It’s always five o’clock somewhere… in space.

Millennia ago, mankind was confined to its home planet. Starved for resources and hungry for entertainment, the invention of war happily solved both problems. Conflict was the norm and everyone was cool with it until it damaged their lawns. When the Just Look At My Turf Accords were duly signed and nation spoke unto nation about the tribulations of keeping moles from damaging your fescues, it was decided that all future conflicts must take place off-world.

Over the course of the next century mankind’s native solar system was host to countless battles, from simple skirmishes to all-out Saturnicide. Dozens of moons were detonated, thousands of ships destroyed, millions of lives lost, and not a single deciding victory was achieved. It was heaven. On Earth, the military leaders of warrings nations attended regular garden parties and lawn tennis tournaments on pristine, unspoiled bluegrass, while their soldiers kicked the shit out of each other in the gaseous atmosphere of Jupiter. All previous eras were reappraised by historians and reclassified as Not That Golden, Really, while the century of space warfare was officially declared to be the The Tits.

The Tits Era, however, like all good things, was too good to last. After only one hundred years mankind was Contacted and Told To Keep It Down by the GPCSO, the galaxy’s police force (community support division). Though Man’s universe had not suddenly got bigger (we already knew it was pretty big), it had become a lot busier. After a few failed attempts to kick the multitudinal, incorporeal and often sapient arses of the GPCSO, mankind reluctantly became a tax-paying member of the Community, an alliance of thousands of races throughout the Milky Way, inasmuchas taxes exist in a post-scarcity galactic pan-society. In exchange for technology, mankind sulkily promised to down sabres and make up. The Tits Age was over.

Millenia passed and, though humanity’s baser urges were never fully eradicated, they chanelled their rage into more wholesome activities such as alcoholism, sport and full-blown alcohol-dependence. Mankind’s role in the Community, that of a Good-Time Sally, reached something in the other races and, in time, entire solar systems were levelled to create casinos and space-cocktail bars. Yet many still worry that Mankind’s lust for violence might infect the other races and drive the galaxy to total war. They hope to channel humanity’s need for conflict into galactically-popular sporting events, such as Schrodinger’s Squash, Tentacleball, and the Known Space Yacht Race (Space Race for short).

And it must be said, many humans still gaze up and strain to find the blue dot in their skies. They marvel at our perilous infancy and humble beginnings, and feel homesick for a time when there were arses that didn’t answer back when they were kicked.