Humor: Fueled by Petrol

Mark Denarius went into the hospital with a rare ailment….but he wasn’t sick. His complaint wasn’t a complaint, but rather he was sent in for treatment of a disease which seemed to have no effect on him. Despite testing positive for the viral infection, he was symptom-free. In fact, he was not ill at all.

Which is why his doctor sent him in. Where there should have been a sick man, there was a healthy carcass. This was disturbing to everyone involved, including our poor Mr. Denarius, who was fearful lest his a-symptomatic illness develop symptoms.

And so it was that the HMO which had agreed to insure Mr. Denarius authorized tests to determine the extent of his illness and the cause of his good health. Was there something special about the stout fellow, some trait not shared with the rest of the race, which gave him a special immunity against this virus?

Mr Denarius said he hoped so. His doctor said he hoped so. The nurses and lab people all said they hoped so.

And it was so.

Which left everyone very happy, right?

No quite.

The doctors, nurses, lab techs were all happy. At first, Mr. Denarius and his family were happy.

And all went well for everyone for several weeks; then the letter from the HMO arrived, special delivery.

Now Mr. Denarius was by this time well aware that he did indeed possess a special immunity against his little virus. The lab had confirmed that within Mr. Denarius’ cells, deep inside the amazingly complicated chemical factory within them, a protein was being produced which rendered the virus harmless.

Amazing. One in a trillion. More. The ancestors of Mr. Denarius had labored long and clueless, working towards this special mutation which would render this one particular virus harmless to all their descendants. And only Mr. Denarius was ever found to make this protein.

One would think it would be a case of the Beverly Hillbillys all over again; Jed strikes oil on his land, he is presumed the owner and becomes very wealthy, since oil is something nobody has and everybody wants.

Mr. Denarius had, in fact, been humming the theme song from the television show for some time at this point, much to the annoyance of his wife and hopeful amusement of his children….all of whom were anxious to cash in on this un-looked for bonanza….and all buried deeply in Papa Denarius’ cells, where it was safe from marauders and thieves. Papa was, in fact, being very well cared for by all his loving relatives, even those who previously had perhaps been more aloof than familiar. And all because of the busy little chemical factory, deep in the Elder Denarius’ cells, making the special protein that nobody had and everybody wanted.

Especially the HMO, who had filed a patent on the protein the minute they had it isolated.

And of course, it looks like it will be granted, since the American courts have been issuing patents on these little things for some years now. Several Americans in Mr. Denarius’ shoes could have told him what he might have guessed; he didn’t own his own proteins!

The HMO will, soon as the patent is issued.

In the meantime, the letter poor Denarius received was an injunction against him selling, distributing, licensing, producing or using as a medicine….his own protein.

Of course, he got a lawyer.

And his lawyer told him that the way it looked, as soon as the patent was granted, the HMO had every right to prohibit Mr. Denarius from manufacturing the protein, even in his own cells!

The lawyer said though, that he was sure he could get a special waiver from the rightful, legal owners of the protein that would allow Denarius to continue on making the protein within himself, so long as Denarius was willing to allow these same rightful owners access to their property.

In other words, if Denarius wanted to keep breathing, legally, he would have to strike a deal with the HMO and allow them to mine his body for the protein

Of course, the lawyer said, he could be sure that the HMO would pay all his legal fees and even give Denarius a small stipend for his trouble.

And so it went; The Patent was issued, the lawyer got paid, Mr. Denarius was allowed to continue on in good health because the HMO which owned the rights to his protein graciously allowed him a special license to manufacture it.

But they canceled his insurance.

For non-disclosure of a pre-existing condition.

The small stipend barely covers Mr. Denarius’ medical expenses related to allowing the HMO access to his still- breathing carcass to harvest their protein from his cellular factories.

But there is hope.

Mr. Denarius is fleeing American Jurisprudence for other pastures. Of course, this is illegal, as it will not allow the HMO access to its Patented Protein, and therefore also will deny the benefits of the magical chemical from others who are afflicted with the same illness, but then, perhaps the Chinese, or the Cubans, or some other country will allow Mr. Denarius to profit from his own “oil strike”, much as Jed did from his oil find, so long ago and in that dimensionless realm, television. And then Mr. Denarius will become a Capitalist, after all, capitalizing on his odd fortune, but probably not in the home of capital, America.

Image via Wikipedia

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Advertisers go after celebrity Breasts….on the heels of the recent California Court ruling that the “Authorities” can prosecute nude sunbathers even when they are nuding it at places traditionally allowed and accepted as nudist beaches, the bright boys in advertising have hit upon the novel idea of paying B list starlets to go topless in busy Metropolitan areas, the logo of a paying advertiser emblazoned on her (or his) breasts.

“There is a lot of truth in the old adage that says “Hemlines Follow the Dow”. explained the CEO of Upfront Media, the Silicon Valley upstart firm touting the advertising method. (I want you to appreciate how difficult it was to get all the words “silicon, firm, upfront, upstart and touting all in the same sentence).

He elaborated, “When money gets tight, Americans get Uptight. Everybody starts to wonder if they have been bad. Is God punishing us? Should we start being “better”? It is basic to the Puritan thinking that lies just beneath the normally ribald American take on life. When they can’t afford the name-brand whiskey and have to accept the bar “call”, hemlines go down and we all try to be a little more moral. So it is with this new Court thing, where they are going to let the Cops go down to Black’s Beach in San Diego and cite the natives for going native. Positively ruinous, as far as the fringe tourist element goes, but that’s what happens when the market crashes….the Judge’s portfolio goes Pfutt, the Judge has to quit paying the rent for his mistress and there we are….a ruling that is counter to everything American has stood for since we invented the Speakeasy back during Prohibition.”

I was having a little trouble following……

“But if what you say is true, and Americans get prudish during an economic depression, why are you going the other way? Won’t the backlash against the idea of Touting Trade on Tits do advertisers more harm than good?”

For the run-of-the-mill advertiser, sure. Absolutely. We don’t advocate advertising babies diapers on Pamela Anderson’s chest. But we do have a very serious offer from a tobacco company to place an ad on that very billboard. We are in negotiations with the principles right now concerning the city, time of day and duration of the display. We expect a world-wide following of the first showing of the ad. It will be a real media event, with web-casts, news helicopters, the works. Pamela will even have a microphone concealed on her, so we can follow the conversations she has with people on the street. It will be a smash. The tobacco brand expects to sell 1.7 million packs in the week before the shoot and over five million within 24 hours of Pam’s debut.”

The Ad Man was all smiles.

I was shocked; these men would stop at nothing! To put poor Pamela at risk of incarceration, like a common trollop! I was outraged and let him know it. He was unfazed.

“Look Jimmy. We aren’t dunces. Pamela won’t actually be nude. We are going to paint her upper body with body paint to look just like she does in the nude, but better. No tan lines. Not that she has any, but you see what I mean. The whole thing will be documented on a pre-show web-cast and beamed directly to the world. That includes the police dept. They won’t dare arrest her…we have the D.A.’s of over twenty of the largest American cities all in line. Some were a little slow on the uptake, but the Mayors all know their cities benefit from this kind of publicity. Tourism will be up, up, up!”

“Really?” I asked, nonplussed, “She really can’t get arrested? And people will like it?”

“You bet. This is the biggest thing in advertising since Lady Godiva. Godiva Chocolate wouldn’t even exist if she hadn’t paraded down main street naked. Vice America will love it.”

He had me won over. I was thinking furiously…..what with a “branding” like this, my column could go “viral”! I could be a star! I could be there when they painted “WWW.JimmyPetrol.com” on my heartthrob’s chest!

“Can you get Jamie Lee Curtis?” I asked, hopefully…

Image by angela n. via Flickr

We got a bad table in a restaurant the other day and ended up having California Roll and Infomercial for lunch.

Now, it’s been a long time since any of us at Petrol Central had seen a baby, but there on the Tele was baby after baby. Reading.

Well, the proud parents said they were reading, as well as a plethora of professional “child development” people, so I have to admit that those babies were reading. Nothing proves a thing like a professional saying something is or isn’t so.

But Amazed we were, what with the Tots ranging in age from what looked like six months and up. What next? We began to wonder what those little pooping machines could do if they were put up to it properly. After all, if they can read……

And it came to us. We knew some people with babies. Maybe they would let us borrow a couple for our research! Everyone knows that parents of babies need an occasional break from the critters….especially now that they are likely to start stealing the morning Times at the good old breakfast table!

So I got Kat to call around and borrow a baby. She had to fib a little and tell them I was out of town, but she finally got some people we know to let us have one on consignment.

We got the little thing all juiced up on Kool Aid and Gerber’s and went to work.

At first, we had a little trouble getting the little pads from the brain-scan machine to stick to its head, what with all that slobber and all, but we found that a mixture of pate’ and bourbon whiskey worked well enough. Then we got into it in a serious way.

First thing we tried was just showing the House Ape common stuff, like pictures of animals, buildings and things like that. We documented the brain-wave patterns with Kat’s laptop. There didn’t seem to be any pattern. The little critters brains seemed to be all over the place…it was as if they knew absolutely nothing and every stimulus was as likely to fire one neuron as any other.

Frustrated by this initial lack of measurable intelligence on the part of our borrowed baby, we began to try more radical stratagems.

And it worked.

Beyond our wildest expectations, we can now tell you categorically, your baby can write.

With our newly developed “Writing the Classics for Babies”, your little Rug Rat can out-do your friends “reading” babies hands down.

All that is required is that you purchase from us, at our cost*, the brain-wave sensors and “translating” modem, which you can hook directly to your home computer. Then, using our unique “Baby Movie Viewer”, your little ball of slobber can begin to pump out classics for the amazement of your friends.

What happens is this: your baby gets to see, through the technological miracle of the aforementioned special “Baby Movie Viewer”, any number of specially mastered Classics on film. Romeo and Juliet is a favorite.

The baby, seeing the film through the amazing “Baby Movie Viewer” and using our specially educationally mastered films, will produce a letter perfect copy of the original book, right there on your computer.

Yes, that’s right. The whole thing. Word for word. The little blubber ball, seeing the Film version of the Classic and having is little neurons expertly stimulated by our software, will be able to provide you with written proof of it’s amazing intellect. Imagine owning your own copy of Romeo and Juliet, produced by your very own baby!

Act now. We anticipate that these amazing educational packages will be available for a very limited time, depending on when the State Attorney General gets wind of it. We understand they hate babies in the Capital and don’t want your baby to succeed.

Act Now!

Remember….your own intellect is best demonstrated when your babies are proven brilliant!

*Our “cost” plus shipping, packaging and other variable charges.

Image via Wikipedia

(Oddly enough, this article is based in fact…sort of…see link at end for the facts).

In response to the American Public’s new acceptance of a “genetic” view of personal fitness, the U.S. Surgeon General issued a call for the military to follow suit and allow more patriotic Americans to serve in their country’s wars.

“It is old, chauvinistic thinking that says the “larger” American is “unfit for duty”. In this enlightened age, we now must accept that some citizens are pre-disposed to obesity and the myriad of physical handicaps which are brought on by obesity. We can no longer discriminate against these loyal Americans and prevent them from Military Service if we are truly to serve our citizens as a democracy. All Americans must be given the opportunity to serve their country”.

Legal scholars nationwide are scrambling to address this new legal challenge. Said one, an attorney who specializes in Obesity Discrimination Lawsuits; “The Government has opened an interesting point….are Americans who demand access to every job, who sue to be allowed equal access to every public place and public job…are these same Americans draft-bait after all?”

While the attorney in question has asked to remain happily un-named, we questioned his use of the term “draft-bait”.

“OK,” he said, “‘draft-bait’ is technically incorrect, since there is currently no draft. But my clients have often told me privately that they were happily immune to military service. Indeed, many of my clients have never worked a day in their lives…they can barely move, let alone work. This whole idea that the obese be allowed to enter the Military is ludicrous. What are they going to do, just put them in a Hummer and let them drive around?”

While the Military declined to comment on the possible uses for Obese military personnel, it is quite likely that Military Placement Techniques could be used to utilize any the Obese as drivers, cooks, air traffic controllers, bomb-disposal personnel, postal-workers or any of a plethora of military occupations currently filled with what have traditionally been called “physically fit” Americans.
Thanks to an expanded consciousness that allows Americans to be proud of their personal body shape regardless of chauvinistic and outdated measures of fitness, beauty and even intelligence, Americans who have been previously marginalized will now be allowed to serve their country as never before.
Critics of the suggested changes have charged that the government is just trying to make the changes because of the fact that the majority of “draft age” Americans are now deemed unfit to military service because they are obese, cannot pass the written examinations or have a criminal record.

Said one critic, “It isn’t fair to put these boys in the military.  They are unable to stop eating, drinking, stealing and didn’t pay attention in school, so they don’t know how to do anything.  Society has failed them.  So the fit, hard working American youths will just have to do the fighting and dieing…these poor unfortunates have it hard enough already without asking them to serve in the military.”

Go to http://forums.goupstate.com/eve/forums/a/tpc/f/8661098265/m/8431051839 to read the actual facts of American Fitness for duty.

Image by Wikpedia

Well, it happened. The little critters that usually come out at night and edit my stuff got drunk and screwed it all up.   ” Fliers”.     Really.

So now I’m suffering.

Ha! you say. But I am.

See, those Aliens kind of figure I’m some sort of Mascot, or Alien Representative, now that they gave me my little tour; the upshot is that they expect me to be able to spel. Spell.

They are so bad. I am now captive on the “little” spaceship again, but only for a couple of days, until I larn to spel.

They promise.

But I sneaked down to the communications room and seduced the radio-alien into letting me post this little note to all of you who busted my spelling on  Monday.

I’ll Be Back.

My favorite Movie line….been waiting a long time to use it, sorry.

But I will. I only have to learn to use the dictionary, so it won’t be too bad. They think, with tutoring, that I can master the thing in another day or so. It’s heavy. I don’t like it. I’m gonna swat me some drunk fairies when I get back to Petrol Central. And if I find out they’ve been peeing in the Think Tank again (they were really drunk Fairies) …well…..

See you Friday.

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With the great majority of Americans feeling the pinch from the meltdown of the Great American Ponzi Scheme (the Growth Economic Model), airlines are losing customers to less expensive modes of transportation, buses.

While stronger airlines are discounting seats below costs in an effort to drive the more marginal carriers into bankruptcy and out of the market, they are usually unable to match the Bus on shorter hops, like the Tucson to Phoenix run. For these “commuter” hops, the more frugal person now must often take the bus. To see how these Former Flyers are faring, I though I’d take  the Bus to Phoenix.

Immediately upon arriving at the Bus Depot, the differences between the American Airport and the American Bus port began to thrust themselves upon me.

First, there was no parking structure. I parked some blocks away and hoofed it towards the terminal. I was just around the first corner when I discovered I had left my travel case in the car and went back for it. To my surprise, the car was driving away. The driver spun the car around and sped off towards I-10; as it whizzed by, I noticed a new, sporty bumper sticker on it’s rear bumper. “Tijuana or Bust”. I knew then that the car had been stolen by a professional gang…they were undoubtedly headed for Nogalas and had put the “Tijuana” sticker on to throw off the Police Dept. I stumbled back towards the Bus Depot, heart light in the knowledge that the car was not mine, but borrowed.

Upon arriving at the actual terminal some minutes later, the benefits of Bus Travel began to become more apparent. Lack of parking paled when compared to the offers a young lady near the doors made to me. Blushing and waving my Press Card I barged past her and several young men who seemed to provide the “Steward” services so often lacking on the Bus. They had a variety of intoxicants for sale; the lack of alcohol on the Bus need not be a concern for the Former Flyer who likes a little “bracer” before takeoff.   For a trifle, one can get a small “rock” at the Bus and, if time permits, the services of the aforementioned young lady, which are sure to exceed the general level of service provided by the often sultry, but seldom serviceable, stewardess of the air.

So far, I could see that Successful Busing would entail rather more of a “Boy Scout” approach to travel; one must come prepared for every contingency, unlike the Airline Customer. Where Security on the airlines may preclude the possession of the “bong” or small pipe,  condoms or vials of MD 20/20, the bus is just the place to bring them along. I fondly remember a trip I made as a young Soldier, through New Mexico on the bus. A farmer and I shared a “bota” bag of wine with a young Hippie in the back of the Vista-Cruiser. By the time we reached Santa Fe, we were all confirmed bus people.

In the Tucson terminal, things seemed much the same as any small American air terminal, so long as that terminal was located back in 1950.

I ambled up to the counter and took my place in line behind a perfect cross section of Americana. For some moments I was pleased; there were only a few people in line before me.

But it soon became apparent that there was a hitch, or hold-up, with the couple holding conference with the ticket agent. Their bus, a connection in their longer journey from point “A” to point “D” via points “B” and Tucson (point “C”, for the Raytheon Crowd), had been canceled. Another bus would be along in the morning about six, but the couple was  rather put out. They had been traveling for some time, it would seem, and had been looking forward to the night trip Northward to rest and recuperate.

The agent seemed less accommodating than Airline ticket agents.

“What do you mean there isn’t another bus until tomorrow morning?” Snarled the lady of the couple, “We’ve been on the bus for twenty-eight hours and we’re dead on our feet!” She looked at her husband for support. He seemed content to let her handle the hitch in their travel plans and looked around the station in a casual manner.

The lady took a calmer stance; it was clear she could not induce the Bus Company to materialize a Northbound Bus until morning.

“Just give us a voucher for a hotel and a new boarding pass and we’ll come back in the morning.” She even smiled over the counter at the ticket agent. Hers was a will to persevere and take a few lumps with the smooths.

The ticket agent stood and blinked at her.

“We ain’t gonna give you any voucher for a hotel, lady. You just have to take care of it yourself.” The agent seemed to be a little more snippy than I was used to as an Airline Customer. He smiled a pinched little smile across the counter and went on.

“And you can’t stay here. We don’t allow any sleepin’ round here.” The agent was smiling. A firm kind of smile that said “Screw You”. I was nonplussed.

The Lady took the news hard. She fidgeted. She looked at her mate. He looked at the nice lady outside the main doors who offered Stewardess services to travelers.

“Look, we don’t have any extra money for a hotel. Can’t you get us on another bus going North? We don’t have to take our original route. Send us through Seattle if you have to. Just get us on a bus.” The lady was too tired to take on the ticket agent, I thought; she was trying diplomacy. I could have told her it wouldn’t work. I was beginning to see the way the Bus worked. It wasn’t like the Airplanes at all. I wondered how it would come out, customer service-wise; the Bus would surely come through with some way to aid and mollify this sterling couple, set adrift at the Tucson Terminal by an unscheduled Bus Company Cancellation.

But I was wrong. From nowhere came a couple of stout Security Guards. Their manner was firm.

“You’ll have to leave the terminal, lady. The terminal is only for people who have a Bus leaving within the hour. All others have to wait somewhere else.”

Finally roused from his frank and approving appraisal of the Stewardess at the door, the male of the couple whipped his head around and confronted the fellow from Security.

“Look here,” he began, “ we haven’t any place to go. They canceled our bus. It isn’t our fault we’re stuck here all night. We’ll just sit in the corner and wait for the morning bus. It won’t be any trouble.” His manner was friendly, but firm. It was clear he was used to better times and Airlines. He smiled at the Rent-a-Cop and picked up his bags to walk away.

To my surprise, the guards grabbed the travelers by the arms and pushing them along at a good clip, shoved them out the doors to join the throng of party purveyors outside. The guards continued out with them and stood at the door, pointing down the street toward Tucson’s vibrant downtown district. The couple had a few last words for the Security team and stumbled off. Clearly, they were neophytes when it came to Bus Company Procedures.

Thinking better of the whole thing, I slunk off after them. Maybe we could share a cab. My car would be in Nogalas by now and I thought Home sounded safest of all options.

Anyway, my bus had been canceled.

Image by express000 via Flickr

Voters will head for the polls tomorrow in what appears to be record numbers. Not only are many Tucsonians voting who normally spend election day with more fruitful pursuits, but we are hearing that they are more informed than ever before.

Of course, this is due entirely to the widespread use of Media Advertisements and clever posturing.

To see how this will affect tomorrow’s election, we took to the streets this past weekend and asked the voters how they will vote.

“Me?” asked our first interviewee, Silas P. Horsenrider, whom we found perched on a bar-stool in one of Tucson’s oldest and most revered beer-joints, “I’m not voting for any of them City Hall guys who wasted all that money an Rio Nuev-bo. That’s for sure.” When asked who he would be voting for, Silas said simply, “Them other guys.”

The consensus was heavily in favor of “Them other guys” in the bar, so we left and sought other demographics.

At the Mall, we felt, we would find a better cross-section of Tucson-a-cana. Our first subject was clear on her views.

“We have to elect someone who knows what Tucson needs for the future. Someone who has their finger on the pulse of the economy. Someone who lives in my neighborhood.” When asked where she lived, our subject declined to elaborate, but her Hummer had gate-pass stickers for one of the more exclusive gated Tucson Communities. Her body-guard was of Eastern European descent.

Next we tried to pick the brains of some barely-legals who were haunting the food court.
“Election?” several said, in lock-step unison. “Election? Is it time to vote again? Is Obama winning?” We left the next leaders of America and went out into the parking lot.

“Officer!” We had spied one of Tucson’s Finest, on a bicycle. He wheeled over and took our I.D., ran a “wants and warrants” and gave us a ticket for standing in the street. Then he asked us what crime we would like to report.

“The election, officer. The election. How will you vote?” This we shouted from the curb, as we had learned quickly to stay out of the street.

“Election! If we had more policemen, I would have time to run you in for interfering with the vote!”
We scurried away, hoping to escape a Federal Rap.

The rest of the day went much the same. Wherever Tucson voters were accosted, the results were similar. When voting, Tucson Voters tend to vote for themselves.

We predict the groups that have the least work to do on election day will carry the vote.

Everybody else will be too busy trying to make ends meet to get out and vote for a new crop of “Urban Planners”.

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To read the rest of “Alien Abduction, go to WWW.JimmyPetrol.com

(Alien Abduction notes, Continued from 19 Oct ‘09).

I tried to keep my mind from wandering to the Macabre as I made my stealthy way down the gentle, forested slope toward the unmistakable scent of BBQ. The noises began to sort themselves out into two groups; one the sounds of humans in general disorder and complaint, the other clear, light, mirth-some voices. Aliens! ‘Till now, I had not heard them speak. But it was easy to tell the Alien voices from the human’s. For one thing, they sounded like happy, contented voices….like the voices you hear at a really fine restaurant in between contended champing and lip smacking. The two groups seemed to be at odds, one so happy, the other so lame and discontent.

The winding trail I was following led gently down into the large depression. As I went deeper into the glen, it became more and more like an earth-side county park. Strewn about in little glades and clearings were what looked like picnic tables and benches, albeit the sort that you might get if you had a contest and all the artists with saws and plaster got busy out-designing each other to win a prize. Here was a bench shaped like a large “U”, there a table high in a tree, with convenient limbs padded and used for the benches. How you would get plates and food up there I could not guess. But it all was pretty interesting, not to mention that I was in a forest aboard a spacecraft. All this tended to rather occupy my attention and so it was a surprised Jimmy Petrol that suddenly burst out of the dense little forest and into a clearing filled with Aliens.

They all had their backs to me, so they didn’t see me right off. The clearing was actually a shore; just beyond there lay a little lake, full of water and out about fifty yards, an island with humans all lined up around the edge. The aliens were all standing around laughing at them. A few male Aliens (who looked very much like the female Aliens, but with a more stocky, shorter build) were standing right along the shore, holding ropes attached to what looked to be life preservers. The life preservers were floating in the water in the vicinity of the little group of humans, but none of them seemed inclined to be rescued.

I was taking it all in when a couple of Aliens closest to me turned and began taking me in. They were busy gnawing on BBQ ribs and didn’t stop. They said something Alien over their shoulders and some of the other nearby Aliens drifted over to take me in as well.

All in all, I was quite confused. Why were the humans so standoffish? It looked like they were trying to avoid capture; indeed, now that I had been spotted, a few on the island took to waving in my direction and yelling “Run, run!” The Aliens just kept chomping on ribs and, I am not kidding, corn on the cob.

Of course, the whole thing was too “Alice in Wonderlands” for me to understand. I couldn’t have been more confused if I had been reading the editorial pages of the Wall Street Journal; everything seemed to be twisted all out of shape and context until almost anything was believable!

Eventually, I spied the food-pile and cook- fire. Around it were a couple of Alien men, cooking ribs and corn. Next to them was a good old-fashioned picnic table. From where I stood I could make out the “US Forest Service” burnt into its wooden legs. The humans continued to yell, the fishers cast and re-cast life-preserver lines, catching nothing, and the rest of the Aliens kept gnawing and chatting.

Seemingly free to do as I pleased, I trickled over towards the foodstuffs. The Aliens let me by, some smiling down at me, others ignoring me. When I got over to the table, one of the cooks popped a plate in my hands and slapped a couple of beef-rib looking articles onto it. An ear of corn was quickly added. I ignored the strident yelling coming from my fellow ex-patriots on the little island,  sat down under a small Oak tree and dug in.

The party went on much the same, but eventually all the ribs were gone and the Aliens were laying around in little grassy areas just like JP. I could see the humans out on their little island; they were less agitated now that the Alien guys had given up on the life-preserver-fishing idea, but they were talking in little groups and pointing at me. It looked like any human committee meeting I had ever seen….it might take them days to reach any kind of consensus! I ignored them and picked my teeth with a handy stick.

The Aliens were having a similar talk, pointing at me from time to time, eyebrows raised, voices hushed. Eventually a delegation appeared at my doorstep; one of the cooks and a female somewhat older looking than the rest. She was still very Barbie-like, in that she was easily seven feet tall and willowy. They smiled down at me, so I thought I would play the humble guest instead of the frightened prey as my relatives on the island had chosen.

Rising, I smiled back up at them, and clasping my hands together in Oriental Fashion in front of me, I gave a little bow. I am happily at your service, I meant to say.

“We wonder why you are not with your kind over on the little island?” It was the woman Alien who spoke. Her eyes sparkled and the corners of her mouth were turned up in a quizzical smile. Her escort, a young male of only about six-and-a-half feet, cocked his head and raised one eyebrow.

Thinking quickly, I thought that it might be advantageous to distance myself from the stranded humans. They were, I noted, stranded and taunted with fishing lines. They were all lined up along the shore, silent now for the first time, staring with wild eyes at our little conference. They reminded me of the herds of Zebra and Gazelle you see on “Wild Kingdom”, all standing in a bunch watching a former relative being eaten by lions. Perhaps I would not be human today.

I shot my delegation a puzzled look, with one eyebrow raised as well and asked, “My Kind, your grace? Do you mean those Apes across the little water?” They widened their eyes in obvious surprise. I had them going, so I kept on.

“I am from the World of Shadows, your grace, far from this planet. I am only here to observe these primitive creatures. A spy, they would call it here. I come to be here to watch and see that they do not become a threat to the Galaxy.”

This seemed to set them back a bit. They exchanged quizzical looks, lowered one eyebrow and raised the other. The male was the rasher of the two; he bit.

“From what World do you come? And why are you not afraid as the other Apes? Why do you eat our food and mix with us without fear. Indeed, I am told you have already made a sexual suggestion to the Ship’s Queen. Are you dim-witted?”

The male was obviously miffed over my earlier attempts to engage in a scientific study of the Alien’s anatomy. Perhaps he was jealous.

“Ah, you have heard, then, that I am a great Scientist. When I first saw that I was among a race of Gods, I was naturally eager to document the physiology of such a creature.” I eyed him up and down, smiling. He blanched and walked away, back to a little group of males at the shore edge who had gone back to fishing for humans with the life preservers. They were yucking it up to a great degree, which seemed to agitate my former fellows. They had gone back to standing in little groups and talking loudly.

The older female Alien remained. She was silent for a time, her eyes squinting a little, head cocked to one side, arms crossed over her chest. She seemed as if she was about to start tapping her foot and give me what for. But she didn’t.

“I see that you are impossible, Jimmy Petrol.” At first I thought that she must be psychic, but then I remembered that I still had my old Fedora on my head. In the band was the ever-present press card, with my name emblazoned across it in bold letters. But she could read English!

I said nothing, waiting. Usually when a woman starts talking about me being impossible, we are at the crux. Things could go one way, or they could go another. Sometimes, being impossible led to all sorts of nice things that were impossible a few moments before. Sometimes it meant that my interview was over. Clearly, the male Alien was of the latter opinion. I stood a little straighter, looked her back in the eyes, and tried to give a twinkle with mine. I batted my eyelashes, Geisha fashion. I licked my lips. I summoned up all my manly courage and looked her up and down, approvingly, and braced myself. Often, I had been slapped for this exact behavior.

My delegate laughed a light, Alien laugh. It spoke of relief and humor. I relaxed my frame; there would be no slapping.

“Your grace,” I began, quietly, “might we go away from all these gawking Apes?” I gestured across the water and made a wrinkly nose. “The Apes tend to chatter so. It will detract us from our mutual Scientific investigations.” She started, eyes doing the widening thing again for an instant. Then she laughed again and relaxed.

“Yes, Being from the World of Shadows, we will go. But not to engage in the “Scientific”. Rather the contrary. We need a publicist. A liar. You fit.”

And with a toss of her head she led off. I followed obediently, in the tracks of my Cougar.

Image via Wikipedia

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(Alien Abduction, Continued from 16Oct09)

It was a mother of a ship. My “escorts” kept tight hold of my arms, fairly carrying me as we went bumping along the corridors. After the first couple of blocks I gave up on the foot dragging method of passive resistance; it made no difference to my escorts whatsoever. One of them did give me a little look of approval when I started to ambulate instead of play “sack of potatoes”, but that was all.

From time to time I tried to make conversation with them, but they didn’t seem to be interested in talking about themselves, like Earth women are. I asked about their families, boyfriends, where they had their hair done, whether they had offspring; in short, all the old standards. But no dice. They weren’t biting. In fact, until I got onto the topic of sex, out of desperation more than actual hope, there was no reaction to my queries at all.

All I said was, “So tell me about your reproductive habits. Is there any way I could document them for my scientific colleagues on Earth?” I didn’t really think they understood English. Which meant, of course, that they were from some provincial part of the Galaxy; surely English was the Galactic Standard, after all. I mean, Manifest Destiny and all that, what?

But they had no problem with English after all. I had been having a hard time keeping up with them. They had legs that must have been four feet long…they had a stride that had me pumping my little hams at a rate that made me feel positively like a toddler. I had been busy examining these Barbie-like appendages when I made my innocent and scientific inquiry into the Alien reproductive life when we coincidentally reached the end of a long hall way.

We stopped, the doors buzzed open and I was booted through them; those legs could kick!

I stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding another face-plant. My escorts stood on the other side of the portal, smiling down at me with the same sardonic smile I had  suffered at the hands of their probable “Captain” or leader. They didn’t seem to be angry, but there was a definite air about them that there had better not be any funny business. The doors slid shut and I was left on my own in a part of the ship quite distant from my entry point at the staircase.

The surprise was that it wasn’t a cell. In fact, it looked just like the rest of the ship. I wandered along the corridor; there were passageways along it at odd intervals. Some went on, turning or terminating at lift doors. Most went only a few feet and met a blank wall that I suspected contained an unseen door. There were signs along the way, but I could make nothing out of them as they were in an alien tongue.

I went along quietly…why I had been let loose was a mystery, but it seemed obvious that I would not be able to get back into the other part of the ship. The doors I had been booted through were fast shut and would not open even to “open sez-a-mee”. The only course was to wander on until something happened.

And it didn’t take too long. I was to learn later that the doors I had been passing were crew quarters; the corridor I was in led eventually to what I can only describe as a City Park. The metallic floor of the ship gave way to actual dirt, the corridor terminating at a trail-head or path that meandered down into a deep depression filled with trees, bushes and all manner of flora. There were even birds. From down amongst the groves of trees I could hear the sounds of an odd, musical laughter, intermingled with more human sounding voices. The humans didn’t sound as musical. Point of fact, they sounded distressed. And in the air was the faint smell of Bar-b-que.

I felt faint. I was among Cannibals! Well, not cannibals actually, since they were Aliens, but close enough! Were these Barbie-like creatures merely Galactic Gourmands? Were the sounds of human distress I could here from this idyllic park-like place the last, protesting sounds of lunch? I shuddered. My mind thus far had been focused on my scientific duty to explore these oddly attractive Alien anatomies. I began to rethink my scientific duties. Perhaps a more furtive observation would be called for.

But I was hungry; it had been a long time since I ate all those ribs back at Petrol Central in the Think Tank. Maybe they were serving vegetarian too. I hoped so, fervently, as I begin to pick my way down the dirt path toward the sweet, smoky odor of the Alien picnic.

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