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.

Nothing can stop the U.S. Air Force…recruiters

As I write this, the long weekend commemorating our nation’s birth is just behind us. Like most folks, I honored the noble deeds of our forefathers by grilling chicken, watching fireworks and flying the flag.

Independence Day is among my favorite annual events, in part because I’m unabashedly patriotic. My great-grandfather, grandfather and father all served in the military during wartime and I’m glad there’s a day set aside to commemorate the ideals they fought for.

My own military career was somewhat less auspicious. Let’s just say I didn’t always comport myself with proper military bearing and leave it at that.

But I’m thinking today of the way in which I joined up in the first place. It was the summer of ’81. My brother William and I, both recently canned from our respective places of employment, spent our days hanging out together at the home I shared with my wife and new-born daughter.

I remember it clearly, sitting there in the shade of the big front porch, swatting the occasional mosquito, wondering what we were going to do with our lives. I’m not sure which of us said, “Hey, we should join the Army or something,” but once the words were out there, it seemed the most natural idea in the world.

My wife came from a military family and when I ran the idea by her, she was all for it. (In truth, I think she would have been all for us joining the circus if it meant getting us out of the house.)

Thirty minutes later we were at the recruitment office, a building shared by four branches of the military. Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines; they each had an office there.

For no particular reason, we chose the Army. The recruiter spelled out the wonderful life that would be ours as members of the United States Army. The guy was good at his job and five minutes into his spiel and we were ready to sign on the dotted line. The recruiter left the room to grab the necessary forms.

That’s when the Marine recruiter stuck his head in the doorway and said, “You guys aren’t really joining the Army, are you? The Marines are the way to go, man. We’re the best.”

I had to admit, the Marine uniform was way cooler than the Army’s. By the time the Army recruiter returned with the forms, we were in the Marine office getting ready to sign on their dotted line instead.

The two recruiters joined in a somewhat heated discussion about “stealing” potential recruits. My brother and I waited in the main lobby while this was going on. That’s where the recruiter from the Navy found us.

“Hey,” said the Navy recruiter. “If you join the Navy, you get to keep your beard.”

This was something I hadn’t considered. I’d had a small beard since my 16^th birthday and had grown quite attached to it.

Our course seemed obvious; we would be Navy men. A glorious, manly life on the high seas, fighting pirates or Commies—didn’t matter to me. I called my wife to tell her the good news.

“Are you crazy?” she said. “You’ll be away from home for months at a time serving on some ship in the middle of the Atlantic.”

The recruiter assured her this wasn’t necessarily so and went to call his wife to talk to my wife to prove it.

While he was out of the room, the Air Force recruiter walked past and saw us sitting there alone.

A month later I was in Detroit taking my oath of allegiance prior to shipping out to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio where I would complete my basic training.

I loved my time in the Air Force, I really did. But sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if the Coast Guard had also shared an office in that building. Or the Girl Scouts, Hare Krishna’s, or Scientologists.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.