by Zack Kouns, Pony Payroll Bones, and Bryan Martin

ZK: I am in space jail where I belong.

PPB: I am your space. Space Jam. Yam Yam.

ZK: Please donít become outer space to me ever again. Iím begging you on my hands and knees.

PPB: I am your knees. Yu are my hands.

ZK: I am finally being hailed off to kosmic jail where my hands are someone elseís and I finally got new knees: someone elseís. Kosmic jail is a lot better than time traveling Anfernee Hardaway of the Orlando Magic in 1994 who came back from safe future said it was gonna be.


ZK: I dare anyone to televise my kosmic prison sentence. I am a private. End of story. I hear the mousse on Jupiter is grand and I will eat it solitary on Jupiterís dust wings and Iíd love to see you try and stop me to televise it.

BM: Matthew knows how to break into the International Space Stationóthas about the best I got.

ZK: I belong in space jail with thousands of caves so I can eat stalactite undisturbed

BM: You sound like the New Breed, whereíd you put the TV closet

PPB: I am the Space Children.

ZK: Jenny Moon Tucker stole my space socks and tried to cut both my feet off when I was in the bathtub and I said ďHey I need thoseĒ and I was talking about my space socks.

PPB: I am the money in your bank. Please buy Kouns UFO. I am the UFO. I ate the big red rooster who ate tha sun. I learned to sing squawking behind the cloud. Wanna flight. I am the goose who ganders.

ZK: Space jail isnít all itís cracked up to be. I have lamped a Ludwig and pumped a putting groan all the live long Lipitor. Somebody CRAWL for me, I have been hunched in a space age caper for the ages, trying to smuggle sea water from the Baltic into the slippery tongues of Jupiterís thirsty rungs and gee am I logjam clumsy and HogRam hologram frenzy. Rungs, lungs, tongues: we got it all here in space jail, you freaks need to ďponyĒ up some space bail so I can be a free range, top of the line, Grade A piece of cradle of civilization.

PPB: Just talk to David Bowie he will straighten you out. Iím grade V and proud.

ZK: Always passing the buck, wish you would pass the hay, pass diddle do, pass the creature comforts, pass the rock pass the boom box and pop on a little Space Age Fred and the Pissy Pants Astronauts because the only thing Iíve heard in a dogís age is Love me or Leave me or Let me be lonely and thatís not doing the trick anymore, even if Ethel is a Mer Man.

PPB: Letís be lonely together, Space Mancini

ZK: You are my space spaghetti with no meat balls or meat sauce or noodles or space.

PPB: Do you have enuff toilets? Where can we send a postcard? Huckís prolly thinking the same thing altho weíre both gonna lie to your face about Thanksgiving this Flag Day: and pls donít blame us, for it is in our lowland genes, itís in that flash of the blade in the shallow rain, a derriere with no compare and do they still even bleach assholes beyond the ďOuter RimĒ??!?

ZK: Yeah, send it to Chicken Ass Lover and send it to your home address and Iíll be sure to check the wreckage.

PPB: Remember the band Space Hog?