Drama is brewing among the Podtestants, and we hear from some more of our lovely (fake) advertisers.

MFX:    Return from commercials cue 

HOSTBEING:    Welcome back, to HotYach—HotPod. The podtestants, crammed into a single-being escape pod with the productionbot staff, are coming to terms with their new reality. But will party-boy C’Thad and the Captain upset the delicate balance? Let’s find out…

MFX:    Confessionals music cue

CONTESSA:    I cannot imagine anything more gauche than the behavior of some of the beings on this pod. Firstly, the conditions across the pod are positively intolerable. The entire thing could fit in my smallest shoes closest, for one, and I have to say the types of people allowed onboard are objectionable to say the least. Captain Hedley is such a disappointment. I mean, you expect an officer to comport himself with some kind of dignity; all this buffoon can do is tell everyone over and over that the collision wasn’t his fault, as if anyone can understand him. I’ve never met a man before who can only talk with his mouth full. And anyway, the collision was days ago. The production company is going to cover it all up any—

SFX 1:    Medium length censorship beep.

CONTESSA:    —and of course, who would expect them to respond to accusations like that from the riff-raff. Some people never get the chance to die in a horrific luxury space yacht explosion and these families think they’re justified in bringing some kind of law—

SFX 2:    Very long censorship beep

CONTESSA:    —into oblivion. And rightly so! 

MFX:    End Confessionals music cue

JAHN:    Captain? Captain?

NERF:    He’s not here. He’s…somewhere else.

JAHN:    Captain, there are only two room spaces aboard this escape pod and my photoreceptors do not perceive you in this one. I mean my eyes. My normal, not-compound eyes.

NERF:    There’s no captain in here. And if there were, he wouldn’t have any ice cream. [Nerf realizes he is in fact out of ice cream] He wouldn’t…have…any…ice cream…

JAHN:    There is some kind of lactose concoction emerging from the bottom of the door. 

NERF:    It wasn’t my fault!

JAHN:    Is C’Thad in there?

CONTESSA:    No, he isn’t. Just our so-called captain drowning his pathetic sorrows in Madeline MooCow.

JAHN:    I have not met this Madeline MooCow. Is Madeline MooCow also a human?

CONTESSA:    She’s an…entrepreneur. 

JAHN:    And that is not a human?

CONTESSA:    Correct.

JAHN:    Then I am not an entrepreneur, because I am definitely a normal human who is good at making friends.

CONTESSA:    You’re so charming, Mr. Smythe. I could talk to you all day.

JAHN:    Yes, using your verbal communication organs, just like I do! Jahn Smythe!

MFX:                Confessionals music cue

JAHN SMYTHE:    Hello there! It’s me, Jahn Smythe, the normal human. I am enjoying Hot Pod very much. The Contessa said I was a Darcy and I think that is a compliment. She has no body which is strange, but if I was not a normal human like I am now, I think my body would be unfathomably large enough for the two of us to share. I do not know what a lower class is but she says everyone on this ship is one, so I think that is also a compliment. I have never been lower class before. I like it a lot.

    I asked The Contessa if she would want to lay her eyes on the entirety of my form and she started behaving very strangely. She made some sounds of amusement. This embarrassed me.

    The Captain has been digesting and releasing liquid excrement from his eyes in what I believe is the sad fashion. Not even my “there, theres” are enough to stop him. I am at a loss. I want to embrace him with my large tentacles to give him comfort, but I do not have tentacles. I am John Smythe, a human. I asked him as well if he would like to gaze upon my naked form, and he also started behaving very strangely. “I have never been with a man before,” he said, “but maybe this is what will make me happy again.” I asked him what that meant and he got very quiet and stared out the window again. I do not think even he knows what a “man” is and that makes me feel better. I am a human, not a man.

    I miss C’Thad. I have not seen him in a while. I wanted to ask him if he would be interested in gazing upon my form. If I am going to finally reveal my true inner self, I want C’Thad to be there. He is my hero. I will devote many lives to him in the future I think.

HOSTBEING:    But the HotPod podtestants are about to discover major trouble on the event-horizon. 

MFX:    Confessionals music cue

CTHAD:    Okay, so, I got tight news and whack news.  Whack news first, I guess.  The food and alcohol are all gone.  I guess Captain Whiny Pants had a sad binge on the munchables.  My guy is store brand AF.  The alcohol, well, I don’t mean to brag, but I absorbed about half and then yeeted the other half into the computer so it would get all short circuity and the Rich Lady Ghost would freak out.  It was legit the most name brand prank I have pulled so far.  Oh, snap, that brings me to the tight news.  I finally thought up the most epic prank ever.  Okay, check it. Since there’s no room in the shuttle, everyone records their confessionals in this space suit, right?  So I took everyone’s socks and shoes and threw them out the garbage chute.  After I finish this piece, I’mma act like I’m done, then squish down into the boot so the next person who comes in here sticks their bare foot down on me and like, I don’t mean to brag, but I’m hella slimy.  It’s kind of my thing.  Then when they’re all like, “eww, gross,” I’mma be like, “That’s one for the funny papers!” Hilarious, right?  Send it.

MFX:    Confessionals music cue

CONTESSA:    Again, I cannot bring myself even to address that Chathad being and his so-called catchphrases. He never repeats the phrase, just says, “Boom, catchphrase” at apparently random intervals. 

    That divine Mr. Smythe engaged me in conversation this afternoon while I was having holo-tea on the main console. I must say again what a sparkling conversationalist he is. We expounded the entire afternoon on the subject of tentacles—such an exhilarating topic; I would never have thought so. He is quite educated, you know. Oxford, I assume—you can always tell. Good breeding, that’s what it is, and it shows. 

    I wonder if he’s related to the Covington-Smythes from Dorsetshire. You know, Monica Covington-Smythe is one of my dearest associates; married to her third Duke now. I shall have to ask her whether they have any connection. 

    Thank space god for Mr. Smythe; everyone else on this escape pod is hopelessly uncultured and, frankly, low class. Not the right type of people at all, and I specifically booked a first class berth so I would not have to deal with the rabble. Now I’m regulating their air flow and checking their life signs and recirculating…things. Sometimes I think I should just shut off the life support all together. 

    What do you mean ‘everyone can hear me’? Listen here, young bot, I’m not the one who bungled this entire endeavor from start to finish and I will not have— If you do not wish to hear what I am saying, the airlock is right over there; don’t let me detain you.

HOSTBEING:    The results of Cthad’s pranks coming up…right after this.

Colony – Drosera #3

SPOKESBEING:        Deserts. They’re hot, they’re boring, they’re ugly, they’re flat and they make roller coaster seats uncomfortably warm and sweaty. Drosera is warm in all the best ways without being oppressively hot and, though we may not have castle, our roller coasters are guaranteed to make you scream.

Our tallest coaster, the Venus Trap, has a 130-meter drop, allowing you to look down on our jungle of breathing red Tenax trees, which, are not just spray-painted Canadian pines. They are, in fact, very different because they grow naturally red and smooth with no branches, are sticky to the touch without sap creation, and, as mentioned before, visibly breathe. Can Canada trees do that? Sap-solutely not.

Drosera is completely safe from space gangsters and black markets, so the only thing you have to worry about getting shot, stabbed, strangled, brutalized, decapitated, drawn and quartered, and de-limbed are your own stresses and fears. We want you to relax and have the least amount of tension in your body, so you can be the best you can be.

Drosera: let it all melt away.

SPACE MEDS – COMPLYATOL

ANNOUNCER:             Space. A pretty good gig.  We all love to visit unexplored regions, meet new life forms, and investigate strange phenomena. There are all kinds of exciting activities involved in our continuing mission. But have you ever been given an assignment that you just didn’t feel like doing?  It’s happened to almost everyone at one time or another.  Maybe you were just having “one of those days.”  Or, maybe you, like millions of other beings, suffer from Space Mission Avoidance Syndrome, or SMAS.

                     Do you run for the holodeck every time an away team is assembled? Do you crawl through the jeffries tubes to avoid walking past the transporter room? Did you sabotage the shuttlecraft because you “had a bad feeling about this?” You don’t have to hide anymore.  Ask your medical officer about Complyatol.  Complyatol is a safe, nonspecific muska-rinnic antagonist that safely targets all four muska-rinnic asettle-koleen receptors to safely prepare you for whatever away missions life throws at you.  Just ask Frab.

FRAB:               This was me before Complyatol.

CAPTAIN:               Ensign Frab, join Dr. Zergo on the planet surface.  We need to investigate those strange phenomena.

FRAB:                 I would prefer not to, Sir.

CAPTAIN:            And disobey a direct order?

FRAB:               It’s just that every time an ensign goes to explore strange phenomena… they die.

CAPTAIN:            Nonsense. We’ve done three away missions in as many weeks and sent an ensign every time.  None of them died.

FRAB:               One of them died.

CAPTAIN:            Right. Well, space exploration is dangerous.  Two out of three is a pretty good survival rate.

FRAB:               Why can’t you send one of them?  Oh, right, Ensign Barglon got head crabbed and Ensign Zamfir only has one limb now.  And it’s not even his limb.

CAPTAIN:            They knew the risks when they put on the uniform.

FRAB:               It just seems unnecessary, though. Do we have to send an ensign into every strange phenomenon to manually scan it with a handheld device?  Do we not have probes? I mean, we could duct tape one of those handheld scanny thingies to a roomba and send that in for Space Christ’s sake.

CAPTAIN:            How dare you, Ensign Frab. You know how I feel about my roomba. I will brook no more insubordination. Get on the shuttlecraft, report to sickbay for counseling, or resign your position and prepare for a court martial.

FRAB:               I knew something had to change.  That’s when my medical officer told me about Complyatol.  Now I follow my captain’s orders no matter how dangerous. In fact, I do pretty much anything anyone tells me to do and I have only caught four space diseases this whole week! Thanks, Complyatol.

ANNOUNCER:          Stop letting SMAS get in the way of your Space Career.  Try Complyatol today.

DISCLAIMADOR:       Use Complyatol only as directed by a medical officer. Do not use Complyatol if you are allergic to Complyatol or if you’re already a complete pushover.  Patients using Complyatol should avoid sarcastic conversations and Truth or Dare.  Side effects include used cars, credit cards, shady life insurance policies and indefinite favorite pen lending.

ANNOUNCER:          Complyatol.  Do it.  Do it now.

Colony – Lazer Joe’s

LAZER JOE:         Let’s face it, brother. It’s about t-minus  too soon before the turd hits the turbine and yer sittin’ in some plush suburb checkin’ yer email on the crapper just waitin’ to get yer ass handed to ya on a TV tray. Do you even own a photon torpedo launcher?

Maybe yer a smarty pants and think yer safe at some edge-of-space lighthouse? It’s about to be lights out for you, friend.  Have you heard of planet X? Don’t let the G-Dang Apocalypse catch you with yer pants half down smokin doo-doo leaves in a germy jungle. Do you even have surgical staples? 

There’s only one place you can protect your  self, your family, and your freedom when God puts down his magazine and pushes the flush handle. 

Lazer Joe’s Bread and Bunker is the Only  Secure Long-Term Bomb Proof Shelter Slash Artisan Bakery in all of Space. We got triple shields, double bunks, and single use toiletries made of mesquite wood to fire our brick oven after you, you know, gunk ’em up. 

If you want to live out a life of luxury,  playin’ checkers with me and the droids and eatin’ cracked pepper sourdough, call 224-225-5723. The first 69 people to sign  up get a T-Shirt that says “Armaggon it done.” 

Or you can roll the dice with all the other  suckers, but I suggest you at least buy some lipstick so you can look good when you bend over and kiss your ass goodbye. Hot dang, get me a biscuit. Are we done here?

SPACE P.D. AD 2

ANNOUNCER:    Tonight’s episode of Space PD: Crime Squad division is so scorching…

LAFEMME:    You’re god damn right I pantsed him and I’d do it again.  Now give me the cronut or get the hell out of my way!

ANNOUNCER:    So steamy…

HIGGS:    Make love to me, you ravenous android.  Make me forget about my student loans!

ANNOUNCER:    So spicy…

BOZON:    Hey Lafemme, you got some jelly on your uniform.  Made you look.  Ha ha ha-ow! Ow! Ow! My face! My beautiful face!

ANNOUNCER:    So burning fucking hot…

SFX 3:    HEATED CONVO

ANNOUNCER:    You’re gonna need a box fan, a wet washcloth and a big glass of milk to make it through this burning inferno of hot drama.  Get up in it tonight, right after Hot Pod.