Friday, April 24, 2009
Are you too cocky, arrogant, and shit-eating full of yourself to be an air force fighter pilot? Are you more into your own ass than Tom Cruise looking at himself in a gold-plated mirror? Do you have an impossibly square jaw, rock-hard gonads, and a science-based PhD? Then NASA is waiting for your call.
If you are chosen, if you are found to have the right stuff, a specially trained team of spaceman fluffers will massage your swollen ego, spin you round till you hurl, massage your inflamed ego some more, prep you to do lots of pointless experiments in zero-gravity, stroke your red, angry ego one last time, and then strap you to the top of a big tube filled to the brim with highly combustible liquids and gas.
Then they'll light the blue touch paper and retreat a safe distance, just in case something goes pop prematurely or your head swells to the point where it endangers physics.
And the one thing they won't do? Admit that a machine could do every space thing you can do, but do it better, do it cheaper, and do it without being such an insufferable, self-satisfied dickflap.