sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

Her space jumper was incredibly tight.
And it was causing her considerable discomfort, as she was quite a lot warmer than she might have cared to have been in a perilous situation. Which she was.

She wasn't terribly convinced the fashion was altogether a practical necessity, either, as now, in addition to the grinning idiot she was leaning back against the leopard print throw-pillows with in an attempt to hide from the aliens, she had the first row or so of aliens they failed to hide from, incidentally, looking her over, despite the glut of recent polls that said that aliens were largely uninterested in human females, and the ones people reckoned were female aliens had really little to no interest in human males. The sudden interest in aliens' taste in beauty were rumoured to have been brought on by Bobby Clark's wife leaving him, reportedly with an alien. Bobby Clark was the owner of the biggest magazine publisher in the Universe.
She could have done with a regulation mini, even, if only because of the heat, which was partly due (and partially misattributed) to the engines of the ship being directly behind the walls, which lay directly behind the throw-pillows on which they found themselves, in front of the aliens, who were holding guns, and Logic would dictate, weren't about to fire any sort of lethal weapon in the general direction of their engines, even if they did happen to be behind steel walls, as that was always just the sort of assumption that people made just before doing something that got them sacked and/or killed in a fiery blaze, usually not in that order. Luckily for the aliens, Logic seemed to be playing off in the corner with a ball of twine and a rubber ball quite happily, and no one looked likely to get sacked and/or killed in a fiery blaze, at least not yet. A mini, however suitable for relieving the almost intolerable heat, probably really wouldn't have all done all that much for the looks she was getting, already.
Not that a skirt, even a tiny one, would leave a whole lot more to the imagination than these space-jumpers. She remembered when she and the other female space travellers wore relatively comfortable clothing, and perhaps they looked a bit frumpy, but being able to clump around the space ship in a pair of baggy trousers and a tshirt was well-earned, and it wasn't until the first snivelly little science fiction writers who'd spent too much time in front of a computer screen in poor lighting got out into space to find all their illusions shattered, and the women not wearing impossibly-tight clothing, that they formed a committee, complained to the First International Space Board, who weren't really expecting complaints at the time, ratified the new regulation spacesuit, and off went the female space traveller's dignity and comfortable clothing in one fell swoop. Though not necessarily "off", as you may have read, but off, away... erm... not there any longer. But not in the naked sense. Anyway, tight clothing, still snivelling little science fiction writers, just now with grins on their snivelly little faces.

"Get up, if you don't mind."
One of the aliens clanking up and down the corridor in the background began clanking slightly more loudly, which was his way of telling the crew to hurry it up, because he was getting a bit tired of all this clomping and clanking about, and he'd just sooner get back to his cabin where he was half-way through a delightful book about an ageing Hollywood actor seducing an ageing Hollywood actress, and the both of them, though he didn't know it because he hadn't read far enough in the book, settling down in a house in West Hollywood and winding up having to defend it from a group of Ninja Warriors bent on conquering Mongolia (and, I will grant you, missing by quite some degree).

A StarShip Tour Bus scuttled past, the tour guide's commentary doubly tinny, once from the microphone, doubled off the corridor walls.

disclaimer:
The serial plugs on next week, where we're still possibly stuck in the corridors of a rather large space ship!
We also hope to return with our Large and Completely Inaccurate Map of Britain, if, that is, our company cartographer isn't quite as moody as he was this week.


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				Hard, Fast, and Beautiful
		archives horoscopes contacts fables home		Her space jumper was incredibly tight. And it was causing her considerable discomfort, as she was quite a lot warmer than she might have cared to have been in a perilous situation. Which she was. She wasn't terribly convinced the fashion was altogether a practical necessity, either, as now, in addition to the grinning idiot she was leaning back against the leopard print throw-pillows with in an attempt to hide from the aliens, she had the first row or so of aliens they failed to hide from, incidentally, looking her over, despite the glut of recent polls that said that aliens were largely uninterested in human females, and the ones people reckoned were female aliens had really little to no interest in human males. The sudden interest in aliens' taste in beauty were rumoured to have been brought on by Bobby Clark's wife leaving him, reportedly with an alien. Bobby Clark was the owner of the biggest magazine publisher in the Universe. She could have done with a regulation mini, even, if only because of the heat, which was partly due (and partially misattributed) to the engines of the ship being directly behind the walls, which lay directly behind the throw-pillows on which they found themselves, in front of the aliens, who were holding guns, and Logic would dictate, weren't about to fire any sort of lethal weapon in the general direction of their engines, even if they did happen to be behind steel walls, as that was always just the sort of assumption that people made just before doing something that got them sacked and/or killed in a fiery blaze, usually not in that order. Luckily for the aliens, Logic seemed to be playing off in the corner with a ball of twine and a rubber ball quite happily, and no one looked likely to get sacked and/or killed in a fiery blaze, at least not yet. A mini, however suitable for relieving the almost intolerable heat, probably really wouldn't have all done all that much for the looks she was getting, already. Not that a skirt, even a tiny one, would leave a whole lot more to the imagination than these space-jumpers. She remembered when she and the other female space travellers wore relatively comfortable clothing, and perhaps they looked a bit frumpy, but being able to clump around the space ship in a pair of baggy trousers and a tshirt was well-earned, and it wasn't until the first snivelly little science fiction writers who'd spent too much time in front of a computer screen in poor lighting got out into space to find all their illusions shattered, and the women not wearing impossibly-tight clothing, that they formed a committee, complained to the First International Space Board, who weren't really expecting complaints at the time, ratified the new regulation spacesuit, and off went the female space traveller's dignity and comfortable clothing in one fell swoop. Though not necessarily "off", as you may have read, but off, away... erm... not there any longer. But not in the naked sense. Anyway, tight clothing, still snivelling little science fiction writers, just now with grins on their snivelly little faces. "Get up, if you don't mind." One of the aliens clanking up and down the corridor in the background began clanking slightly more loudly, which was his way of telling the crew to hurry it up, because he was getting a bit tired of all this clomping and clanking about, and he'd just sooner get back to his cabin where he was half-way through a delightful book about an ageing Hollywood actor seducing an ageing Hollywood actress, and the both of them, though he didn't know it because he hadn't read far enough in the book, settling down in a house in West Hollywood and winding up having to defend it from a group of Ninja Warriors bent on conquering Mongolia (and, I will grant you, missing by quite some degree). A StarShip Tour Bus scuttled past, the tour guide's commentary doubly tinny, once from the microphone, doubled off the corridor walls. disclaimer: The serial plugs on next week, where we're still possibly stuck in the corridors of a rather large space ship! We also hope to return with our Large and Completely Inaccurate Map of Britain, if, that is, our company cartographer isn't quite as moody as he was this week.

Hard, Fast, and Beautiful