The day the Earth stands still could be coming soon

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.

Getting to know all about you

I like women. A lot. I’ve conducted a lifetime’s study of them, in fact. I’ve observed how they move, speak, smell, work, listen, love.

It’s a fascination begun when I was only six, when Mary Marie Wisniewski kissed me on the cheek in one of those cement barrels you used to see on elementary school playgrounds. The ringing of the recess bell cut short that particular study session, but I’ve been going at it full tilt ever since.

So far, the study – conducted over 57 years (and counting) – has included five wives and a large assortment of girlfriends, “just friends,” relationships, ships-which-passed-in-the-night, co-habitations and associations which are either undefinable or unfit for inclusion in a family newspaper.

Like any reputable study, mine also has had a control group: women who didn’t want anything to do with me. This latter group was larger by far, which becomes easier to believe once you get to know me. I studied the control group women, too, in hopes of learning the secrets of what Betty Friedan referred to as “The Feminine Mystique.” And yes, I read Friedan’s book of the same name, which only goes to show how serious my study has been.

Just lately I’ve been going over all my years of careful research, tallying the data, correlating the positives and negatives, the plusses and minuses. And it turns out what I’ve learned about women is this: zilch. Nada. Nothin’.

I still have no idea what makes women tick, why they do what they do, why they say what they say.

Some researchers would say mine has been a wasted life. I’m not so sure. The study, after all, was … well … fun. And continues to be so. Even if I never see any tangible results, I’ll consider it time well spent.

Still, there are some things I would really like to know before I’m too old to care anymore. I’m being serious here, or as serious as I get.

These aren’t “big questions,” just little things that have haunted my mind since that first ephemeral kiss in the cement barrel.

If any female readers care to help me out with this, I would be forever appreciative. The newspaper usually sticks my contact info at the bottom or top of this column, but just in case, you can email me at MTaylor325@gmail.com. That goes straight to me and nobody else will see it, so please, be honest.

Question 1: How the hell do women fold fitted sheets? You know, the ones with the elastic in them that go underneath the person sleeping? The Lovely Mrs. Taylor can fold one of these turkeys in six seconds flat. She’s tried to show me how to do it a dozen times, but it just doesn’t happen. It’s like some inexplicable laundry origami that only women can master.

Question 2: Why must sheets be folded in the first place? Now that I’m living on my own, I just stuff all the sheets of a set into one of the pillowcases and toss ‘em on a shelf until needed. Yes, they are a bit wrinkly when I put them on my bed again, but who’s gonna see them? Hiding the wrinkled sheets is what the comforter is for.

Question 3: And while we’re on the topic of bedding, what’s with all those extra pillows? Mrs. Taylor made sure I had a dozen decorative pillows when I moved into the little lake house. I have to throw them on the floor when I go to bed at night just to return them to the bed the next morning. Why? Another mystery.

Question 4: Why do women so often think they’re fat? I know many attractive women and they all think this. Well, there are a few who think they’re perfect, but frankly, I usually find the personalities of these to be intolerable. At any rate, whatever societal pressures are causing this delusion need to be changed, like yesterday. Mrs. T weighs about 19 pounds and she thinks she’s ready for sumo wrestling classes.

Question 5: Do women understand men any better than we understand you? Do you know what we think? (Actually, if true, this might explain a lot about the problems I’ve had with past relationships.)

Question 6: Does the perfect Valentine’s Day gift exist? I bomb at this every year and I would, just once before I die, like to get it right.

Question 7: Do women really like the movies they show on the Lifetime and Hallmark channels? Or is this just something you make us sit through when you’re angry over a forgotten anniversary?

And I guess that’s it. If I had the answers to even these few questions, I might consider my life’s work worthwhile.

C’mon, help a fella out.

I’m ready to act as earth’s interstellar ambassador

I recently read that NASA scientists expect to discover alien life “any day now.” 

Actually, the “life” the NASA scientists were referring to is microbial, at best. 

The breathless “reporter” (and I use that word oh, so loosely) made it sound as if NASA is expecting an invasion of little grey men with big eyes, chilly probes and a fascination with the human backside so unnatural it would make Sir Mix-a-Lot blush.

Frankly, any kind of alien invasion would be cool, in my opinion. 

I’d prefer the sort where benevolent, large-skulled humanoids show up with a cure for cancer and an invitation to join the Galactic Republic. But I’d settle for warty, lizard-men who need to be beaten back with nothing but crude, earth weapons and plucky, you-can’t-keep-us-down human spirit.

Anything to liven it up around here and get Donald Trump’s combover’d mug off my Facebook newsfeed. 

If aliens are planning to stop by, I’d like to be the one to make first contact. There’s nobody else I really trust with the job.

You can’t let the government do it. I’ve seen enough movies to know what happens when you get the feds involved. 

If the alien is friendly, he winds up locked away in a secret government facility, poked and prodded so thoroughly he comes to regret ever having heard the word “probe.”

If the alien is aggressive, the feds harvest his DNA to create a race of human-alien hybrids for use on the battlefield. 

So the feds are out. Likewise, kids are no good for first contact situations. All they want is to make friends with the little bug-eyed monstrosity and help E.T. phone home.

Mainstream media (I’m thinking Fox News) also wouldn’t handle the job well. They’d just try to scare the hell out of viewers by pointing out that technically, E.T. is an “illegal” alien.

Nope. It’s important our interstellar visitor contact me first. So, E.T., if you’re reading this and trying to decide where to land, I suggest my back yard.

I’ll show you where the best pubs are, introduce you to some cool humans who don’t want to harvest your DNA or stick a probe in you, and maybe put on some Aretha Franklin music. 

Hopefully, all that will convince you our two species should cooperate, rather than duke it out in an interplanetary cage fight.

It’s a big universe. There’s plenty of room for both of us.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Interpreting recent crop circles with Spaceman Mike

Crop circles are back in the news. This time, the mysterious patterns have been hacked into a wheat field in eastern Washington, presumably by space aliens.

Of course, the circles might also be the work of teenagers with a penchant for pranks and too much time on their hands, but conspiracy theorists the world over much prefer the space alien scenario. To be honest, so do I.

The most recent crop circles turned up in the field of Greg and Cindy Geib, who seem — in press interviews, at least — to be not at all upset by the damage done to their wheat crop. 

The Geibs’ field is located just 10 miles from Grand Coulee dam, the largest producer of hydropower in the U.S. Could this mean the space aliens are marking possible targets for future destruction? You know, for when they finally invade, take over the planet and herd us all into giant spaceships for nefarious purposes too horrible to discuss in polite company.

Crop circles aren’t always circular; they come in many shapes and sizes and have “appeared” in fields across the country for decades. The Geibs’ crop circle looks a lot like a four-leaf clover, leading some experts to believe the aliens perpetrating the deed were heavily influenced by last year’s St. Patrick’s Day festivities. Perhaps clover-shaped crop circles are the result of repeated attempted landings by aliens that have had one too many shots of Jameson. I know what that stuff does to my motor skills, so it’s a possibility.

The point is, no one really knows for sure. And that’s why it’s so much fun; we’re all left to our own devices when it comes to creating a possible explanation.

Some experts on crop circles (and how does one become a crop circle expert, anyway? Is there a school somewhere?) believe the markings, which are sometimes acres across, could be navigational aids for visitors from outer space.

Now, I never went to crop circle school, but it seems to me that beings that have travelled across light years to visit our little planet would at least have some space-going version of GPS. I mean, I can punch a few keys on my cell phone and get step-by-step directions to downtown Schenectady. Not that I would ever want to go there; the point is, I could, and I wouldn’t need large navigational beacons carved into some hapless farmer’s corn field to do so.

But maybe they’re not road signs for E.T. Maybe crop circles are the interstellar equivalent of “hobo signs,” the markings transients once inscribed on fences, posts or sidewalks to let other hobos know what they could expect by way of handouts in a certain town or neighborhood.

Maybe the Geibs’ crop circle, seen from space, relays a message like: “Don’t bother stopping here! These nitwits are still governed by a two-party political system. You wouldn’t believe the TV commercials during election years!”

Or perhaps they say: “This one is called Earth. Lots of fresh water, but unfortunately, the planet is infested with bipedal parasites. Request immediate extermination.”

Or maybe: “This place is just crawling with potential probe subjects! Best location for abducting ‘participants’: trailer parks in New Mexico.”

The crop circles could mean anything. Or nothing. Or they could be the work of teenagers after all. Or alien teenagers. To me, that one makes the most sense.

Out joyriding in daddy’s new spaceship with too much time on their hands. Damn kids!