T minus thirty seconds to launch.

The fearful countdown had resumed for our spacecraft, the Edward D. Wood. Our mission was to search for intelligent life on Planet X in the far-off Duck Dodgers galaxy. It wasn't my first mission but I still find the actual launch both fearful and exhilarating.

Fearful because we always run the risk of frying and sizzling like Betty White in a tanning bed. But, exciting because the powerful thrust of the rocket engines creates almost violent vibrations in my contoured chair. 

Our crew was fortunate with our mission. Our sister crew had the misfortune to draw the Uranus Explorer  (coincidentally the name of my favorite butt plug, but I digress) assignment. A shitty mission if ever there was one! Now for the introductions: I'm Jill Robinson, science officer. Our leader is Major Tim Dallas along with his aides, Frederick Mercury and Ken Mars. That leaves the only other female crew member, the sexy medical officer, Ripley Weaver.

Growing up on the curious world of Lunar Lesbo I've always had a fascination with the ladies and Ripley was no exception. She had such natural beauty. Well, after her nose jobs and breast augmentation that is. Still, she wasn't flawless. Kim Carnes even wrote a song about her less flattering feature, 'She's got Marty Feldman eyes.' 

I first became fascinated with aviation after reading about Amelia Earhart, who vanished while transporting the Harlem Globetrotters to Gilligan's Island. I was enthralled by her and elated to discover her bi-plane wasn't the only thing 'bi' about the famed aviatrix. 

The final alarm sounded and we buckled in. Ripley's shoulder harness framed her boobs into perfect gravity-defying orbs like the two suns of Tatooine. The flirtatious minx even smiled and winked when she discovered me staring at her rock-hard nipples. My NASA thong immediately dampened and clung.

"Okay, who opened the fucking tuna," Major Dallas inquired gruffly? Ripley snickered and pointed an accusing finger at me like a kindergartener ratting out a classmate for farting. With eyes watering, Dallas sat firmly in charge at the command helm surveying the computer screens, looking ruggedly masculine, a cross between Robert Mitchum and Clint Howard. Suddenly the intercom crackled and popped. 

"This is ground control to Major Tim."

"What the fuck do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Well, Mr. Congeniality, lay off the caffeine pills and I'll tell you. Just a reminder to fire your boosters in order to escape the gravitational pull of the dark side of the moon... and one idiotic joke about Pink Floyd and I'll court-martial your sorry ass.

The irate Major replied, "We don't need your education! I know all about firing the boosters. This ain't rocket science, you know."

"Actually it is. One last thing; in thirty seconds, your oxygen will fail and you will all die excruciating  deaths."

"What?" We exclaimed in unison.

"Just kidding. I was being sarcastic," Ground control replied.

"Sarcastic? Do you even know what sarcasm is, you brain dead asshole?" the Major lectured. "You can' joke about human lives. Even Carrot Top doesn't sink that low... jerk." Suddenly, the orange alarm lights began to flash, accompanied by high-pitched sirens telling the crew it was time for suspended animation, a forced sleep that would last two months until our landing.

As I climbed into my enclosed sleep chamber, I immediately realized the piped-in egomaniacal stylings of Kanye West were not sleep-inducing until I remembered earlier I had stowed away my all-time favorite vibe, the aptly named 'Buzz Aldren.' Easing my thong aside, I guided 'Buzz' along my mound of Venus, being careful to not let it slip lower and into my anus, the true dark side of my moon. But, concerned about the battery life, after fourteen hours, I switched it off, tearfully.

Still concerned over our mission, unable to sleep, I steered my thoughts to a safer harbor: Ripley. In addition to my vibe, I had also stashed a handful of THC Gummi Marvin Martians. While the men explored Planet X, she and I would gobble those buzz-worthy morsels and be even higher than a kite by then. Eventually, I slept, dreaming of our potential coupling.

I awoke as my sleep chamber opened and felt us landing. Climbing out, my atrophied legs buckled and I began wobbling like a weeble after a Nyquil bender. Glancing out a porthole at the barren red topography of Planet X, it resembled Utah but without the annoying Osmond family. Plus, an instrument check revealed the planet's oxygen level was comparable to Earth's, which is known as the Corman Effect in B movie lore. But I saw neither Starbucks nor White Castle so the idea of intelligent life seemed remote.

After gulping down a sausage egg McMuffin pill, I checked on my crewmates. The men were preparing to explore by putting on their infamous red shirts. (A loving nod to Trekkies) After telling them how much I would miss them in the sequel, I resumed my search for Ripley whom I found stretching and bending provocatively after awakening. When I heard the doomed men exit I handed her a handful of Gummis with a wine chaser and popped in my Barberella Blu Ray, assuming watching a young Jane Fonda strip would get anyone in the mood. My chief fear was that I had screwed up and it was Henry Fonda striping. Buzzkill!

Since we already had the munchies, I offered my sexy crewmate some Dipping Dots which had been called the 'ice cream of the future' for the past seventy-five years. Sweetly, she offered to share but I was only interested in her sweet Tang (and not that terrible artificial orange drink) so I skillfully undressed her as our weightless, naked bodies floated to the ceiling. Then in my most seductive whisper, "We're so fortunate the men left so we can be alone."

"Yes. It's kismet," she breathlessly replied. But the only 'kismet' I was interested in was when her kiss met my pussy. We resumed tossing and turning in mid-air like putrid brown hot dogs on a 7-11 rotisserie but without the fear of botulism. That image even led her to feast on my buns but adding mustard and relish was overkill... and messy. We were becoming more animated than a Chuck Jones-directed Looney Tunes cartoon. Luckily, we weren't worried about noise since in space no one can hear you scream. Just ask the crew of the Space Shuttle Discovery.

Still, I was worried about the men returning and picked up the pace. I broke out the heavy artillery and set my phaser to 'Climax'. It fired tiny yet powerful electrical bursts to her vagina. Holding each other tightly, her body tensed with her orgasm which also, unfortunately, led her to pass gas which propelled us rapidly through the air, headfirst into the containment room for Mr. Roboto, our valued automaton.

Immediately, his door slid open and the robot emerged, arms flailing wildly. With a shrieking artificial voice, it began excitedly chanting, "Warning! Warning! Danger Jill Robinson! I am detecting an approaching life form on my radar. Danger! Danger!" In his excited state, he was resembling Charles Nelson Reilly or Paul Lynde, making the situation seem scary and gay at the same time. I didn't know whether to scream or sing show tunes.

"What sort of lifeforce," Ripley inquired?

"Humanoid in nature." Suddenly there came a loud, echoing knock on the airlock door. Ripley and I dressed hurriedly before opening it. As it slid open slowly, loud hissing filled the cabin. It was like attending a Yakov Smirnoff show in Branson. Before us, suddenly stood a stern-looking man holding a large book and chain-smoking Camels. 

"Ladies," he began as he eyed Ripley's still-heaving bosom appreciatively. "Might I interest you in a wonderful cookbook?" he continued. "It's called 'To Serve man '...nudge nudge. Wink. Wink."

I interrupted his smug sales pitch with my own question, "Is there intelligent life on this planet?"

He replied, "Well, Nancy Pelosi and Mitch McConnell have condos nearby."

"I'll take that as a no!"

"Oh, and of course the Queen lives in yon cave," he said while pointing east. "It's right past the 'No Monoliths Allowed' sign." Now, while I'm never trusting of anyone who says 'yon', Ripley and I bundled up and began our trek to the dark,foreboding cave. We were greeted by an amazon babe standing at least seven feet tall. She was attractive in a butch sort of way. I would even call her an Amazon Prime.

"Halt, Earthlings or perish," she commanded while extending her arm like posing for the Heisman Trophy. "I am Queen Vulva. We have already captured your men and have them working in our Viagra mine." Cheers could be heard from afar. "We need more male labor which is why we are commandeering your spacecraft. Plus we need males for propagating our race." More cheers from the bowels of the mine.

"But, Queen Vulva, how do you speak our language so fluently?" Ripley asked.

The Queen explained, "For years we have picked up signals from your various media outlets: CNN, NBC, ESPN, and YouPorn."

I remained full of questions. "But, where are YOUR men?"

"We have no living men. We fucked them all to death after binge-watching PornHub," Queen Vulva clarified to which our three male crew members came rushing into the room demanding citizenship. "Besides we do not need men for companionship. Our tongues can unfurl to the length and girth of an Earth python." Now it was Ripley and I who begged for citizenship.

"While I take your rocket to Earth to enslave your males, we will keep you safe and comfortable. Princess Labia, show our guests to the hot springs for the complimentary three-hour deep-tissue massage and cucumber riding rodeo.  But first, can you provide directions to your Home Depot? We need a tool to poke through the thick mine walls." 

"Oh mighty Queen, you hop these fools up on Viagra, they will have your tool hanging," I said helpfully.

Hearing this revelation, Major Dallas danced between the Amazons, did a few exaggerated air humps, while crooning, "I'm just another prick in the wall."

She continued unphased, "I'm sure you are famished. Please share our bounty." She began looking quizzically at her royal family. "Now, where did Lady Clitoris get off to? Oh, there are you are, Clit. Stop hiding under your hood. I can still find you. I'm not a man!"

She then turned solemnly to face us and whispered, "We really must apologize for destroying Earth after collecting your males."

"What? You never mentioned destroying Earth," I cried. Grabbing Ripley by her hand, we fled to our ship in order to thwart this aggression, avoiding xenomorphs and assorted tentacled aliens. Our progress was slowed since Ripley stopped to introduce herself to those with the longest, thickest pulsating tentacles. Finally, we entered our ship, leaving our hyper-horny men behind unfortunately but we had a planet to save. Due to Major Tim's absence, I would have to pilot us home.

A fact complicated since our ship was a straight shift and I had no experience. Putting it in gear, I goosed the power. Unfortunately, it was in reverse and our craft was buried deep into the ground. As the dust cleared, our monitor displayed the Amazons bearing down from the left and to the right, an ugly group of aliens had emerged from the cantina and were guffawing at our misfortune. In retaliation, I wiped out the entire lot with a photon torpedo.

Then slipping into first, I floored the spaceship and flipped the bird to Planet X as we began speeding for home. It will have been over four months since I last saw Earth and wondered if anything had changed but for now, I was content to watch Ripley strip seductively then bounce on Mr. Roboto's mechanical phallus, which was set on intermittent. I was so distracted I steered our shuttle through a large black hole, ignoring the accompanying Soundgarden song.  

For the next two months, we broke every known cunnilingus record on the books and even tied three long-standing analingus marks. I lost count of my orgasms but it was staggering and I was still staggering after climbing from our capsule when finally landing on Miami Beach. Other than us, the beach was deserted. Unheard of on a lovely summer day. Another difference was the array of Sylvester the Cat statues lining the area in the shade of palm trees. Also, we detected an inordinate number of obese cats sunning on the sand, acting lazy and aloof. At least that hadn't changed.

We continued our stroll looking for answers then suddenly came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the statue of liberty half-buried in the pristine sand. It all seemed eerily familiar. I even glanced around looking for any sign of new ape overlords. But the only thing I saw was an interesting well-lit business entitled 'the Pussy Depot.' Located next to the 'Tenth Life Funeral Parlor.' A catchy name like Pussy Depot drew my attention and respect so I moseyed in.

It specialized in wealthy cats apparently with its pricey accoutrements: diamond-studded collars, Fancy Feast caviar and even a mahogany litter box complete with a built-in bidet. There was also a calendar on the wall featuring children dangling from tree limbs, captioned "hang in there." That was bad enough but imagine our shock upon seeing the year listed as 2220. What the Flux capacitor?

Addressing Ripley, "Quick, let's find a library for potential answers."

"A library? What century were you born, Grandma? Libraries vanished with the newspaper, payphones, and rock and roll music," she replied. 

Suddenly, I noticed a lovely Persian cat motioning to us, looking adorable with a tiny fez perched atop her head. We walked to her tentatively until she began speaking which after recent events did not surprise me in the least.

"You two are breaking the law. You know all humans are required to wear a collar and leash at all times!" She then promptly hit us both across the nose with a rolled-up Cat Fancy magazine. 

"I'm sorry. I left my collar in my suitcase," Ripley immediately explained while blushing. I looked at her with renewed admiration and even greater lust.

"Who are you?" I asked the bossy Persian.

"If you must  know I'm Newmar Purrrfect, human trainer extraordinaire." 

"You must forgive our ignorance of your laws. We just returned from a space mission and have apparently landed two hundred years in the future. Please tell us what happened," I implored.   

"I shall try. It all began in 2089 when President Adam Sandler Jr. conducted top-secret experiments on mind control. But what it accomplished was making cats super intelligent and turning human minds to mush, something his dad's movies had already begun generations before. Fritz and Felix, our two most decorated heroes, then formed the Resistance and discreetly spread their pet dander to every world leader with allergies. As they sneezed, we assumed power. But it was a long struggle. We would have starved were it not for an obese cat's bitchin' lasagna recipe.

She then grabbed Ripley's leg roughly, razor-sharp claws drawing blood. I stood menacingly over the now-feral cat and shouted, "Get away from her, you bitch!"

Unbeknownst to us, we were now attracting a sizeable crowd of her fellow felines. To my left, a Tabby grabbed my arm. "Take your stinking paw off me, you accursed dirty puss," I ordered.

The cats kept coming, surrounding us. Luckily, I bought catnip at Pussy Depot and tossed it amongst the hissing menagerie. They immediately began sniffing and playing, forgetting their bloodlust temporarily, giving Ripley and me the chance to flee. Our final obstacle was a large Cheshire cat who was preoccupied with grinning from its catnip buzz while grooving to a CD by the band, 'CatPhish'. Now clear, we bounded up the ladder to our capsule.

Immediately, we took off, hoping to go back through the black hole thus returning us to our own time.

Ripley leaned close, her breath in my ear. "What should I do, Jill?"

"You may start by getting your suitcase," I commanded as I enabled the autopilot and set my phaser to 'discipline.'