Point one – Sagan should be damn thankful he got this record out before the rise of the P.M.R.C. (http://www.philagora.org/about-the-world/pmrc1.htm). There’s no way they’d’ve let a record sleeve be published with pictures of boobs and ‘special fruit’ or specially cock n’ balls on it. They would’ve insisted, at the very least, that the guy be wearing undies. This is after all -Patriarchy- where the woman’s body is an object to be gazed at, but the schlong is taboo.
Instead of all that hydrogen and solar system jazz they should’ve just had lots of pictures of cocks, inter-continental ballistic missiles, submarines, sky scrapers, and Chiko Rolls. Although the scientific Mafia will try hard to not let it, conventional chemistry could be rendered dippy in a decade, while symbolism is ageless.
It’s great though, innit? It’s like he’s saying, “Hi, I’m nude!”
she: Me too, and I even shaved!
he: Together, we’re Whitey, and we run this planet.
she: you mean, you run the planet.
he: whatever! Also, I’m circumcised.
Point two: Who the fuck made carl sagan intergalatic ambassador anyway? All he did was write a book and talk in a funny accent. That’s some major coup if you ask me — just happen to be a space-dude born on the continent with the most weapons during a particularly boomy decade and you get to shape the first impressions of humans in the eyes/eye-storks of dozens of alien races.
They could rock up in 50 years or even tomorrow and be like, “Doo! Where’s Sagan?” and we’ll be like, “He’s dead already” and they won’t be impressed and use us for target practice.