Grease Monkey

On my space walk to fix a joint while smoking a joint having a look at the joint my grease gun exploded.

It went off in my backpack. Whoosh! 

When you are connected to your module by a thin thread of hose fed air and electronic gizmos wearing a pack and floating in deep dark infinite space, an exploding grease gun sounds like a watermelon being flattened by a truck traveling at the speed of light.

Whoosh!

So the grease gun exploded spraying grease all over my goggles. I was blinded by grease. Am I a grease monkey?

Oh on, not another ancient simian tale. Spare me the details. Just get to the verb. 

My goggles covered in grease, I attempted to wipe off the gunk. Loose space grease acts weird. It congeals in millions of small miracles, losing it's viscosity. I began wiping and swiping with my handy-dandy gloves. I cried for my mother. She'd know what do but she wasn't here with me floating outside the capsule.

Then, the grease played a trick on me. My greasy gloves couldn't hold my tool bag and it slipped out of my greasy grip. Whoops! Off it went, curling slowly, doing a space ballet. Bye-bye tool bag. 

The dudes down in Houston are not going to be happy about this. Believe you me.

Have bag will travel.

What's a poor space walking scientist to do?

Metta.