Home Galactic Customs. Saving the Earth from the Galaxy, and the Galaxy from Starbucks.
 
Lost? Confused? These might help.(ok, probably not)

Have you read the story? Want to talk about it? (or do you want to just try and kill off those braincells with heavy drinking?)

Roger surprised Phil with the camera, and no one wants to remove the camera from Roger. It's coming soon, provided Roger gets enough bran in his diet.

Questions? Sure! Ask away. Granted, no idea if we'll actually answer them...

What the heck is it?

Galactic Customs is a work of pure fiction by three authors who really ought to figure out better ways to waste their time. It's a work of comedy (usually, ok, well we find it funny) and is published about every two weeks or so, barring sloth, real alien invasions, or law suits.

Ok, who's responsible for this?

Bill Keane Jr.
Ok, not really, but the first reaction was "Ida-no" and I figured if he still can't draw after more than thirty years of occasionally filling in for his dad, he deserves the blame.

The real suspects are:

JIM "That's My Middle Name, No Really" Evans

Born in the unsettled frontier that is Maple Ridge, BC, the young JIM first bent the mighty forces of creation to his will when at the tender age of three months he discovered static electricity. The family dog would never be the same. Soon, he had launched himself full on into the high profile lifestyle that is Electromechanical Physics. His nights were filled with wine, women and song, until, fed up with his noisy upstairs neighbors, he moved into a quieter apartment.

Steve "No Last Names" Keller "I SAID NO LAST NAMES!"

He cuts a rakish figure in his brown nehru jacket and magenta parachuite pants, which at once both hide and accentuate the hardened physique gained from years of puffin ranching in the eternal twilight of the Arctic circle. His flowing auburn hair, tied back in an elaborate braid after the custom of his Inca ancestors, is topped by a battered duksy green homburg, which he will tell you, if pressed after seven or eight Shirley Temples, he won in an all-night Go Fish game from the Dalai Lama. His powerful size nine feet, with which he can tie a horse-hitch in six seconds flat, are shod in a pair of worn curly-toed Persian slippers. He has a ready wit and is quick to laugh, but can be quick to anger and dangerous if challenged on the Penthouse Letters and other writings sacred to his belief. He once gave a spare kidney to a Somali orphan, and has dined with the Maharajah of Brussels. He is always accompanied by Bojo, the young Burmese dwarf that he rescued from a ravenous python during the war. He is the man known... as ~Steve-o.

JR "Not DMP" Conlin

JR First came in the public eye with his off-broadway, one-man show, "The Life & Times of Paulie Shore." However, his acting career was shortlived. A tragic accident involving a waffle-cone and forty gallons of banana-chip ripple left him permanently disfigured. This didn't affect his reviews at all, but he decided to leave the life of an actor anyway. He spent the next few years as Ricky Martin's dance instructor, then, packing up his dreams in a duffle bag, he drove across country in a VW Microbus, having many fun and wacky adventures with a group of hippies. Eventually, he settled in Sunnyvale, California. There, JR founded the "Herve Villechaize Memorial Home for Wayward Midgets," which he runs with his wife, Gary. In 2013, JR invented time travel. However, since he based the designs for the time machine on a Crichton novel, he ended up with transcription errors and went insane. He then began to write a vast manifesto, which he sent back in time to a younger JR, who promptly posted it on the internet as "The Grayhound Chronicles."

Why?

Because we love you.
 
Copyright 2017, Jim Evans, Steve Keller, and JR Conlin. All Rights, most lefts, and a fair number of middles Reserved. No portion of this site can be reproduced without express permission of the authors
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