Dead Cosmonaut Weighs in on NASA Drinking Scandal

Is not wrong have brewski or bottle of vodka before climb rocket for space. “Bottle of vodka is too much comrade, how you steer rocket in orbit?” you say. No, not too much. After drink to country, drink to mission, drink to children, drink to wife, drink to ex-wife, drink to other ex-wife, and drink to mistress, entire bottle is gone. Drink before flight is good luck. How you have good mission otherwise?

Yes, I have few drink before accidentally steer rocket into East German communications satellite. Ah, but is from bottle of vodka I drink in orbit, not before launch. Hangover before launch is good think. Means pay attention to Premier Khrushchev instructions. Otherwise, he throw shoe at you. I see this happen to many comrade of mine.

Fly space mission is noble profession. One with many, many advantage. Honor for country. Fame. Macho brag rights. Cosmonaut is one of most dangerous professions in entire world today. If not afraid of blowing up in rusty Soviet rocket, then what else I not afraid of, Comrade? Maybe this why no one ever fight me in Vladivostok bar when I break off beer bottle on table after young revolutionary talks bad things about Mother Russia. U.S. Cosmonaut, like, me are “space bad-ass.” Perhaps American flight surgeons simply jealous that they are not “space bad-ass” too, no?

Dead Pizza Delivery Boy: the best way to go

Who knew? When they named it "Dead Man's Curve," they really meant it.

Like prison, heaven is an oddly backwards world. In The Great Beyond, how you bit the dust largely determines whether you'll have dust kicked in your face. I once told Abe Lincoln how I died and he said, "Oh, how quaint." Thanks a lot, Abe. Way to be a leader.

Here's a little summary of the pecking order in heaven. Victims of high profile tragedies like the Titanic, the Hindenburg, the Challenger are top dogs. Whereas other people, pizza delivery boys for example, aren't given the time of day for making their mid-80's Hondas one with an oak tree in the noble pursuit of a $1.50 tip--all so some other sorry dude has a pepperoni and sausage pizza at his bachelor party before the stripper gets there.

So, how do I feel about dying in the name of Domino's deep dish? Honestly, pretty good. I've been able to make friends with some heart attack victims (a.k.a my former customers) who don't get much respect either.

Death isn't delivery, it's Dijorno.

Honest Abe: Not So Honest.

I strongly suggest all you bloody Yankee wankers take a closer look at your tragically ill-fated 16th president. That's right, Yanks, Abe Lincoln. The savior of your blessed Union. Before you tell me to go to hell, hear me out. It ain't like I'm criticizing Mother Theresa, mate. And I wouldn't anyway. Because Mother Theresa don't break in line at the salad bar. Mother Theresa don't steal the last three croutons when you ask nicely to share them. Mother Theresa don't spill Russian dressing on your tailored suit. The bloody thing's shrunk from the seawater. It's the only one I've got.

But ain't this heaven, mate? Don't my suit miraculously clean itself? No. Heaven ain't like you think. At all.

'Cause heaven, mate, feels a lot like hell sometimes. Oh, bad pun? Annoys you, does it? Try talking to someone who starts every sentence with "Four score, and seven years ago..." Or having a peaceful dinner ruined when he stands up and starts debating some damn bloke called Douglas about which side his bread his buttered on or salad forks.

But it don't stop in the cafeteria, mate, no.

He's stolen my top hat off the rack 17 times, by my count.

I've heard him tell conflicting stories to history professors.

And he cheats at gin rummy.



Cheers yanks,


Anonymous Titanic Victim.

St. Peter

The recently deceased keep bugging me about Tupac. Where’s Tupac? Who killed him? Is he with Biggie? Is he coming out with another posthumous album? Truth is, I don’t know what he's doing. I just work the door.

St. Peter