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There are no bagels here

Landed on November 10, 2024 by Phillip Norbert Årp8.

I like bagels. I have always liked bagels. Big ones, round ones, brown ones, even green ones. Everyone likes bagels. But there were no more bagels. They were gone. So my great-grandpooty lit off to the Bagel Nebula, he did. But there are no bagels here, either. Why were there no more bagels anywhere on Earth? We never found out. Why are there no bagels here? This is the Bagel Nebula. There should be bagels. Bagels everywhere, including everything bagels. But there were no bagels, not even nothing bagels. There was ice, rock, gas, giant moon bats, and a planet rich in nauga grass.

Plantations for raising Corinthian naugas could be built here. But no bagel farms could be built here. No marshmallow farms either—so no Fluffernutter could be had here. Vast plantations for raising Corinthian naugas were built here. And my grandpooty went to work raising Corinthian naugas. Fine Corinthian naugas.

Back on Earth, they took away all the bagels. They took away all the bagels, they did! But who—who did? Screeching moonbats blued about their short hairs did. We never found out how or why or whence they came or why they hated bagels or why they took away all our bagels.

Maybe there were deeper explanations. What animated them to take away all our bagels? What was behind it? Maybe it was Ludwig Boltzmann and his nefarious space brain. Maybe it was President Piggy-Man. Maybe it was because my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandpooty had voted for the prettier feet. But it hadn’t worked. That hadn’t worked! And now there were no more bagels. No everything bagels. No sesame seed bagels. Not even plain nothing bagels. And we never found out why. We never found out why.

And there are no bagels in the Bagel Nebula either. Had there ever been? If not—flagrant false advertising by that Messier guy, if you ask me.

But there was nauga grass. Vast, shimmering fields of nauga grass. So, we raised Corinthian naugas. On vast plantations, we did. We called it Nova Bouillabaissia, we did.

Maybe it was the crumpled trumpets. Or the trumpled crumpets. Or the tea and strumpets. We never found out. There was tea—there were strumpets. There were no crumpets. There was something my grandpooty dubbed a “flumpet.” But bagels don’t have six legs and ears like elephant gonads. So that wasn’t a bagel. There were no bagels. There were smeerps. But… there were no bagels.

Paranoia and pronoia battled it out inside our skulls, but we survived and we made it. The Great Noöclasm of 2186, we survived and we made it. Giant moon bats tracked us from β Lyrae and attacked us here, but we survived and we made it. (And we made some delicious bat soup.) We left Bouillabaisse Boulevard, we left Toroid Springs, we packed up our bagel shop, we went to the Bagel Nebula. We made it; we survived.

But there were no bagels. And we never knew why. We never knew why.