The Space Station Toilet Plumber

"Why could you not have kept your bloody mouth shut? As if it wasn’t bad enough that Commander Graham’s blood globules were floating around the equipment lock—courtesy of you accidentally smacking him in the face after a misjudged high five—you then had to go and volunteer through your own guilt to perform the spacewalk yourself. Idiot!

Yes, you’ve had the training—if you can call a big swimming pool that bears absolutely nothing to do with outer space “training.” But this is the real fucking deal now—and shitting your pants inside a spacesuit could prove fatal.

Okay—stop looking down at the tether now and just... breathe. It’s not like it was tied to the station with a reef knot, like when you were in the boy scouts. This is fucking NASA!

Come on, that’s it—edge forward now... little bit further... bit further... open your eyes for God’s sake—don’t blaspheme, he may be closer than you think... and... out you go...

Well... there’s the world. Looks like rain over Cold Spring today. Didn’t I tell you it was a waste of time washing the car before you left for the mission? It’s always the way. You kids get to bed now—Daddy’s just doing a quick spacewalk and then he’ll be home to tuck you in.

Stop breathing like Darth Vader having an asthma attack and calm down. You know the chances of being struck by space junk are minuscule—probably just as much chance of being hit by Elon Musk’s Tesla. Why didn’t you think of that? You could have strapped it to the ship and kept it dry. Damn!

Forwards a bit... left a bit... back a bit... These Astronaut Propulsion Units are the bee’s knees. It’s just like parking your car at Walmart—but without the stress of someone trying to steal your space. Hmmm, do you think there’s a McDonald’s out here somewhere?

What was it Commander Graham said you had to do again? Oh yeah, tighten the screws on the lavatory command module. Lucky you’re wearing your oxygenated spacesuit, really. You know what First Engineering Officer Forbes smells like after those rehydratable curries. The NASA catering unit has a lot to answer for.

Right, that seems just about tight enough. If anything deadly escapes, Commander Graham can just blame it on Forbes’ penchant for Indian cuisine. Congratulations, special engineer smart-arse—you’ve now graduated to space station toilet plumber. All that intensive training in the swimming pool was worth it after all. Neil Armstrong, eat your heart out!

Oh fuck! You do realise, of course, you’re still in deep space attached to an umbilical cord that happens to be the only thing stopping you from floating off to infinity like a helium balloon at a fair. Turn yourself around and get back to that airlock. I’m sure Commander Graham’s nosebleed has stopped now and all will be forgiven.

Shit! Now you’ve gone and got yourself all tangled up in the tether. I told you to go easy on the propulsion—you don’t want to end up like Frank in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Just stay calm, ease the stick to the left a little, and start unwinding yourself. No... don’t throw up in the helmet for fuck’s sake, just concentrate...

Okay... it’s all okay... you’re back inside the airlock. All you’ve got to do now is get Commander Graham to open the hatch door and you can get out of this giant sick bag.

Commander Graham?

Commander Graham?"