Some say he once stapled a piece of meat to his forehead, and that for a short period of time back in the early noughties he ran around the city throwing eggs at cats...

All we know is, he's called MadMikeMarsbergen...

"Hey, MadMike—long-time admirer, first time writing you. I've been offered the choice of joining the crew of the USS Something Dirty. They say Earth will become uninhabitable sometime within the next 100 years. However, the pamphlet I was given warned me that there is a 70% chance I won't survive the voyage, whether that be due to the freezing, or some kind of spaceship malfunction. What I really want in life is to not die. Can you tell me which choice means I will not die? Thanks."

—Tim D.

Listen, Tim D'Sponge, I'll go easy on you because you're obviously a bit soft and malleable in the Skull Department. Death is inevitable. No matter which choice you make you're guaranteed to die at some point. I suspect you in particular are at a higher risk of dying young because, let's face it, your need of advice in this situation doesn't exactly bring to mind the next Einstein or even surprise child prodigies like those Kardashian-Wests. Did you or your mother ever drink bleach thinking it was lemonade, by any chance? If you want me to tell you what to do: Go on the spaceship. You'll probably fall into the laundry machine, or something. At the very least you'll be off Earth and I won't need to worry about driving on the same roads as you. And by the way, I've read that pamphlet and it actually said you have a 0.7% chance of dying, but that was in general. Your own chances are probably around 95%. Oh, and thanks for being a fan! Keep reading, True Believer! Much love!

"There's know way I'm dumb enough to sign up for a chamber on one of those ships. That global warming/sun expanding shit is bogus, buddy. They new it back in the early 21st century, and we no it now too. Just an attempt to take people out into space and kill them off, like the population control "accidental Ebola mutation" back in 2104. Everybody noes that you don't wake up from cryptogenetic freezing. Even my coworker Tim, and he is a dumbass. All I need is a shack out in the middle of nowhere, a big shotgun to fend off the crazy and a big wife to cook and clean for me. Fuck off, gubberment."

—S. Richards

Hello, Mr. Know-It-All-Who-Can't-Spell. I was wondering when we'd be hearing from you. Unfortunately—or fortunately, now that I think about it—you're grossly misinformed. Since the generation ship in question is heading to a new world for colonization purposes, I think you've done a noble deed in abstaining from the trip. Future generations on that far-away world will no doubt look back on the life of "S. Richards" and honour you with a constantly vandalized statue, maybe name a new species of carp (or is that crap?) after you, and possibly create a flavour of gum called S. Richards that leaves an increasingly bad taste in your mouth the more you chew it. And I think Tim is smarter than you—he's at least less of a harm to others than you are. I'm guessing this "big wife" you dream about is actually your mother, you inbred mountain man. Maybe take that shotgun and fend off your own crazy, freak. Be sure to write me next month!

"yeah um... if my girlfreind is cryogenetically freezed on a generator ship... can i still bang her???"

—Dick Burns, Esq., Attorney at Law

Sure you could, Dick, but then you'd have a serious case of the "burns"—get it? More importantly, unless you two have discussed this sort of thing in advance, banging your girlfriend while she is in a state of cryogenic slumber would generally be classified as rape, thanks to the Galactic Women's Act of 2169. If you were really a lawyer from the future, you would know that, Dick. But I suspect you're not. I also suspect you don't even have a girlfriend to assault. So maybe dip your hand in liquid nitrogen and have your way with yourself, okay? I've already alerted the proper authorities, so keep an ear out for a knock at your door.

The fucking crazies I have writing me letters...

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Have you got some Mad Mail for Mad Mike? Our next issue is GothPunk, 'troopers, so think about that, and think about all of those questions you want answering...