“Are you sure I can’t get you a Pabst Blue Ribbon, Cobra Commander?”

“Commander Kelly, Bob. And please call me Scott.”

“They’re delicious, and all the youngsters seem to guzzle ’em like water.”

“I’m not much of a drinker, Bob.”


“No, thanks.”



“Little tootski?”

“Bob, I’m an astronaut: I don’t want any tootski.”

“Just being polite. So lemme ask you: it’s the International Space Station, right?”

“Sure, the I in ISS, right.”

“So, uh, does that mean it’s like international waters, and anything goes up there? Could you gamble?”

“Not that kind of ‘international,’ Bob.”

“So you couldn’t murder anyone and get away with it?”


“How many astronauts are up there at a time?”

“Three or four, usually.”

“And how many roadies does each astronaut have?”

“None. An astronaut is his own roadie, Bob.”

“Huh. Not for me, then.”

“I’ll let NASA know.”