CAPTAIN'S log, Stardate 7112.8. The USS Something Dirty has departed on its four-hundred-million-year journey to what might be an Earthlike planet of the Goldilocks-zone variety. Our top scientists aren't quite sure, seeing as how our telescopes can't see that far. I suppose we'll know when we get there. Most of the crew is already bunkered down in their cryopods, and I myself will join them—once I finish off this log and clear my bowels. Cryostatic turds are a real pain in the ass to pass, literally. I sincerely hope this world we are travelling to is a good one. I would really hate to wake up my four-hundred-million-years-older crew just to tell them we've got to go back home. I suppose we'll see when we get there. Captain Earl L. Greytea out.

---

THE USS Something Dirty sped through the empty void that was space. Traveling at 0.89c (that's the symbol for light speed, numpty) and shaped with phallic architecture in mind, it was quite the sight for any gawking extraterrestrial life. And I assure you, there were plenty. They looked up, saw the cylindrical shaft penetrating their skies, powered by two circular thrusters (one on each side, near the back end of the ship) and burst into laughter. They laughed and rolled around on the ground with their fingers raised to the hilarious spacecraft until the female members of their race came out of their huts and slapped them, before making them go back to work. It was hard being a male member of the Devilicious species.

If the crew had been awake, they could have stopped their ship quite happily at any of these inhabited systems, but alas, they were hibernating, so they did not. Which was a real shame, too, as the engineers from Earth had actually gotten the destination planet's coordinates wrong, so they were really just heading for a barren part of space, only occupied by a few lonely asteroids, a frozen Donald Trump, and a rogue Walmart—which would probably be out of business from lack of customers by the time they got there, anyway.

While the crew were hibernating, two members were not. Well, they were still "hibernating," suuure. But together.

If... you know what I mean.

Banging noises could be heard coming from one of the cryopods.

"Fuck no, Jonesy! Not in there, ya shy-cocked dimwit... Put it in here."

"In there!? I do say, Madam Kris... Are you even allowed to put it in there?"

"UGGGGGGH! YESSSSSSSS! JONESY! YEEEEEESSSSS!!!"

"It's getting a bit dry, Kris."

"SPIT ON IT!"

"Is that hygienic, milady? I would hate to need a doctor—"

"JUST DO IT B'FORE I CHANGE MY MIND 'N' WAKE UP SMITH INSTEAD!"

"H-Have you done this before, Kris, dear?"

"WITH EVERY GUY I MEET!"

"Oh, ugh. I— I think we'd better st—"

"GRAB MY TITS 'N' HOLD 'EM LIKE THEY'RE HANDLES!"

A sigh. "Yes, milady."

On one side of the cryopod of horrors, Smith was on the ground, rocking on his buttocks with his thumb in his mouth, clearly distressed by the sounds. And who wouldn't be?

Boogaloo, obviously, as he sat on the other side of the cryopod, taking care of business with a deeper kind of fury. If he wore pants, they'd be down at the ankles of his back legs.

A high-pitched scream from the cryopod: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"That's all ya got? Well, I'm glad ya enjoyed yerself, Jonesy." The pod opened and Kris stepped out, a little shaky on her feet. "Ain't nothin' quite like gettin' back-doored in a Generation Ship cryopod— Oh, hey, Smithy."

"Hee-ee-y, Kr—" Smith stuttered, seemingly incapable of forming proper sentences after the horrors he had just been witness to. "He— Hey, Kri-is.""The hell's wrong with ya, Smithy?""Oh, I—" Smith swallowed bile. "I— Wa— Was just wonder— Wondering what l-loo-loop we were i-in."

"Ain't ya hear me? I said I was gettin' back-doored in Generation Ship."

"I—" Smith's stomach protested. "I need to use the men's room." He jumped to his feet and sprinted off down the hallway.

"Oh dear," said Jones, coming out and readjusting his pantaloons. "He doesn't seem too well. Maybe I should follow."

"Give yer thing a good wash!" Kris shouted after him. She felt a tail brushing against her legs and saw Boogaloo at her feet, purring and seeming extra-happier with her than normal. "Howdy, Boogie. How ya likin' the Gen-Ship?"

"Not one thought of murdering you all," Boogaloo purred matter-of-factly.

Evidently the ship was a good fit for the finicky, sometimes-psychopathic Bingleboo mind.

"Where's H'ver?" Kris asked, moving from pod to pod, wiping the condensation from the glass to peer inside. She saw a lot of frozen human faces, but no robots. She hoped he wasn't trapped inside—

And then she found him. His lights were off.

---

SMITH & Jones heard Kris' scream and came rushing back to the pods with their pistols drawn. Scratch that—phasers drawn; after all, this was Generation Ship.

"Oh, Smith, Jones! Fuck!" She slammed her fist against one of the pods. "H'ver's trapped inside this fuckin' thing, 'n' he ain't movin'! I think he's dead, y'all."

The two men rushed over.

Smith tried to find a button to push, or a clamp to undo, or something.

Jones jammed his fingers into his ears and shouted, "LA-LA-LA-LA-LA!"

Jumping up onto the pod, Boogaloo prowled up and down its length. He smacked a touchpad and chilly vapour streamed out as the cryopod opened, jumping down so Kris could speed the process along with some muscle.

By all appearances, H'ver—the Housewife's Dream—was dead. Normally he'd be crapping out warm, gooey muffins and shooting freshly baked bread from his head. Now he just lay there, doing nothing.

"H'ver! Wake the fuck up, bud!" Kris shouted, shaking the robot.

"Perhaps if we remove him from the unit?" Smith suggested. Crises always gave him a good kick in the rear. "Give me a hand, Jones."

They needed Kris and Boogaloo, too, as H'ver seemed to weigh over five hundred pounds when frozen.

"What about mouth-to-mouth?" Boogaloo asked, feeling hopeful he'd get to fulfill yet another voyeuristic fantasy involving Kris.

Today was his lucky day.

"Good idea!" Kris said. She tried to find the robot's mouth to breathe into.

But it didn't seem to work.

And there, through the window, a bright white light was coming, charging towards the ship, travelling across space like a deluge of dust or water.

"We're runnin' outta fuckin' time, boys!" she shouted, giving her rear a spank out of nervous habit.

Jones realized the cryostasis room had a constant hum to it. Now, he wasn't exactly sure what electricity was—he suspected it had something to do with tiny, invisible-to-the-eye demons with pitchforks—but the hum made him think of electricity. "Question, gang: Do robots like our good friend H'ver here—"

"Spit it the fuck out, Jonesy!"

"Electricity," sulked Jones.

"Ya fuckin' genius. Smith, give H'ver a blast with yer phaser. Maybe try it to his toaster. Go!"

Smith shrugged—he was already dead—and shot H'ver with his nifty little gun. A golden beam of something—energy, but Smith didn't know what that was—fired out and entered H'ver's toaster holes. There was a faint smell of burnt eggs. A rainbow of lights flickered on the robot's eye screens, then green dollar signs, red pentagrams and yellow pyramids. Finally his normal eye lights appeared.

"Oh, deary me," H'ver said, sitting up. "I did have the strangest dream. You were there," he said to Kris. "And you were there, too," to Boogaloo. "Oh, and you and you," to Smith & Jones.

"Great to have ya the fuck back," Kris managed to spit out—and she meant it, too—before the white light reached the USS Something Dirty and took them all away.