For their slender, outward appearance, 1st Kind were not, as some theorized, Martians. They were part of the race of creatures known as the Qetareti, perhaps a precursor to those who colonized Mars, though they were often confused nonetheless.

Felton Pingüino had a fantastic fear of nearly everything in his environment. Car horn too loud? Shadow a bit too menacing? Food too spicy? Whether it was the buzzing of a fly or the shock of a thunderstorm, Felton retreated under his bed, using his cartoon-themed blankets to block the bottom of the frame and insulate himself from the outside world.

Ten years, almost to the day, from the release of their heel-turn on Row Bot, The Swamp King Jam roared (or ribbited) back into the mainstream with a trippy hop into another dimension. Inspired by their experience in the sun-soaked valleys and fly-infested streets of Frogopolis, it was a landmark (and an extended stay) that changed the band forever.

The fortuitous meeting of the trio of Cirrus, Poly, and Siks occurred entirely by mistake. At an interstellar diner (part of the Bartlebee's chain), Cirrus had busted his behind washing dishes for nearly a decade. As a seven-armed mollusk, he was the right invertebrate for the job, but how was he to advance in this business if he was always thought of as merely a cog in the machine (the machine here being piping-hot, quality meals at affordable prices)?

The fortuitous meeting of the trio of Cirrus, Poly, and Siks occurred entirely by mistake. At an interstellar diner (part of the Bartlebee's chain), Cirrus had busted his behind washing dishes for nearly a decade. As a seven-armed mollusk, he was the right invertebrate for the job, but how was he to advance in this business if he was always thought of as merely a cog in the machine (the machine here being piping-hot, quality meals at affordable prices)?

The fortuitous meeting of the trio of Cirrus, Poly, and Siks occurred entirely by mistake. At an interstellar diner (part of the Bartlebee's chain), Cirrus had busted his behind washing dishes for nearly a decade. As a seven-armed mollusk, he was the right invertebrate for the job, but how was he to advance in this business if he was always thought of as merely a cog in the machine (the machine here being piping-hot, quality meals at affordable prices)?

Death Masque was known for their cheeky self-portrayal: mixing language and cover art that expressed a much darker product, but underneath lived a bright, punchy, and dreamy language. This trend did not stop with their 2683 album Incorrupt Tongue, a surprisingly grim love note to those who had failed to decay. Dotted with poppy melodies floating above underground rhythm, it was a small turning point in their sonic journey.

Wishing for immortality and being immortal have been proven to be two entirely different beasts. To experience time unimpeded and witness the rise and fall of it all, to be the stone foundation of the long, long ago and the soothsayer of the future has its benefits (admiration, endorsements, and the occasional game show appearance).

People of Earth! Have no fear. I am Pizza Bear of New Bear City. I come in peace…and in 30 minutes or less, or it’s free! I am here to tell you my story, just one in a city of millions, in a Universe of trillions. At a young age, I was orphaned when my parents died in a car crash. A semi-truck filled with marmalade t-boned a truck full of honey, and the rest was crystallized.

The playful cover of Scratch's 6651 album SNIFF was, contrary to popular opinion, not an accident. Well, it was an accident, in actuality, a photo snapped at the exact moment that the band was vaporized by a NoortalNet Portal Jumper, a common apparatus that allowed intergalactic and interdimensional travel with ease.

Intergalactic travel can be quite the pain: long lines; subpar service; bumpy black holes. We do not envy those who must zip back and forth between star systems each day, either for business or pleasure. The space traveler's most trusted tool, besides an extra roll of toilet paper, is access to The Intergalactic Weather Channel. A staple of any cockpit, the IWC was legendary for its Accu-Weather forecasting and vast knowledge of nearly every planet, galaxy, and star field in the Universe.

Throughout the Intergalactic Beets Project, dear Audionauts, there are numerous cases of mismanagement among bands. From Nedley Femtome and Colonel Snow Barkman to Sad Dog and Mad Dog Shea, a maniacal manager can be the final nail in a career destined for greatness. DOOT! (Oxiqlickians Jormo and Sweeze) were another in a long line of up-and-comers taken advantage of by negligent greed.

The pickle is a strange creature. Once a delicacy of residents of the Milky Way Galaxy, it was originally conceived as a way to preserve cucumbers (an Earthly fruit of high water value). Dunked in salty brine, it was left to cure into a tangy, crunchy addition to various sandwiches and culinary treats. That was, until an overzealous laboratory assistant at TCRC (the Transdimensional Cosmic Research Center) spilled a highly unstable substance (of the glowing, color-changing kind) into an open jar of pickles, of which he had recently partaken, and had forgotten to secure the lid.

One of the truly great musical chameleons, Prickley Pete, never rested on his last album. A pirate, a martial arts reptile, a knight in shining armor, and, now, a bandito of unsure moral fiber. His Crinkeley Clint phase was met with applause and anticipation, leading to a frenzy of tourists flocking to his desert studio to watch his new material in action.

For nearly a millennium, it was assumed that androids, having reached the end of their usefulness, were deactivated, melted down and reformed into the next generation of servitude. Another Rainy Night in Neon Alley was the brute force hack that exposed the cruel end of robotic life. Enter Tureen V, a hospitable dwarf planet in the Bios System, home to the aforementioned Neon Alley of Youeffi City.

Whether one sun or two (or sometimes three), the nearest star represents the freedom to survive. Warmth, energy; life can exist with its near-infinite supply of tasty rays. For planets bathed in darkness, due to dying or recently dead stars, light is a commodity worth more than any precious metal or stone (including the infamous Retortunga Wishing Stone, which grants any wish the owner desires, except the ability to produce more light).

For those of you with five digits on your paws, the fist has become a symbol of the extreme: of power, of freedom, of revenge. The "fist" for most creatures takes a similar shape, tightly wound, tense with excitement, but with the construction of fur, scales, goo, or whatever substance makes up your mortal form.

Science is a curious thing. On one hand, you have intergalactic travel, power sources creatures never would have dreamed of, and advances that would make even the most skeptical of Yurzinbbals becomes true believers. On the other, unfortunately, you have the eggheads of Kokimi Industries Conglomerated.

The Universe has a long history of seemingly stupid and futile decisions. One might say that breaking into a bacterial testing laboratory is a poor decision. And, you might say that forcing your way into one of the many storage containment units shows the intelligence of a fool. And, you also might say that cracking open a frozen cube of xecotarcilia (one of the deadliest organisms known to the stars) and dropping it into a warm glass of Jaarviz Harboughz's RAT (Radiation-Altered Transmographied) Soda, is a monumentally boneheaded decision.

Audionauts, we are among the lucky few who remain sentient and alive; our physical forms able to feel and taste, love and hate. There are others, though they call themselves lucky, too, who feel those same physical and emotional highs, but they are nothing more than ones and zeroes.