naturally, I figured she was a dyke.
I asked her if she was a carpet-muncher. She told me to buzz off, looking all disgusted. Then I asked if I
could get in on some of her hot girl-on-girl action. She proceeded to slap me, storm away and then act
all high and mighty; she wouldn't even talk to me for the whole next month. I wrote her a card saying I
was sorry that she was molested as a child (or something) and was afraid of what I had to offer. I
promised her I'd take it slow if she changed her mind and wanted a first-class ticket into my underpants.
No change. If anything, her rude behavior got even worse.
May:
I started my guerilla campaign of sabotage to get Regina back for being such a dried up snow queen. I
began stealing Regina's mail a few times a week, unbeknownst to her. (This gets good. Trust me.)
June:
I made sure to pick the right pieces of mail, ones that had just a bit of Regina's lesbo name showing on
them and wrote angry letters to the black members of the staff calling them darkies and saying they had
no place working anywhere near science except in the food service. I sent about thirty such letters in
total, over the course of a week, some more obviously from her than others.
July:
Speculation about the source of the letters was minimal. Everybody knew they were from Regina (even
though they weren't) after the first round, or so I overheard. Just to keep me in the clear, I put an ACLU
sticker on my locker. (Don't worry; I'll burn it some day, guys!) Some of the mucky-mucks confronted
Regina after we got off the high-G maneuver simulator. She denied having anything to do with it. I
pulled one of the darkest guys aside and told him to open Regina's locker. The guy (I don't even think
he's black. I'm pretty sure he's Indian, but whatever; close enough) demanded Regina open her locker
up for inspection. She gladly complied, figuring that would help her clear her good name. She didn't
know I grabbed some of the Nazi paraphernalia and literature I had laying around and plastered her
locker with it. Regina was kicked out of there quicker than I could say, "Auf Weidersehen." You should
have seen her face.
August:
Sonia called me to say that she was suing me for back child support payments. I told her to send her
checks care of the goddamn Man in the Moon because I was headed up to the big black on the tenth, a
few days later. I hear the process-server arrived a day after the launch, which was successful thanks to
my mastery of my (space) craft. Get it?
September:
The morons at Mission Control finally made the right call and asked me to stay up here at the station.
They said it's because they needed my experience fixing stuff, but I know it's because they want me to
make sure that creepy Russian commienaut, Yuri, doesn't sabotage the place, and to keep the hippie
scientists from turning the station into a big orgy inside an even bigger bong. I gladly accepted the invite
and have been watching Yuri like a hawk since. I figure he's the biggest threat. I keep a log of my
surveillance for good measure. Some of the other fag scientists think that I'm being paranoid, and have
told me to take it easy. I don't even bother explaining myself to them (just like you taught me, Mom). I
just steal their toothbrushes when they're asleep and use them to clean the vacuum nozzle in the latrine
(just like you taught me, Mom).
October:
I started oiling my forty-five automatic in front of Yuri so he knows not to mess with this representative
of the good old US of Asskicking. I know I'm not technically supposed to have a gun up here... NOT!
Okay, well, yeah; technically I'm not supposed to have it up here, but you can have my gun when you
pry it out of my cold, dead hands! I'm the only law up here when you think about it, so I make sure I
keep people in check when they spend too much time in the can or at the exercise station. I basically
volunteered for this position, which I invented, meaning I don't get paid. I make up for it in an extra meal
or two out of the new fridge when nobody is looking. Also, I go on quite a few panty-raids.
November:
The frickin' anti-christ got elected to lead us all into certain death at the hands of terrorists. I ain't even
gonna talk about this anymore, because it makes my IBS flare up.
December:
I've gotten the death-farts, big time. I could change my diet up and that'd probably help. But I'm going
double beans instead because it's just so much fun to make the prissy scientists and the commienauts
float away quickly holding their undershirts over their noses.
Yuri, who thinks he's tough because he grew up in the pit of evil, keeps telling me to go to the other
side of the space station - which I call "The Fartbox" because it's funny - when I gotta blast one.
Instead, I generally float silently up behind him, drop jumpsuit and then cough. That makes him turn
around, face right at ass level. Then... BAAAAAAAM!
After I blow him away, he looks at me mean as hell with them beady little commie eyes, but I keep
Gracie (the forty-five) on my hip and just give her a little pat. Then I laugh at him and go lay one on his
pillow for good measure. He hasn't figured out I do that yet. Can't wait until he does and starts yelling at
me all red-faced with his weird accent. Ah, good times.
It's great up here. Viva la exploration!
Anyhow, I miss you all. Julie and Matt, congrats on the new baby! Can't wait to see him when I touch
down in 2010!
Love to everybody,
Capt. Frankdick
| From left to right: Yuri; me about to blast a foul one; some gay weather guy. |
