Entry The First
My name is Glob Ollox (the two hundred and twenty third) and this is great. By the toes of the Great Stalluking Goshbite, just great! Trapped on a miserable little planet on the toilet rim of the galaxy! Absolutely just what I needed.
Why does this sort of thing always happen to me? Because I should never trust cheap foreign imports, that's why! Due to interference from a new technology developed by the unexpected presence of a Primary Mammalian Life form (which I will refer to from now as the PML) of Bluespot my ship (upgraded in the Black Eyed Galaxy by a distinctly whiffy set of Sextanite cowboys from the Consortium of Reticula) has severely malfunctioned and is incapable of flight or communication with my people. I am not even able to record my thoughts and feelings privately to myself.
Fortunately I have managed to access this primitive information storage system in the hope my people will locate me - dead or alive - and if I have ceased being, be able to retrieve enough information to commence the planned invasion. There seems to be so much rubbish on this interweb thing that I will be able to keep a record of my findings without arousing the suspicions of the PML. Such is their incessant rambling it is doubtful whether any of them will stumble upon these sparse musings - let alone pay them any attention.
But I digress. I was sent to Bluespot my superiors in the Zwikky Syndicate. My ship landed as planned on one of the main continents of Bluespot. Initial scans indicated that the PML population of the northern part of the continent has increased by a huge factor since our initial survey. The scan also indicated that they had technologically developed, surprisingly and in complete contradiction to our findings, in the two thousand or so of their years since our last visit. Our last survey had detected an extinction likelihood of 99.9% recurring. This was a worry. So much so I decided to cloak my ship to avoid any possible detection.
I managed to conceal my ship within what appears to be a primitive religious structure.
That's when things started to go wrong, damn those Sextanite scum! I was not even able to activate my distress beacon which means no one will suspect there is a problem until I do not return home. That's not for fifty Bluespot years. Without flight and communication I am unable to leave Bluespot unless I can collect various components myself.
This is what I now plan to do. My mission, to complete the assessment of Bluespot will continue and I will record my findings here. While I do this I will attempt to locate and gather the necessary components to repair my ship. This will involve some travel. Food may be a problem. The Duplichow has also ceased to function. One my first foray I came across a PML with a smaller mammal, which I have since discovered via the interweb was something known as a “Canis familiaris” although the PML referred to it as Buddy. Much easier name to remember!
It tasted dreadful. No marks out of ten.
So, I will travel the length and breadth of this continent. The PML I encountered expired from what I suspect was a coronary overload at the first sight of me. His final words sounded like “Roz Well” - I have absolutely no idea what he meant. Perhaps my translator is malfunctioning too. However, I have adapted my shape as I suspect that it was perhaps my appearance which prompted his conversion to a state of non-being. It's a pretty damn ugly shape if you ask me, but needs must.
This part of Bluespot seems to be called OOSA and is split up in to fifty component parts of various sizes. I have calculated that I will have visit each of these fifty parts and will log my findings accordingly.
The first part, or state as they are called here (and they do seem to be in various stages of disrepair), I must visit is called ALABAMA. I must say I have reservations - the name sounds like the name given to the nether regions of the great flightless Preen of Flangellotte Prime, which is only served to guests as an insult.
We shall see.
