I Tried to Sell My House to Spider-Man But He Didn’t Like the Paint

Citizens, the neat thing about space is there’s so much of it. There’s room for lots of different planets – the planet of the grapes, the planet of the people with eyes on the ends of their toes, the planet of hot babes that are actually a form of fungus which rots your spine, the planet of four-sided triangles, the planet where sheep are green and everything else is the same but a little higher in copper content, the planet of stuff too big to fit in a shoebox except if you cram it a little, the planet where reality TV is a capital offense unless it involves coeds wearing bikinis and oiling up to punch insurance executives in the junk, the planet where bananas taste kind of soapy, the planet of nothing but cilantro, the planet of flying zombie vampire clams, the planet where cats give a crap what you think, the planet of free iPods just for signing up for satellite TV, the planet where Tuesday never comes, the planet where Tuesday smokes a cigarette all the time but has to get up early the next day, the planet where Jodie Foster is President for Life, the planet where you can actually play guitar semi-decently but you have to wear a really cheesy mustache that makes you look like a pervert from the Seventies who’s into key parties, nude surfing, and anatomically correct Barbies, the planet where lava lamps never went out of style and it’s fondue for supper every fucking goddamn night so help me I will kill myself swear to God kill myself if I have to eat one more motherfucking ham chunk dipped in motherfucking cheese, the planet where all disputes are settled by breakdancing and lawyers have to be super-limber, the planet where Bob Dylan sings like Jimi Hendrix and Jimi Hendrix owns General Motors, the planet where radio channels start at 1 and go to 100 but most of them feature Paul Harvey reading selections from the Marquis de Sade, the planet where sandpaper contains tiny fragments of baby armadillo teeth, the planet where skyscrapers are against the law because they just painted the sky dammit, the planet where you can get a new body any time you want for only four or five dollars but if you have sex it voids the warranty and you have to go back to your old body which will most likely be in a landfill with all the other uggos, the planet where Clark Kent is a major asshole and laughs at your puny attempts to resist his tyranny before giving you the Great-Great-Grandmother of All Wedgies, the planet where men wear shock collars, baby oil, and Speedos and women sip espresso from dainty cups made from bronzed tortoise eggs while their men lap water from cheap paper bowls, the planet where Jimmy Page learned accordion instead of guitar and lived a quiet life in Shitswell-on-Straddle, the planet where no one references breadboxes by way of size comparisons, the planet of purple-pleated plummy pointy-pated pundits, the planet where the word “ampersand” is so erotic that you should be on contraceptives before you even think it, the planet where envelope-lickers and convenience store clerks make several times more than professional athletes but are scorned for their crass materialism, and of course the planet where nothing ever tastes like chicken.