The International Space Station is an absolute majesty in the realm of scientific achievement. No jokes, no snark, not here, no ma’am. I’m very sincerely awestruck by its mere existence, man! And I hope that you are too, comfortable here, at home, planetside, if you will, while at the time of this writing, six human-ass beings are flying miles above your head, floating in the ether, just chillin’. It’s mesmerizing. We need more of that kind of magic in our lives.
But this is not a science journal, and this is not a wistful poem. This is Das Brütal Hammer. And we’re talking about business, fellas, business. Yeah, oh yeah, yeah… we’re talking about some needs.
What needs? You know what needs. And we’re not making this particular concept up. According to the cosmonaut Georgy Grechko,
“In orbit, people have a very difficult emotional state. If before sleep, the guys drink 5–7 grams of cognac, I support it. On board we had a tube with 125 grams of cognac which said “coffee.”
So, play along, why don’t you? Let’s insert ourselves into this awesome scenario. Join me, and let’s get our rigouts ready to slip the surly bonds of earth, and render some terminal punches to the orbital, metaphorical nuts of God.
Anyway, I dunno about you, but here’s what I’m taking into space with me for my six-month mission. I can only hope that Mission Control is prepared to send refills eventually.
(As an aside, this is my realistic list. As much as I’d like to imagine that NASA would rend the earth and sea to make sure I left this particular mortal coil with nothing but Johnnie Walker Blue and Pappy Van Winkle, the reality is that I’m probably footing the bill. So goes bureaucracy.)
The Offworld Loadout of Ace Astronaut Sarah “Gonzo” Szabo, Boozehound
• Rittenhouse Rye 25 year (1 liter)
• Wild Turkey 101; the rye if you’ve got it handy, Houston
• Evan Williams Black Label Bourbon (I’m very salt of the earth, and also, for the money, this is the best damn bourbon you can buy. Fight me about it. Oh wait, hahar hah, I’m in space.)
• Two cases of Stroh’s (and hey, fuck you, I like Stroh’s)
• 1/2 oz Sour Diesel
• 1/2 oz Blue Dream
• A pack of Djarum Blacks (again, fuck you, I only smoke for the taste)
• A 12-pack of Tab soda
• And don’t forget the goddamn ice!
And as miscellaneous items, a shirt, some shorts, my Chucks, my headphones, like six hundred books on a tablet thing, and some Skittles.
What are you taking into space? I’m curious. Let me know in the comments. And then maybe we’ll decide who’s got the dopest mission.
To Infinity, Where No Small Step for Man Has Gone Before. *hiccup*.
A fair and difficult question. Since I really don’t feel like having to pay the extraordinary cost to haul my hooch up there myself, I figured I would make it weight-neutral, so I’d have my legs removed. Figuring that my legs are probably around 1/3 of my weight, that would give me about 56 pounds to work with. It’s space–why would I need legs? They’d just flail and hit buttons. Important buttons. Gravely important buttons. So I did the math, and I could (without incurring additional fuel costs) take 10 bottles of Glen Morangie’s 12yr Quinta Ruban to honor the heights (metaphor intended) of scotch crafting, a gallon of home-made shine (to honor our low-tech roots), and a case of Schmidt (the brew that grew with the great Northwest, plus it has pictures of animals on it, and I’d miss them). That should be a fitting tribute to how far we have come as a species, plus the shine would help me forget how much it will suck to not have legs anymore. Priorities are priorities, though.
See you at the launch pad.