| "Houston I have a problem."
Houston takes a moment. I am floating in space, safe in my space suit. In front of me a glimmering silver piece of test equipment floats. I squeeze the actuating trigger again and again but nothing happens.
"State your problem Colonel Transitional." Houston is cool and calm, a reassuring voice from the ether.
"The damned thing won't work!"
"Roger that. We read your problem as onion failure."
Onion failure?
"Roger that. The HTM-42 is powered by a single vidalia onion. An dry onion leads to failure in our simulations. Yours is insufficiently juicy."
"Uh, Okay. Guess I'll run down to earth and get a fresh one."
"Stinky, rotten onions work better Colonel."
"Roger that Houston." I beam down to earth, arriving at my old high school. I'm greeted by a very young woman, whom I recognize as Christina Aguilera.
"Take me to your onions." She nods knowingly.
I follow her through the crowded hallways full of sloppily dressed students and uniformed marching band members. Finally, outside the gym we meet the produce traders. I purchase the oldest, most rotten onion imaginable, decayed almost to the point of disolution. Onion juice runs over my fingertips. Moments later I am back in orbit, in my suit with only the HTM-42 and twinkling stars. I load the onion into the magazine. This time the device triggers, spouting brilliant orange flames.
The dreaded alarm clock intervenes. I awake, realizing that I must be really whacked.
| 
