IT'S SPYGOD SCOUT MAIL TIME!
Today's mail comes to us from 3rd Class Scout Kenworth G. Thurd of Hope, Arkansas
I recently learned that you and astronaut Neil Armstrong are not friends. In fact, I hear you were responsible for a terrible accident that closed his museum in Wapakoneta, Ohio, for almost a full year. Something about a giant fan and a large bag of radioactive dog !@#$?
I'm not going to question your judgment, sir. But I would like to know the reason for this feud. Why are you not friends with this iconic American hero?
First of all, son, let's get some facts straight. Number one, that was not an accident. Number two, it was a giant bag of radioactive monkey !@#$. There is a difference.
And number three, Neil Armstrong is a patsy, a pansy and therefore the acceptable face of NASA, especially in these evil times in which good money for space exploration is being flushed down the !@#$ to pay for executive oral pleasure for the United Nations.
You wanna know who the real hero of the Moon Landing was? It's Buzz Aldrin. And don't you !@#$ forget it.
See, you have to understand, son, before we landed on the Moon, we had no !@#$ idea what we might encounter up there. It was kind of like exploding the bomb in uncontrolled, battlefield conditions. We had a good idea, but anything could have been waiting for us.
The lander could have sunk up to its portholes in dust. A giant mouth could have erupted and eaten it up. Missiles could have launched and blown the LEM to shreds. Anything.
We had no idea what was waiting for us. And that's why Buzz Aldrin was on board.
You see, Buzz Aldrin is the Doc Savage of our time. Remember Doc Savage, Man of Bronze? !@#$ was immortal, invincible and too smart for his own good. That's why they stopped writing his life story after a while. It got way too weird for John and Suzy Q. Public after a few years.
(Now he walks the Earth, like Cain, and he vastly prefers anonymity.)
But Buzz? He could have fly-flicked the Doc from across the room and spanked him like a dewy-eyed wanna-be sub in a black stone dungeon. He's just that nasty, and smart.
He flew missions in Korea we'll never be able to talk about, shooting down things that no one should ever even have to see. His published, recognized graduate thesis was something lightweight and pansy-!@#$ about 'Line-of-sight guidance techniques for manned orbital rendezvous,' but his real thesis was so mind-blowing and senses-shattering that the government has had a team of experts sequestered in a secret base, somewhere in the Pacific, trying to understand what the !@#$ he cooked up in that brain of his.
And so far half the team is either insane or missing in action, having tried to put the theory into practice. Not even our own devil may care science corps dares to peek at the pages.
So here's Buzz, and NASA gets to work on him, making him even stronger and smarter than ever before. And they put him in the #2 chair, not because Armstrong needed to be first, but because they needed to send the small fish out on the hook just in case something bit down, and Buzz could take over.
You know that story about communion on the Moon? That wasn't communion wafers. That was the antidote to the failsafe he implanted in himself just in case they were swarmed on landing by Gods-know-what and had to blow themselves to smithereens, just to take the hypothetical bastards out of the picture and avoid a first-strike situation by showing those hypothetical bastards that Earthmen Do Not !@#$ Around.
And all that stuff about personal problems, depression and drinking when he got back? Bull!@#$. It was a smokescreen. That was a body double out getting drunk and having sex with underage pony boys in Thailand. The real Buzz was using the intelligence we got on the Moon to hunt down and splatter numerous alien agents around the globe, including the bastards that really whacked James Garfield.
His life improved after marriage? No, son. That's also bull!@#$. She was his handler. She ran cover for him while he continued to deal with threats from beyond space and time, using only his fists, his wits, and the weird !@#$ he cobbled together in his basement out of tin cans, lawn and garden supplies and "missing" Air Force surplus.
Not that his laying low is any guarantee of safety if you !@#$ with him, though.
Item: One conspiracy theory involving Aldrin stems from a supposed Apollo moon landing hoax by the U.S. government. On September 9, 2002, filmmaker Bart Sibrel, a proponent of the conspiracy allegations, confronted Aldrin outside a Beverly Hills, California hotel. Sibrel called Aldrin "a coward, a liar, and a thief," saying "You're the one who said you walked on the moon and you didn't." Aldrin punched Sibrel in the face. Beverly Hills police and the city's prosecutor declined to file charges. Sibrel suffered no permanent injuries.
That last bit is a lie. He hit Sibrel so hard that the guy !@#$ ceased to exist inside this dimension. He winked out like a !@#$ light. Bang boom gone, just like that.
And in an irony that can only be described as, ahem, cosmic, they had to assemble a film crew to cover a set-up hoax of the incident, and have someone to pretend to go to the hospital and whine to the police about his ouchie-poo.
They docked Buzz a week's pay. His handler was fired and replaced with a cellular replicate with bigger tits. And "Siebrel" does you-tubes about the conspiracy to bring back My Little Pony for furries, yiffers, and people who still live in their parents basement.
So no, DO NOT !@#$ WITH BUZZ ALDRIN. He is cooler than cool, more popular than Jesus. We owe him more than we could ever repay.
And he can kill you stone dead with Martian mind bullets with all three of his brains tied behind his back.
(SPYGOD is listening to Hallo Spaceboy (David Bowie, remixed by Pet Shop Boys) and drinking Vostok)