Maybe you’ve already read the recent New
York Times report, the one concerning all the UFO sightings that
allegedly took place between 2004 and 2005. Most were made by Navy pilots flying
training maneuvers at around 30,000 feet.
These glimpses of Little Green Men (or
their spacecraft) became so frequent the Navy recently issued guidelines for
reporting the phenomena. Likewise, the Department of Defense has been
investigating E.T. since 2007, though so far, nobody’s asked to phone home.
I myself once saw what can only be
categorized as a UFO. It was unidentified, it was flying and it was definitely
an object. I stood less than 20 yards from the thing as it silently lifted off
from a moonlit, 2 a.m. cornfield. Yes, really. Scared the bejeebers outta me,
lemme tell ya.
But that’s a story for another time. Today
I want to talk about the more recent events in the world of tinfoil hats,
mysterious abductions and – ahem – probes.
Despite having seen one myself (or
having seen something inexplicable),
I remain skeptical regarding the impending invasion. I mean, I suppose an alien
apocalypse is possible, and heaven knows it would be fun to watch from a
distance, but I’m guessing the reality behind most of these sightings is far
more mundane.
Then again, I could be wrong. It’s
happened before. Occasionally. Frequently. OK, it happens all the time. My
point is, it’s at least possible big-eyed, grey spacemen from the planet B6-12
do exist and they regularly drop by Earth just to mess with farmers and the
kind of guys who carry a half-drunk six pack of PBR nestled in the passenger
seat of their F-150.
Even if that is the case, I’m not
worried. Not about the aliens, anyway. No, I’m concerned about that
all-important “first contact.” It’s important we humans put our best foot
forward. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I believe Earth’s official foot
should be … well … mine.
I’m uniquely qualified for the job. Not
only have I seen every episode of Star
Trek, but I’ve watched all the Alien
movies at least three times, even the really lousy ones. I know how these
interstellar types think.
And I’m far mellower than anyone who
might be appointed to the task by some stuffed shirt in Washington. Given the current
regime, I can barely imagine who might be chosen for the gig. I don’t know
about you, but I don’t want some former fashion model or the CEO of Enron
talking to the visiting alien ambassador before I have a chance to explain to
him (or her, or it) how things really work around here.
Finally, I know how to show an
out-of-town visitor a good time. After travelling 6 million light years to get
here, Klaatu and his big robot are going to want to unwind a bit, not jump
right into their mission to enslave humanity while pointing the Death Star at
Earth in order to make way for a hyperspace bypass.
He (or she, or it) will be looking for a
chance to unwind, maybe down a couple cocktails while sampling Earth cuisine at
a downtown pub. He (or she, or it) might even be interested in hooking up with
a nice girl (or guy, or creature to be determined later).
I know a lot of girls and guys and even
a few creatures. I think I could make that happen.
Once I’ve shown our visiting Outer Limits expatriate some of the nice
things Earth has to offer, maybe he (or she, etc.) will be less likely to order
our annihilation.
Naturally, I’ll expect to be fairly
compensated for my efforts. I don’t want to seem greedy, but I’m thinking
Oregon. I’ve always wanted to be emperor of something and Oregon would be a
nice start.
Whatever; we can work that out later.
The key thing is to get me and the alien ambassador together as soon as
possible, before some amateur who hasn’t seen every episode of Star Trek gets in there and starts
messing things up.
I’m the guy for the job, believe me
(which is exactly the sort of thing a guy who is absolutely not the guy for the job would say, but
ignore that fact).
With me at the helm, humanity can rest
easy, secure in the knowledge that the fate of the world is in good hands. As
good as any it’s in at the moment, at least.
And if something should go wrong, just
tell the big robot, “Klaatu barada nikto.” Trust me, human.
