On punching it up

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Scott Kelly, NASA astronaut
Re: Boozing

Dear Commander Kelly,

Globe-trotting celebrity journalist Laurence Shandy here. I read your recent editorial letter criticizing the release last week of an unsubstantiated report claiming unknown number of astronauts have flown while intoxicated. I understand your apprehensions. I wouldn't want anyone casting aspersions upon the integrity of my job either. Which is why I will one day hunt down and destroy Nancy Grace. However, as an astronaut, you must understand your own ignorance as to the ends and outs of spinning a good yarn. You may be an expert on spinning yourself around in circles, using screwdrivers underwater, and consuming dried ice cream blocks, but you're no reporter.

Jesus, the space program has been boring the last few decades. What happened to all the excitement? The adventure? The moon turned out to be a bust. Might as well land in the middle of New Jersey. The Mars rovers? If I wanted grainy pictures of a lifeless desert, I'd point a camera at Rue McClanahan's vagina. Sure, there have been a couple of explosions, but it's probably best not to mention those.

Finally this year we have some intrigue coming out of NASA. They've caught up with our current psycho celebrity obsession. Who cares about Britney's breakdowns or Lindsay's lapses when there's a diaper-wearing killer astronaut on the loose? No publicity is bad publicity, and NASA figured out how to get noticed. You think they'd dump that gravy train just because they don't have any "facts" to support their claims? Hardly. Who cares if evil technicians are really sabotaging space station computers? It's a great story. Old school. Like something Roger Moore would have to solve with punches. Boozy rocket jockeys, while admittedly duller than poopy-pantsed psychopaths, make for headline-grabbing copy.

Look, why don't you take a break from the media criticism and crack open a few dozen beers? The storm's passed anyway. We finally have a few disasters on our radar. The bridge collapses, the earthquakes, the trapped miners. Those'll hold over Wolf Blitzer for at least a week. And when things quiet down again, why not strike with your own whopper? Wouldn't it be interesting if you came back from orbit possessed by Anna Nicole Smith's ghost?

Just an idea.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman