Her Space Holiday
Manic Expressive CD - Tiger Style

There is some music that I can’t make heads or tails of, if only for the fact that there are far too many artists competing for everyone’s attention. Therefore, when Her Space Holiday took flight in their scientifically designed heat resistant atomic particle ray gun machine no one knew they were bound for glory. On the platform stood throngs of civilians braving the stifling Florida heat, umbrellas offered protection against UV rays and pigeon shit, a booming, robotic voice clicked across the open plane streamed from musty speakers and a family of armadillo were reported to have caravanned across the deserted parking lot. The countdown began precisely at 9:45 AM: 10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…BLAST OFF!! Atomic clouds of milk white steam ejected from the hub of the engines like a sperm whale throwing up from its penis. An eon of tension withheld in the mouths of the gaping crowd as Flight Phallus 696 shot skyward with accelerated deliberation. Clouds parted like doorman at the Waldorf Astoria during the Christmas rush and the temperature blissfully caressed the skin the shuttle. Faster rocketed the atomic torpedo, higher became the crew, and more daunting grew their task: to deliver a warning of dire consequence to the newly constructed half-moon space station Zealot US1, just enough fuel to blast through the oxygenated gates of heaven, navigate seamlessly through Martian Sector 8, momentarily land the overheated hull, then get the hell out of there before the whole gosh darn baseball season was all but exhausted. Captain “Witchita”, the first Native American crew member to successfully organize a NASA Pong tournament (hell of a player too, the son-of-a-bitch) sits knowingly, that with each passing microsecond another blade of grass bows under the weight of Derrick Jeter stealing first, sliding home or winking at the voluptuous tan devil in the stands behind him; he must remain calm. Nearer approaches the space station, bigger and livelier does it become. Mechanical drones walk deliberately, shifting barrels of coal from dulling fires to blazing infernos, lackluster piles of soot evaporate into the air, blocking out specters of light from the moon. Colonel Lydia drapes herself in an airtight silver suit, attaches her catheter and awaits Captain Witchita’s signal. The hatch belches open and the titanium planks move fast under her sprinting boots. Seizing the opportunity, android model Polar Opposite 6 drops its barrel of coal and meticulously shimmies over to the hatched vessel. The ships electro-weight gauge detects a proportionate advance of 145 LBS upon itself. Pleased at Colonel Lydia’s expedience, Captain Witchita promptly pulls the decompression lever, and welcomes his wife back onboard. The atmosphere is clear for takeoff and the engines are fired up. Within moments Phallus 696 is seen throttling back towards Earth. Colonel Lydia stares bewildered at the disappearing shuttle, a growing awareness of her impending fate becomes realized. Curiously, she grabs hold of the abandoned barrel and promptly begins to facilitate the dying embers. Her space holiday has begun. (Josh Gabriel)
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