Miss me? I know you have. I’ve been gone a while on important business—my quest, of course, for whoever or whatever made my head, ergo, my missing parental unit. It occurred to me a while ago (that’s the best I can do—I have a lousy sense of time passing) as I was standing around not doing much because, well, I can’t do much without assistance, that maybe what I’m looking for does not exist on this planet. Maybe I have an alien progenitor. I admit that this thought came to me while watching Battlefield Earth. If you’re wondering why I would watch a movie that rated a dismal 3% on the Tomatometer and was described as “ugly, campy, poorly acted…a stunningly misguided, aggressively bad sci-fi folly,” a film that “won” eight Golden Raspberry Awards and Worst Picture of the Decade in 2010, my response would be this: what fricking choice did I have? My hands, even if they had opposable thumbs (they don’t) and I could move them (I can’t), are too small to operate the remote control. I watch whatever RatBlurt watches and you already know what poor taste he has.
So, making lemonade out of lemons from this experience, which you’ll have to drink because I can’t, I pondered the film and was struck by this idea. Aliens must have made this tawdry tale about the “giant humanoid alien” Psychios ruling our planet in the year 3000. Anyone seeing the movie would think, man, this is so fricking ridiculous that beings from outer space must be just a figment of our fevered imaginations and now I can chuck them off my worry list and sleep better at night. Thus, we let our guard down and open the world to the real aliens taking it over by putting on human-like skins and usurping our leadership while farting a lot. If you don’t believe this is possible, see the “Aliens of London” episode of Doctor Who or, alternatively, turn on any of the major cable news channels.
My second thought was that maybe I’m an alien, too. I’m weird-looking enough in an ultra-charmingly sexotic way. (Oh, crap. Now he’s got me doing the stupid make-up-words thing!) Anyway, I haven’t seen anything or anyone that looks remotely as good as I do. What does that tell me? That I was left behind like ET and just need to phone home or find some way to return to my place of origin. And then I saw it. It’s been sitting there innocently on the kitchen counter ever since I can remember and that must be a hell of a long time because I can’t remember how long I can remember. I know what you’re thinking just now: What? What is it? Either that or “doesn’t she ever shut up?”
To answer the second question, first. No, frick-face, and if you don’t like my stories, you are obviously a being of little distinction and bad breeding. And the first question second, the “it” is a very subtly disguised transporter. I’m sure of it. My first task was to get myself into position on the device, which I managed quite handily. I won’t tell you how I accomplished that because you wouldn’t believe me if I did. (Hint: see Dr. Bruce Goldberg’s “What is teleportation?“) Anyway, one moment I was occupying my normal position on you-know-who’s desk and then, after hearing a loud “pop,” I was suddenly in place on the device as you can see, ready to go boldly where this rubberhead has never gone before, at least not that I can remember because…oh right, I said that already.
As for what happened next, that’s a tale for another day because I know I’ve already stretched your meager attention span well beyond the “make it stop!” point. As a teaser, though, I will let you know that my spacecapade involves the Tralfamadorians, whipped cream, and a dog-eared copy of A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Stay tuned.