Saturday, July 22, 2006 4:39 PM - Paranoidal Experiences
Current mood: Snarky
Category: Snarky - Writing and Poetry
It was 8:00, and some idiot was on my door. On Saturdays, I usually sleep in until 10 am and then watch some crappy kiddie cartoons or an old episode of MAD TV, but not today, thanks to Mr. Jerkface ringing the bell like a sadomasochistic Jehovah's Witness looking for his daily dose of verbal abuse.
I crawled out of bed like an alligator crawling from a New York sewer and grabbed my stack of metaphoric cliches as I headed to the door. Who was it this time? Amway salesman? Lame survey person? Cable guy trying to collect on the overdue bill before climbing the pole and turning it off?
No, it was those damn door-to-door space aliens again. You know, the assholes who park their freakin' mother ship in your driveway and their broken warp drive leaks gravitons all over your new concrete. Yeah, that'll come right out when you wash it with a mixture of dechyons and corbomite. Sure.
So I open the door, and before Lizardface Lameass has a chance to pitch his out-of-this-galaxy new ass implants or antigravity cleaning solution, I blurt out "We don't want any!" His sidekick, or maybe it was his wife - who can tell what gender these things are, and I ain't lifting it's tail to find out - starts crying those big alien tears. You know, the ones that kill the carpenter ants in the wood steps along with the neighborhood cats and an occasional neighbor. "Hey, I wasn't trying to upset you" I said, with my fingers crossed behind my back. "What do you want?"
"We are travelers from a galaxy far, far away." I held back a guffaw, a chortle, a snicker, and probably a bit of last night's dinner. "Our starship has run out of fuel. Could you help two stranded travelers?"
"You guys have a lotta nerve." I stepped back. "Trying to bum dilithium crystals off me at 8 in the morning! Well..." I reached behind my back, "...here's a shovel. Go dig your own!"
"But we have five children waiting in the starship. They need food and water..."
"Look, I don't care what stinkin' galaxy you're from. Get your scaly asses back on that ship and get it the Ford Prefect outta my driveway!"
They dragged tail back to the ship, and took off with a roar that only could have come from a recently filled dilithium chamber. Damn scam artists, they come from all corners of the galaxy wanting me to pay up front to have my driveway repaved or give them my bank account number to transfer ten million credits out of some alien planet.
Screw 'em. And they can keep the damn shovel.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009 8:42 PM
Paranoidal Experiences 2
Current mood: annoyed
Category: Life
It was 8:00, and my ass hurt like someone used my left cheek for a
target. On Saturdays I usually bum around like, well, a bum - but
not today, thanks to Sherlock Holmes' mystery pain in the ass.
I crawled out of bed like a tarantula with a hernia and grabbed the phone book to look for a clinic that can fix a pain in the ass without being a pain in the ass pocket. Not the free clinic - they can't even fix a pinky hangnail. Not the urgent care clinic - their idea of "urgent" is they see you when you drop.
I showed up at the emergency room at Our Lady Of Pain And Suffering. Some joker offered me a chair. Suck bedpans and die, dude. They took me to X-ray, and a few sharp pains later I got the answer to the $64,000 medical bill pyramid question - they would operate to remove a "foreign object" from my ass.
And it finally hit me like a large stack of printed metaphorical cliches falling off a shelf - I was abducted by aliens back in college.
Two fraternity guys in this weird engineering class project "concept car" thing offered me a ride to their frat party. Well, I thought they were frat brothers, because they had something Greek-looking on their shirts. We got to the party, and some girl put something in my rum and coke that must have been Rigellian Roofies, because next thing I know I was lying face-down and butt-up on the couch in the morning.
Now it all made sense - as much sense as anything makes when you've had enough anesthesia in an operating room to knock out a Klingon.
So now I walk around butt-locator free, and no aliens can tell when
I'm in the newspaper reading room whether it's number 1 or number 2.
But when it's number 2, you know I'm thinking of them all the way.
Saturday, February 03, 2007 2:31 PM - Deleted Users
Current mood: crazy
Category: Lost In Space - MySpace
I kept getting messages from this guy "Deleted User." He kept bugging me to add him, to view his profile, to sign up for his adult dating service, to join his Myspace Internet Pyramid Marketing group, and to send money to Nigeria. So I finally added him just to shut him up. It worked!
Now I'm not recommending that everybody do this, but you've got to remember that even deleted users have feelings. Maybe not feelings like normal people on Earth, but more like the feelings a space alien would have if you stepped on his right anterior tentacle. Sure, they scream "Zignat!" (that's alien for "owieeee!") and accept your apology - but it goes way further than that. You've injured their pride, their dignity, their very sense of being. Who will soothe the damaged ego of a Beliosian octopod? Think about it.
So, the next time you see a "Deleted User" pop up on your screen, think twice before denying him the simple human contact he craves. Give a second thought to who is on the other end of that profile - a living, breathing, feeling being with basic emotional needs crying out to be met. Then, and only then, you can give him a third thought - deny their sorry human or alien ass and report them to Myspace as the evil spamming vermin they are.
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