Orbituary Department
The pop-eyed planet-men called Killers from Space were so unbelievably ridiculous that we'd like to see them again. Just for laffs.
Every issue we set aside a page for the heroes and horrors who have flown their last mission. Some were zipped into rubber suits, some were bolted together in a prop shop, and all of them earned a place in the permanent orbit of our memories.
Nominations reach us by the mailbag from every drive-in, double feature, and midnight matinee in the county. We read each one by flashlight, dab our eyes over a slice of good moon cheese, and file the worthy departed into the great hangar in the sky.
Final Transmissions
This month we salute the bug-eyed invaders of 1954, last seen retreating from Earth with their dials set to "ridiculous." Their control panels have gone dark, but their stares remain unblinking.
Readers Lori Peters and Hans Orlac of Oberlin, Ohio sent in the nomination, and the department agreed unanimously.
Their flying saucer, last registered to an address that turned out to be a vacant lot, has been towed and impounded. The department has elected not to contest the parking tickets.
Remembered in Orbit
Services will be held at the launch pad of your choice. In lieu of flowers, the department asks that you send spare vacuum tubes, unused costume zippers, and a generous wheel of moon cheese for the wake.
The Orbituary Department reminds you that no monster is ever truly gone. They are simply waiting for the late-night rerun, where every creature gets one more close-up.
