My little potbelly and my worries and my almost constant heartburnyou know, the fates have decreed that I am going to die on January 23, 2027 at the age of 66. From heart disease. What I am wonderingwill this knowledge cause me to worry even more and alter the date in question, making it sooner? I am worried.
Last night I had another visit from the alienthe one named Bob. Bob looks like that little clay figure who used to be on televisionwhat was his name? Gumby. Yeah, he looks like Gumby. Hes the same shade of green, has the same flat green body, no discernable features as far as I can tell, no sex organs (not that I am looking mind you.) The only difference between Bob and Gumby is that Bob wears a space helmet over his flat pointed Gumby-like head because our atmosphere is poisonous to him. On his planet, which Bob tells me is approximately 456,678, 332 light years from my bedroom, they breathe argon gas or krypton gas or some kind of gas. If he were to take off his helmet, his lungs would explode instantly. Talk about your worries.
Bobs mission on earth, as far as I can tell, is to traverse this incredible expanse of space and give me advice. He says that there is a whole program on his planet involving the dispensation of advice to sentient creatures who seem to be in the throes of a midlife crisis. Bob tells me that the most horrible wars in the universe are usually started by middle-aged male creatures who never really got what they wanted out of life. Bob doesnt think I am actually capable of starting any wars, but he worries about me nonetheless.
You need to get out more, Bob says. Go to a bar. Find a girl. Get your knob polished.
I cant believe some of the things that Bob says. Apparently his whole civilization picked up English from some American gangster film: The King of New York with Chrisopher Walken. Bob tells me that his people have abducted Walken several times,and have taken him to their home world to sign autographs. Perhaps this explains Walkens increasingly bizarre acting-style as of late.
What about that woman who works on the fourth floor in your office...whats her name, Monica, Gladys...?
Do you mean Patricia? I say. I dont know how Bobs people get their information on me, but they seem to know everything I do and dont do in the course of a day. I have my sneaking suspicions that they put some kind of highly-advanced webcam up my ass one night while I was asleep.
Yeah, thats the one...Patricia. Shes about your age. She seems to like you.
Shes not my type... I say.
What is your type? Bob says. Oh I know...like one of those young females your always looking at on your global communications networkthe ones who pretend to have an unusually high sex drive in exchange for college tuition money.
No... I say, but Bob has got me pegged. I would kill for a beautiful woman to want me. Just once. Potbellied, unhealthy, neurotic, middle-aged me. To look at me with large innocent adoring eyes.
Aint gonna happen Frank, Bob says. My name is Steve, but Bob always calls me Frank. I guess that was the name of the character that Walken played in the King of New York. Girls like that dont mate with potbellied, unhealthy, neurotic, middle-aged Franks, unless the potbellied, unhealthy, neurotic, middle-aged Franks have large amounts of the do re mi. Now, I could whisk you away to Rejulax Five, where girls of that type do fall for guys of your type, but that would be violating my program directive. Your just going to have to do it on your own. I suggest you ask Patricia out on a date. She examines your gluteous-maximus when you are not watching...
She does? I think of Patricia. She works in accounting on the fourth floor, the floor above me. She always eats at her desk. She has a ficus tree next to her desk. She has a very pale face and she always seem to be agreeing with everything I say.
Yes, you should ask her out. Take her to the movies, Bob says. I hear Christopher Walken is excellent in his newest one. Look...you are a middle-aged man. I dont see you jumping out of planes any time soon, staying in the air for more than three seconds at a timeand your species needs things like that to stay alive. This thing you call love is your best bet...its a possibility. Just have to lower your standards a bit.
Bob gets ready to leave, heading for my open bedroom window and the spaceship that will whisk him by some incredible means across miles and miles of space.
Oh and another thing, Bob says... Try cleaning this place every century or so. Youve got dust bunnies under your bed that are starting to evolve. If you do these two things, ask Patricia out...clean up the dust bunnies...we are fairly certain that you might make it to 2033...just in time for the final collapse of your ecosystem. He smiles at me, a gumless Gumby smile, and climbs out the window on his way home.
Last night I had another visit from the alienthe one named Bob. Bob looks like that little clay figure who used to be on televisionwhat was his name? Gumby. Yeah, he looks like Gumby. Hes the same shade of green, has the same flat green body, no discernable features as far as I can tell, no sex organs (not that I am looking mind you.) The only difference between Bob and Gumby is that Bob wears a space helmet over his flat pointed Gumby-like head because our atmosphere is poisonous to him. On his planet, which Bob tells me is approximately 456,678, 332 light years from my bedroom, they breathe argon gas or krypton gas or some kind of gas. If he were to take off his helmet, his lungs would explode instantly. Talk about your worries.
Bobs mission on earth, as far as I can tell, is to traverse this incredible expanse of space and give me advice. He says that there is a whole program on his planet involving the dispensation of advice to sentient creatures who seem to be in the throes of a midlife crisis. Bob tells me that the most horrible wars in the universe are usually started by middle-aged male creatures who never really got what they wanted out of life. Bob doesnt think I am actually capable of starting any wars, but he worries about me nonetheless.
You need to get out more, Bob says. Go to a bar. Find a girl. Get your knob polished.
I cant believe some of the things that Bob says. Apparently his whole civilization picked up English from some American gangster film: The King of New York with Chrisopher Walken. Bob tells me that his people have abducted Walken several times,and have taken him to their home world to sign autographs. Perhaps this explains Walkens increasingly bizarre acting-style as of late.
What about that woman who works on the fourth floor in your office...whats her name, Monica, Gladys...?
Do you mean Patricia? I say. I dont know how Bobs people get their information on me, but they seem to know everything I do and dont do in the course of a day. I have my sneaking suspicions that they put some kind of highly-advanced webcam up my ass one night while I was asleep.
Yeah, thats the one...Patricia. Shes about your age. She seems to like you.
Shes not my type... I say.
What is your type? Bob says. Oh I know...like one of those young females your always looking at on your global communications networkthe ones who pretend to have an unusually high sex drive in exchange for college tuition money.
No... I say, but Bob has got me pegged. I would kill for a beautiful woman to want me. Just once. Potbellied, unhealthy, neurotic, middle-aged me. To look at me with large innocent adoring eyes.
Aint gonna happen Frank, Bob says. My name is Steve, but Bob always calls me Frank. I guess that was the name of the character that Walken played in the King of New York. Girls like that dont mate with potbellied, unhealthy, neurotic, middle-aged Franks, unless the potbellied, unhealthy, neurotic, middle-aged Franks have large amounts of the do re mi. Now, I could whisk you away to Rejulax Five, where girls of that type do fall for guys of your type, but that would be violating my program directive. Your just going to have to do it on your own. I suggest you ask Patricia out on a date. She examines your gluteous-maximus when you are not watching...
She does? I think of Patricia. She works in accounting on the fourth floor, the floor above me. She always eats at her desk. She has a ficus tree next to her desk. She has a very pale face and she always seem to be agreeing with everything I say.
Yes, you should ask her out. Take her to the movies, Bob says. I hear Christopher Walken is excellent in his newest one. Look...you are a middle-aged man. I dont see you jumping out of planes any time soon, staying in the air for more than three seconds at a timeand your species needs things like that to stay alive. This thing you call love is your best bet...its a possibility. Just have to lower your standards a bit.
Bob gets ready to leave, heading for my open bedroom window and the spaceship that will whisk him by some incredible means across miles and miles of space.
Oh and another thing, Bob says... Try cleaning this place every century or so. Youve got dust bunnies under your bed that are starting to evolve. If you do these two things, ask Patricia out...clean up the dust bunnies...we are fairly certain that you might make it to 2033...just in time for the final collapse of your ecosystem. He smiles at me, a gumless Gumby smile, and climbs out the window on his way home.
VIEW 25 of 30 COMMENTS
lecia:
you're not a member of my websites forum, so no you're not
the_mad_monk:
yeah i really liked Troy, loved the way they portrayed Achillies (SP)