Might be lonely at first, just the guys. Might get a little stir crazy. Little weirdness might occur now and then. Then the moon hookers would arrive. Their huge and shiny milkers floating in 1/6th g. Morale would improve. We'd have to make new rules, well maybe only one new rule. 'It's not cool to space a chick if she doesn't swallow.' Not looking at anyone in particular Ok, Dave? We'll chill in the Sea of Tranquility, Visors down, sucking on our suit's supply of moon beer, perfectly chilled by the vast, cold emptiness all around us. We'll go explore, throw all the rovers, rocket debris and flags at escape velocity into the sun. Then plant "No Niggers!" signs on every available surface. Then a major setback happens. Catastrophe strikes and it turns out we're wholly unprepared. Two of three supply ships, capacity 'a fuckton', laden with alcohol and fresh, never-spaced hookers go way off course and are last seen near Deimos. 'We talked about this, Dave.' 'I know it's also a moon.' One supply vessel barely makes it. When we pry open its cargo holds, our worst fears become reality. They're full of lentils. As many lentils as there are grains of sand in all the vaginas after a long day of beach volley ball. A year later. Our methane farts have terraformed Luna by creating a breathable fart atmosphere. Turns out, all males have the ability to not only breathe and metabolize pure essence of fart, it also makes them *change*. Meanwhile the females are... Who cares. Soon we learn to control our farts. Get to ditch the awkward suits and helmets. Also: Good bye to diapers full of excrement. I christen thee 'fertilizer' now. Powerful blasts propel us, unbound by moon's tiny gravity. We're true Lunatics, now. As our leader Dave says: "One small fart for moonkind, one giant ripper for... LINE!"