Written by Vlad D.M. Paylaw
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Monday, 16 September 2013

Some ten weeks ago, Dr. Astro Blasta (Ph.D., C2H5OH) proposed that NASA build a giant spaceship to send all of our planet's telemarketers to a distant world whose inhabitants might actually welcome them.

President Barragh O'Bama encouraged Dr. Blasta to study the idea further, and present some funding estimates to Congress.

On Friday 13, Dr. Blasta appeared before the house to make his pitch for a preliminary funding commitment. Rather than being accompanied by an intern and a computer projector, Dr. Blasta was accompanied by Juilliard-trained turntable-ist Funkmasta Tone-Def-yo, who proceeded to set up a motley assortment of turntables, amplifiers and speakers.

Once the inimitable Funkmasta had set up his equipment and found his groove, Dr. Blasta broke into the following rap:


My name is Astro Blasta;
I'm the Masta at NASA!
You think that Russki Soyuz posse
flyin' higher or faster?
FOOL!

Me and my homeys are cool!
We been to rocketry school
and now da supacomputa
be our favourite tool.

Don't need no pow-a-point
fo' to rock this joint
'cuz when we rap out our proposal
we know you won't disappoint.

We need a couple o' trill
to pay an upcoming bill
an' if da Democrats won't cut da cheque
Republicans will.

Gonna build a starship, and here's what's really whack:
Telemarketers gon' be on board, and won't be comin' back!



Once the cheering, fist-humping and break-dancing subsided, representatives unanimously agreed to fund further research into the design of Dr. Blasta's proposed starship.

At the close of proceedings, President O'Bama asked Dr. Blasta to join him and his family for dinner. Dr. Blasta declined on the grounds that he was scheduled to meet with a delegation of Italy's top scientists at the Italian embassy. His exact words were:


Talk to y'all afta
'cuz Astro Blasta, da masta o' NASA
hasta eat pasta
wit' de Italian ambass'da.

President O'Bama had no reply, but only cradled his head in his hands and whimpered unintelligibly.

At this point his wife, Nichelle Nichols-O'Bama, walked in and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Migraines again?"

"Yeah."

"Poor dear!"

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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