Flight of the Fem Swatter

Personal Log Stardate: 

November 19, 2005……Saturday……Star Date 0511.19

This morning since I decided to go into work for five more hours of overtime (making it a grand total of seventeen overtime hours for the week)  as a special treat I flew the Daewoo Leganza. I know (sigh) I should say drive. But when your running down interstate 20 towards Atlanta at eighty-five and ninety miles an hour  listening to “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” by Jefferson Starship over and over again. Then flying is more like it.

Of course I would have taken the Leganza up to a hundred and forty miles an hour just to see how fast she’d go since there wasn’t much in the way of traffic. But one never knows when a GSP trooper will experience one of those rare attacks of conscience and actually decide to earn his paycheck for once.  By forgoing the pleasures of eating donuts just long enough to actually enforce the speed limits for a refreshing change. 

Of course by the time I’d stopped by a nearby gas stations deli and picked up two scrambled egg biscuits, a Little Debbie apple pie, one king size Hershey’ almond chocolate bar, a king size Mr. Goodbar and one of the new Hershey’ caramel filled chocolate bars. As I left the exit ramp and hit the expressway my mind was a billion miles away…

Once again I found myself diving out of the hanger bay of my assigned Star Carrier like a bat outa hell at the controls of my X-wing fighter aptly named the Fem Swatter (Fem standing for the radical feminists or rather femnasties whom I hate with a passion and not for all things feminine which I also love just as passionately.) 

This time as I cleared my home between the stars three of Satana’ minions attempted to catch me by surprise by blind siding me. Which of course didn’t work since I’d already reached out with the force just before I cleared the hanger bay and already knew where the Venus Flytrap fighters were lurking.

Pulling my —- er joystick, or as some are apt to call the yoke, hard into my stomach. I pulled up and kicked my x-wing fighter into a spin as I turned hard to port and intentionally flew directly between two opposing star destroyers duking it out like a old married couple in divorce court.

Lucky for me two of the Venus Flytrap fighters were caught in the resulting crossfire. Becoming just another couple of clouds of incandescent gas lazily floating between the stars as two more femnasties went to their final reward in the lake of fire at the end of time. 

The third, of course, just had to stick to my tail like an old wet hen waving a frying pan as she ran after her hen pecked husband like a chicken with its head cut off through the kitchen. The rapid blasts of bigotry from her phaser cannons pelting my aft shields like hail from a sudden and quite unexpected summer storm. 

This fem fatale had nerves of stupidly as she blindly followed me into one of my famous suicide runs against one of her own star destroyers. Which was busily picking off the fighters from my squadron and anyone else who just happened to be in the way of the beams of sexism coming from her supercharged disrupter cannons like multiple orgasms. 

Switching on my multi phasic shields it only took me 1.5 nano seconds this time to pass through the armored shielded hulls. The femnasty becoming just another discolored blotch on the armored hull of the star destroyer (much to her dismay I’m certain) as I dropped a ship killer bomb inside the starship she was defending by trying to kill me. Which disappeared in a brilliant flash of light behind me as I flew out the other side of her armor shielded hull. As (thanks to me)  another of Satana’s capital ships (this one named for Hillary Clinton) became a new sun in the heavens before winking out as it went supernova and died taking all hands into the fires of hell with her. 

By then I was rapidly approaching the exit that would take me to my destination forcing me to come back down to earth. As I turned off onto the entrance ramp and headed into the plant where I have  worked for the past fifteen plus years.  

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