Pilot 1: Oh, what feeble intellect is possessed by you and your kin! Whilst we slumber, our space-craft journeyth sunward!

Pilot 2: Were not you the programmer of our top-secret NavCom 4000 Super-Navigation-Computer? Yes, I believe you were! I also believe that you imbibed several litres of whiskey prior to the programming of aforementioned navigational device!

Pilot 1: Now is not time for blame to be placed! Quickly, direct us towards empty space, preferably outer! While you toil at the Control Panel, I shall retire to the men's room for excretory purposes. And then I must smoke the illegal substance to which I am irreversably addicted!

Pilot 2: Brute! Behold all these nacho crumbs covering the Control Panel. And this, I believe, is dip! Man the Enviro-sensor... I require periodic updates of our perilous status to correctly re-position our noble space vessel!

Pilot 1: The radiation is great! Also the heat is large.

Pilot 2: The sun is even more dangerous an object than I had previously supposed! We are doomed!

Pilot 1: Oh great Sun Master! Do not cause harm to me! Always, I granted you preference over that would-be-god, Moon! Push us away from you, your powers are too great to withstand!

Pilot 2: Perhaps I shall save this interplanetary-ship by changing some wires in the NavCom 4000 Super-Navigation Computer! Rats! An unthinking individual has spilled much whiskey all over the innards of this, our most powerful navigation device! And vomit, also!

Pilot 1: Remind me to severely reprimand Pilot 3!

Pilot 2: Oh, the sun. We are dying.

Pilot 1: Ow, this is hot.

Pilot 2: The sun injures most severely! I do wish to profess my love for Mother! That is all, my life is a waste.

Pilot 1: Ouch, I die now.

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