Look, 
as a veteran of spacewalks, NASA saw fit to call me and give all you rookie astronauts a heads up about the ol’ trip upstairs, alright? You’re all the best of the best—geniuses, elite athletes, lightning-fast strategists—but even a dozen lifetimes of the world’s best training won’t prepare you for the truth you’ll discover when you visit space:
Aliens exist… and they’re freaking babes.
I’m here to tell you what happened to me in ’73 after my first visit, so that you don’t suffer the same tragic fate. 50 years ago I left Earth, saw Earth, came back down to Earth, and three days later, I'd divorced my old bird, Nancy Lou. The press thought my trip changed me, that I was suffering from the “overview effect,” which a lot of us go through when we see our planet for the first time.
That was all boohickey. A lie. The truth was that ol’ Admiral here wanted to get back up there and VIEW OVER some sweet, sweet alien strange.
That’s why I went back up on the next mission, and the next. Chasing hot ET after hot ET. I used to agonize about every point where I could have stopped it. Where I could have chosen a different path. But then I remember the thorax on a Venutian. A Saturnite’s exterior glands, and the individual musks each produce. Atheists say there are no higher powers, but the first time you see a Neptoid’s sponges you’ll realize atheists don’t know shit.
It’s the addicts that are the honest ones. Always have been. And, honestly, I developed quite the reputation among our outer space neighbors. Had offers to settle down, carry a few thousand eggs in my torso, but I won’t—I can’t be a one Martian man.
This was the rest of my life. Planets, asteroid belts, moons—they called me “The Asstronaut,” “The Lunar Spooner,” “Anti-Gravity Depravity,” “Big Bang,” “The Comet Dumpster,” “The Ace of Space,” “Milky Way,” “The Girth from Earth,” “Meat-eor,” “The Galactic Prophylactic,” “ExXxtraterrestrial,” “The Alpha of Centauri,” “SuperCasaNova,” “UF-Ho,” “The Gravitational Bull,” “A Literal Star Fucker.”
Thirty official NASA space trips and 7,000 unofficial ones later, I was charging. Had an LLC (numbered business, never could come up with a fun name), and an expense account. You know why we had so many UFOs over the decades? Why all– why all the flying saucers? Yeah. They were looking for me. And they’re looking for THIS.
That sounds great, right? I see a few of you noddi–
WRONG! I am EXHAUSTED, but I CANNOT STOP. That’s why you all have to be strong up there. Why you need to resist those outer space stunners… and why you need to bring me with you. I am 86 years young and I need to get back up there. Please, I’m begging you—at this point, I don’t know why I even come back down (I know, it’s for residency, but at this point I’ll just give it up).
Alright, so: who’s giving up their seat to space so this gentle, old grandpa can get some intergalactic skirt? You know the virgins in Mission Control asked me to serve a few slices of humble pie to you super geniuses. Help prep you for the big scouting mission for humanity's ark.
Boy, did they make a mistake, huh?