A lot of people are going to hate this blog post. To all those people, I’d just like to take a quick moment to say: “Suck it up, haters”.
Here’s the deal. Some people are lost in space. Some, like me, are lost in space-related conversation. I just don’t get it. I don’t want to get it. I will never get it.
When most of my colleagues watch the Yuri Gagarin video from five decades ago, they gasp in awe. When I watch it, I struggle not to choke on my own vomit.
Clearly this was a monumental achievement. But what could possibly persuade a bright young pilot with his whole life ahead of him to board a fiery hell missile into the unknown? An adrenaline rush? The novelty factor? The promise of riches if anything more than his charred Ruskie remains returned to Earth?
I could give you a scholarly motive for my space hatred. I could chalk it down to my belief that the space race was nothing more than a supremely costly urinating contest. I could cite my incredulity that we ponder our own planet’s problems and seek solutions in the cosmos. But I’d be omitting the root cause.
The root cause is "SuperTed". Or, more accurately, Texas Pete – the stetsoned super-villain in "SuperTed", a British cartoon that played a formative role in my infanthood.
Put yourself in the position of a pre-school child with a limited understanding of anything above the clouds. Then watch the episode of SuperTed I’ve attached below. Pay particular attention to the manner in which the episode ends – with our hirsute hero floating feebly in a black abyss. And tell me that THIS doesn’t make the only case we’ll ever need against space.