I Was Not The First Man On The Moon: A Confession

It is with great sadness and moderate gravitational attraction that I pen this letter to you today. After 47 years of unwavering lies, I have finally been sprung in my globals deceit (that’s ‘globals’ as in ‘two globes’, a word I invents). The passion I had for space-walking and real astrology wasn’t enough to let me live this lie through to my death coffin, and I need to publicly tell you all right now.

I was, in fact, not the first man on the moon.

Pictured: someone else.

Let that sink in for a moment: I did not travel to the moon in 1969 with NASA like you know. Everything you knew about me then, and everything I have claimed since, is a bald-faced lie — except for when I said I got kicked out of a screening of Gravity for continuously yelling that Sandra Bullock should be crowned Miss Congeniality Of Space, that shit was dope and you know I have a point. For those who don’t already know, I was space-outed by my fattest son’s third mistress LaTruliet once she snooped around and pieced together the true facts. I want to discuss these facts here and now before Murdoch butchers them and Fox News double-butchers them. Here’s how I did it.

I was enlisted with NASA to travel outerspace in the 1960s, that much is true. I arrived at the NASA headquarters in <redacted, but let’s just say it was between Area 50 and Area 52>, ready to board the Apollo 11. I was walking through the shuttle walkway between the base and the ship, when suddenly a previously invisible Neil Armstrong detached from the ceiling, much like a chameleon with really beady eyes. I was at the back of the group because I’m fat, unpopular and a virgin, so nobody else noticed when Mr. Armstrong stabbed me in the gut with a little Apollo 10 play figure he’d whittled down to a blade. He quickly donned my spacesuit as I bled out and joined formation again. Everybody on the trip mistook him for me, because they’d never bothered to commit my face to memory.

After the whole world wet themselves at Neil Armstrong planting a flag on the moon, he came back to the biggest celebration party Earth had ever seen. I lived through my attempted murder thanks to a combination of prayer and medicine — still not sure which was most effective — so I decided to discreetly attend Mr. Armstrong’s “Out Of This World Box Social.” The smug bastard came up with the title of this particular box social himself (the word “party” wasn’t coined until 2009). I know at this point you’re probably wondering, how did I convince the world that it was me who made a quick trip to the moon and back, and not Neil Armstrong? Simple: I’ve been wearing his skin for 47 years.

What, this old thing?

This whole Skin-Off thing was my undoing, it turns out. LaTruliet and I were playing “hide my son’s heart medication” this whole summer (yes, the game is most rewarding when it lasts a whole quarter), and she accidentally found my real skin hanging up in a dry-cleaning bag in my closet while looking for the pills one day. I remember that day traumatically: she immediately approached me with a stern, judgmental look, like she could no longer trust me. Silently, she pulled on the loose skin on my face to see that it stretched much further than the average human epidermis. It was unnatural. Her eyes lit up, puzzled, yet alert, like she’d never seen the truth before. She looked me in the loose eye holes and stated with conviction, “you were not the first man on the moon.” She is smart, I’ll give her that.

For those who paid close attention, I accidentally gave away clues of my deceit along the way. In August 1969, the Apollo 11 returned to Earth. On the 10th sun-cycle of that particular Roman month, the astronauts exited the quarantine live on international televsion. At this point in time, I had returned to my home under the sea, but still wanted to be seen leaving the Apollo 11, so I did what anyone in my situation would do: I made sure I Skyped in. You can see my face on the laptop screen over Buzz Aldrin’s right shoulder.

Due to PR demands, in the months following my “return” to “Earth” (I’m apprehensive about calling it my Earth still ever since Firefly got cancelled), I was required to appear at several public events in my spacesuit. I showed up at NASA press conferences, rich kids’ birthday parties, Neil Armstrong’s secret funeral, you name it. However, I never got to keep my original spacesuit since Mr. Armstrong stole it and then lost it when he turned right at Mars-uquerque. At all of these events I was in fact not wearing a spacesuit, but instead I wore a flock of doves that I stuck together with a hot glue gun. Side note: PETA are real dicks.

Additionally, I should add that anybody who kept tabs on me and Richard Nixon equally would have discovered my falsities years ago. In Dick’s autobiography, ‘How To Succeed In Slobbering Without Really Noticing’, he claims that the first time he met me was the day before the Apollo 11 took off. However, anybody who knows me well would notice that I can’t resist checking in everywhere I go on social media! My very first check-in with the former president was in 1975 when we caught up for a low-key coffee after matching on Tinder.

Notice how I really stayed away from specifics.

I could go on and on about my earthly slip-ups but that would take a full light year to scream at you, since in space no-one can hear you scream. I’ll leave you with this easy one you may have missed: the moon-landing took place in 1969, yet my birth certificate clearly states I was born in 1986. I’m surprised nobody realised this sooner.

Above all else, the thing I want you all to take away from my confession is that I’m truly, unequivocally, not sorry for what I’ve done. Being famous for nothing is kickass, and I should be allowed to visit high schools to recommend this career path to others. But I can’t. Pending arrest for treason, and all that. Hell, I didn’t even have to do much to keep this up! The easiest part about faking your own moon-landing is watching moon-landing conspiracy theory films. They do all the work for you, and because these people are the ones who announce these crazy ideas, they are the ones who look clinically insane and not you. I mean, everyone thought Jesus, Einstein and Hitler were batshit crazy, and just look at how many followers they have now!

That’s all I have to say. Sayonara, Earth-walkers. Live long and don’t hate me.