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March 02, 2016
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No love for Stallone makes this ET wanna phone home.

‘Sup, soil-suckers?! It’s your favorite rocket-jockey here, Commander Scott Kelly of the International Space Station, fresh off my YEAR IN SPACE, BABY! Woo! They said that being in orbit that long would make me so crazy I’d start smearing my own shit on the walls, but I am proud to say that it only happened twice.

Yeah, it’s all over now. I tore the atmosphere a shiny new asshole and landed somewhere in Kazakhstan (not my first choice, believe me) just last night and boy, am I glad to be home. Or at least I was glad until I found out about the bullshit that went down on Sunday night when my boy Sly Stallone was fucking robbed at the Oscars! I mean, what the fuck gives, Earth?! You guys can’t give it up for Rocky?! Rocky at his subtlest, yet most raw?!

I may have just returned from 340 days in space and the horribly deteriorating effects my mission had on my mind and body may not be fully known, but guess what? No love for Stallone makes this ET wanna phone home.

Yeah, you heard right. I am hereby officially requesting that NASA blast my ass back into space for good. I don’t want to live on a planet where over forty years of dedication to one of film’s most beloved underdogs gets overlooked by a bunch of snide, unfeeling Hollywood ass-hats.

But maybe there is no escape from these fuckers now. The success of this mission nudges humanity even closer to interplanetary travel, which means I spent a year of my life trapped in giant Red Bull can, drinking my own filtered piss, growing a bunch of dumb ‘lil plants (not a one of which are that herb, mind you), listening to some Ruskie drone on and on about what to look for in a good farm horse, and jacking off into a Ziploc bag so that an organism that doesn’t know a best supporting performance when it literally punches it in the goddamn face can spread through the galaxy like some plague. The thought makes me wanna spout fuckin’ chunks.

So get a light a fuse under me and let’s do this, you fucking thick-rimmed dweebs. I don’t care where you send me. I just want to get as far away from this spinning wad of hot garbage crawling with the kind of shit-brained trolls that are apparently unmoved by a pitch-perfect portrayal of grit and perseverance as I can

Hell, maybe if I just float out there long enough I’ll encounter life! I just hope it’s “intelligent“ enough to know when to give a living fucking legend a victory lap. Christ.

I’m looking to get going ASAP, but Mr. Stallone, if you’re reading this, I’m saving a seat for you. If you want, I can take you somewhere you’ll finally be appreciated. We can make even make more Rocky movies! I may not be much of an actor, but you’ve got enough chops for the two of us. And it would be an honor to have a record of you whooping my ass in zero gravity.

Plus, the Earth looks beautiful from space, Sly. That high up, you can’t make out the all the fucking know-nothing jack-offs.

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