We Hire a Twelve Year Old To Ghost-Write a Shitty Sci-Fi Novel about Us...IN SPACE!

Ah, the awesome power of google. Our editorial comments below:
[Pictured: John Foster Dulles, United States Secretary of State and Captain of the USS Xerxes (Third Reich)]

"So what's the news, sir?"Captain Mark Pharris, Executive officer of the Union Cruiser USS Xerxes [The USS Xerxes? Have the Iranians won already? Why not try the USS Stalingrad or, better yet, the USS Third Reich.], stood next to his Captain [Why are there two Captains?] by the radio console on the bridge. Captain [How many fucking captains are on this ship?] Foster Dulles [Why not just make it the entire Eisenhower administration in space?] was busy reading the coded dispatch from CINC-SUNSFLT [Californian Industrial National Complex-Suck it, Utah/Nebraska, we're Shitfaced, Liberal, and Transexual]. He paused and looked at his XO.

"Mr Pharris, it would seem that our days of border patrol are over. I am to appoint a new Commodore [Commodore? Why, are the Spaniards trying to cross the channel again? A little out-dated, I feel. Try something cooler and spacey, like Rocket-Colonel.] to this battle group, and we are to take the Andalusa and join Admiral Lockswood in the third fleet. Apparantly the ESF [Environmental Space Fascists] has gotten out of his control despite the new flagship they gave him [There's your problem right there: the enemy gave him a flagship]. But that is of no concequence [That's the super-cool space-age spelling of "consequence"], because we are [Contractions are useless...IN SPACE!] abandoning this worthless border post. Frontline combat! Just think about the opportunities for salvage and plunder! [Plunder? Is he a pirate? If not, make him a pirate...with a cool metal eyepatch that can see through walls and shit.] We shall make our fortune yet! [Off of space-jewels, right? I hope there are space-jewels.] Come, tonight we dine with the fleet! [That doesn't seem feasible. My curiosity has been piqued!] Call the Captains together, and have the purser bring out some of that fine port [Also out-dated. Try "JoxXor's Tryrulian Space-Brandy."] we have been saving!"

"Yes Sir!" The old Captain walked to his chair and unhooked his mic [No, no, no. There aren't any microphones in space. Give everybody awesome two-way com-badges, or, even better, wrist-watches, that also shoot lasers...and stun-gas] from its cradle. He clicked it on as he adressed the ship. Pharris tapped the radioman [Spice up "Radioman's" character. Does he just operate a radio or does have sweet radiation space-powers? I'm leaning toward the radiation powers.] on his shoulder.

"Jackson, hail the other ships in the squadron, tell them the captains are all invited to dine with the Commodore. Formal attire, please." [Make sure "formal attire" is a velour, brightly-colored and ill-fitting jumpsuit]

"Aye aye, sir." Jackson smiled, knowing that good news for the ship was good news for the crew [How is it good news for the ship? Or--Ooh! Is it a talking ship? If not, make it a talking ship, with a really sarcastic sense of humor. You know, like if the captain gave it an order it could be like "Sure thing, O Mighty Space Master, shall I give you a sonic massage as well?" and shit. And the Captain could be like "Xerxes (Third Reich)!!" It could be his catch-phrase]. Two fifths of all prizes was theirs [Grammar is useless...IN SPACE!], and for a man living on sailor's wages, the bonus for a good capture was tremendous. He begain composeing [Those ESF bastards stole the words "began" and "composing," didn't they? Or is that "Futuro-Space Talk"? Flesh out Futuro-Space Talk.] the message while Pharris left the bridge, taking the lift down to the mess hall to speak with the purser about preparations for the banquet.

Discovered at http://www.ambrosiasw.com/forums/lofiversion/index.php/t32756.html. More installments to follow.