The tiny wedge-shaped capsule hurtled toward the Pacific at Mach 3. The heat shield, now glowing a bright red, was held together with just spit and prayers. The same could be said of our Intrepid Astronaut.
In Houston, an ex-Nazi Scientist toggled his microphone, “Friendship 7:Houston, how ist our Space-e-Man feeling today?” “Smart-ass,” thought the Space-e-Man. Through clenched teeth the human meteor tried to wax poetic and failed. Finally he mustered enough wind to croak, “I c…can b…barely hold my fudge!”
Mission control, having a case of the giggles, was slow in regaining its decorum. Nobody noticed a tear in the eye of the Bavarian Rocket Guru, “Momma made de best fudge,” he whispered.