Canto Twenty-One – In the Wreckage
The repaired anti-gravity coils were not one hundred per cent successful. The station whirled to the surface of the planet in a flaming spiral that scattered red-hot sparks throughout the dirty brown clouds that made Galtorr’s atmosphere nearly solid. The impact cracked the seal between the station and the space ship that had impaled it. Smoke and toxic atmosphere rushed in.
“Ah! The air stinks!” cried Menolly.
“The hostile environment suits!” cried Tanith. “Get them on!”
Everyone obeyed as quickly as they could peel themselves off the floor. Alden and Gracie had trouble with the helmets since they were designed for beings with a head fin on their heads. Brekka’s suit was almost too tight to put on. She had to wriggle, pull, and squeal to get it on. But when it was on and all she had to do was push a button to make it fit properly, she didn’t push it. Davalon wasn’t exactly sure why, but he did notice her admiring the reflection of her shapely behind in a piece of interior chrome.
“What do we do now?” asked George Jetson. He turned his helmeted eyes toward the intercom that had been their connection to Sizzahl. “Sizzahl? Are you still there?”
“Of course I am. I’m not the one crashing through the atmosphere. How many of you died? Are the Earthers okay?”
“Is anybody dead?” George asked. “Speak up if you’re dead!”
“We’re all okay,” said Tanith. “I already counted all the survivors. All seven of us made it into environment suits.”
“So, we’re all here. What do we do next, Sizzahl?” Davalon asked the intercom.
“I need live plants. Round up every live plant on the station and bring it to me.”
“Where do we find you?” asked George Jetson.
“Well, I need to have you tune your communicators into the intercom broadcast so I can talk to you and guide you. This dome I am in is hidden well. You will need to follow my directions very carefully to find me without guiding scabbies to my sanctuary.”
“Er…” said Menolly, “what are scabbies? That doesn’t sound good.”
“There’s a movie called Night of the Living Dead, the Galtorrians’ favorite Earther movie, do you know it?”
“No.” They were all quiet, but Davalon wondered what Alden was thinking. He seemed to have heard of the movie.
“In the movie, dead people crawl out of their graves and eat the living people,” Sizzahl explained. “That’s a little bit like the scabbies. They are diseased, and they attack and eat anything they can get their rotten claws on.”
“Oh, no!” Menolly fainted and her metallic helmet clunked against the floor of the station.
“Don’t worry. If you can get here without being discovered by them, I am well protected here. I am looking forward to having you here. I’ve been alone for a very long time.”
“We are coming, Sizzahl,” said Tanith. “Tell us how to tune our com units.”
As Sizzahl explained, Davalon looked at the plants the Galtorrian wanted. They were rather browned and blighted. He wasn’t sure they were really what Sizzahl wanted. Still, gathering up the plants was not too much for her to ask. After all, she had saved all of their lives. By rights, Davalon and his crew of truants should all have died already for their mistakes.
*****
Catch a Falling Star 
Doom is Imminent, It’s Time to Sing!
Yessir, the Cubs have a chance to win their first World Series since 1908 tonight. They have not won the title since Tinker to Evers to Chance was the double-play combo of poetic proportions. They have never won in my lifetime, and I am quite old. So, there is proof positive the world is about to end.
Yes, I can even describe the mechanics of the thing. Donald Trump will be elected President of the United States thanks to Mr. Comey’s timely reveal of more scandalous emails that he has not read and chuckled about yet. You know, the ones that he couldn’t have actually read yet because they come from potential pedophile Anthony Weiner’s computer, and he had to have a separate warrant from a judge to read anything that may have to do with Hillary, even though probably none of them contain nude pictures from Hillary, and she probably didn’t even write those emails. The world had to know about that right before the election, especially members of the Republican House Committee for examining Hillary’s every boo-boo. So, the Donald will win, because nobody is doing any press conferences on the FBI investigation on his ties to the Russian government through the biggest bank in Russia. ‘Taint important, Pogo.
And once the great orange pumpkin-head is our next president, our health care will no longer be under the misguided protection of Obamacare. Instead, it will will be taken care of by “something terrific” that will make high profits for somebody, and make certain that I will never be able to pay another medical bill (since those who are deceased rarely do).
And, of course, President Pompadoodle will be able to declare that we no longer have to believe in the climate change hoax. The result being that we will soon be able to buy beachfront property in Iowa and Missouri, be able to purchase our breathable air in factory-made brick-form, and possibly grow a helpful third eye from the mutating effects of nuclear radiation.
And, lastly, I would like to thank the late great Walt Kelly for illustrating today’s post. One wonders how a cartoonist can look so far ahead from the 1960’s to do such a fine job of illustrating the problems of 2016? Will miracles never cease? I mean, really, we could probably do with a few less of these industrial grade miracles made out of recycled elephant poop.
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Tagged as Chicago Cubs, Donald Trump, doom, end of the world, Hillary Clinton, humor, politics, satire, Walt Kelly