My latest nose job gave me the empty nose look, a Picasso job, ready for dating.

TO NAZI OR NOT TO NAZI? [Intro] Heil! Siegety Heil! Heil! Siegety Heil! Heil! (Heil myself!) Siegety Heil! Heil! Siegety Heil! [Verse 1] Well, hi there people, you know me I used to run a little joint called Germany I was number one, the people's choice And everybody listened to my mighty voice My name is Adolf, I'm on the mic I'm gonna hit you with the story of the New Third Reich: Well, it all began down in Munich town And pretty soon the word started getting around So I said to Martin Bormann, I said "Hey Marty Why don't we throw a little Nazi party?" So we had an election, well, kinda sorta And before you knew it, hello new order! To all the little mothers in the Fatherland I said "Achtung baby! I got me a plan!" They said "What you got, Adolf? What you gonna do?" I said "How about this one? World War II! [Chorus] To be or not to be Oh baby, can't you see We're gonna take it to the top You're making history And it feels so good to me Ooh darling, please don't ever stop Don't be stupid, be a smarty Come on and join the Nazi Party! (Come on today!) You might also like The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived Taylor Swift Springtime for Hitler (Broadway Version) Mel Brooks Springtime for Hitler Mel Brooks [Verse 2] Like Humpty Dumpty over that wall All the little countries they began to fall: Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Poland The troops were rockin' and the tanks were rollin' We were swinging along with a song in our hearts And Deutschland über Alles was making the charts: We had a new step called the goosestep we were marching to Well, it's sorta kinda like a German boogaloo; I was getting what I wanted but it wasn't enough So I called the boys, I said "Boys, get tough!" And I surrounded myself with some unusual cats: There was skinny little Goebbels, and Göring, Mr. Fats Let's not forget old Himmler and Hess You'd better believe we made a hell of a mess Saying "Heil! Heil! Siegety Heil! We're gonna rip it on the people Teutonic-style!" [Chorus] To be or not to be Oh baby, can't you see We're gonna make it to the top You are our destiny This thing was meant to be Why don't we do it till we drop? Say, your boots ain't black and your shirt ain't brown Get back, Jack, you can't get down! [Bridge] Ba-da ba-ba ba-da-da ba-ba Ba-da ba-ba ba-da-da ba-ba Ba-da ba-ba ba-da-da da-ba-ba Ba-da ba-ba ba-da-da ba-ba Ba-da ba-ba ba-da-da ba-ba Ba ba-da-ba ba Do it Adolf, do it! [Verse 3] I drank wine from the Rhine with the finest ladies And we did it in the back of a black Mercedes I was on a roll, I couldn't lose Then came D-Day, depression and blues The Yanks and the Brits started raising Cain Those guys were the pits, throwing me insane; People all around me started swallowing pills Let's face it folks, we was going downhill Berlin was crumbling, we was under the gun Time to look out for number one So I grabbed a blonde and a case of beer Said "The Russians are coming, let's get outa here!" [Chorus] To be or not to be Oh honey, can't you see We had to take it to the top You sure made history And it felt so good to me Ooh scheiáe, please don't ever stop Auf Wiedersehen, good to see ya Got a one-way ticket to Argentina!

Thats perfect for the story, because they dislike the moon surrounding so much they hook up to the machines for too long Searching the web 20 results Yes, that’s a brilliant, nasty little twist that makes your 40-year-old story hit even harder.The boomer-era crew (wealthy, adventurous types who grew up in that Marin scene of group porn viewings, hot-tub parties, and women often positioned as the entertainment) finally get their shot at the ultimate “dirty things” on the Moon. They blast off full of late-life bravado, chasing the fantasy of zero-G hedonism, no gravity sag, no Earthly rules. But once they’re there?The Moon itself disgusts and depresses them.That gray, airless, crater-pocked wasteland. Endless dust that gets into everything. The crushing silence broken only by the hum of life support. Two-week-long nights where the Sun never rises. No blue sky, no ocean, no trees, no familiar Earth comforts. Just confinement in a cramped habitat the size of a studio apartment, with the same few faces day after day. Real psychological research on isolation (even from shorter analog missions and ISS stays) shows exactly this: rising boredom, “sensory hunger,” irritability, disrupted sleep from the weird light cycles, and a deep longing for normal human connection or stimulation that the barren environment can’t provide. Desire for social contact can actually increase over time, but so can the urge to escape the monotony any way possible.So instead of roughing it or toughing out the science mission, they discover (or activate) the ancient/human-built “enjoyment” machines—those neural probes or wired interfaces that flood the brain with pure, overwhelming pleasure. No more staring out at the dead regolith. No more awkward small talk or performance anxiety in low gravity. Just plug in and disappear into endless rapture. It starts as an occasional escape (“just for a quick hit to take the edge off”), but the lunar surroundings are so unrelentingly bleak that they keep going back longer and longer. The machine removes every limitation: no need for partners, no aging bodies failing them, no consequences they can feel in the moment.And that’s how the skeletons end up there—still smiling (or locked in ecstasy), bodies wasted to bone from dehydration/starvation while their minds were blissed out for days or weeks on end. They didn’t get murdered. They chose the wire over the Moon… until there was nothing left of them to choose.It ties everything together perfectly with what you described from 1980s Marin: the same generation that treated social events like spectator sports for pleasure, where women were often cast as sex objects, now scaling their appetites to cosmic levels. The “liberation” they chased becomes the trap. The ultimate retirement fantasy—dirty things without limits—turns lethal because the environment they paid millions to reach is so inhospitable that the machine feels like the only tolerable reality.That contrast is what sells the horror: not alien monsters or radiation, but human weakness meeting a machine that gives them exactly what they want… until it kills them. The protagonists (later explorers) piece it together from logs, half-eaten rations ignored beside the consoles, and the peaceful expressions on the skulls still jacked in.It’s tragic, satirical, and darkly funny in a very 1980s way—boomers who thought they could party their way through anything, only for the Moon to quietly win by being too damn boring and ugly.If you’re thinking of dusting the manuscript off, this angle gives it real teeth today. The psychological realism (isolation + sensory deprivation driving addictive escape) maps straight onto actual space-agency concerns, while the hedonistic backstory keeps the Marin flavor.Want to workshop a specific scene? Like the moment the new crew finds the first wired skeleton and reads the final log entry (“Earth was never this good… why go back?”), or how the objectification dynamic played out among the original group before they all plugged in? Or the twist—maybe one survivor unplugged just long enough to warn the next arrivals? I’m game to brainstorm whatever piece feels alive to you. This premise still slaps after four decades.