by Walter Witty
“I’ve met all kinds of odd people flying on planes,” I told him, sincerely, “but never anyone like you.”
“That can change,” the alien replied, ominously. “By the way, you can call me Zeereeaanean.”
We shook hands. “Hi Hal,” I said. “I’m Walter. You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?”
“Not at all. It’s what I’ve been doing.” He shrugged and winked twice again.
I scribbled frantically. “Tell me. When do your people return to Thurbann?”
“Oh, in about a century. Like I said, when it’s open season.”
I dropped my pencil. “That’s a long time.”
“Not really. I can’t speak for others, but personally I like to spend at least that long to get the feel of a place. Another ten or twenty years and I may be on my way to what you’d call Epsilon Centauri. Now the fishing THERE is really superb.”
“Tell me about it.”
He did. I was particularly fascinated by his description of the 800 decibel cheer of the triple-throated Zaabiian Wofbat.
We were silent for a while, and then he said: “Isn’t your next question going to be can I communicate with dolphins?”
I smiled. “You tell me.”
“Okay, I will. Your next question is. . .just a minute. . .will Magic Johnson ever perform new acts of magic in public? Who is Magic Johnson by the way, and what’s his secret to longevity? Alas, I don’t know. I can read minds sometimes. That’s how I know who I can trust to tell these things—or who will be believed. But I could never understand hoop dreams. Or nightmares, for that matter.”
“I know what you mean,” I replied, balling up my notes. “Would you be interested in accompanying me to the offices of the Washington Post?”
“And you’re funny too,” Hal said, with appropriate sincerity.
When I asked him if he’d ever seen The X Files on TV, he said, “You people and your documentaries.”
By the time we disembarked at Kingston, Hal and I were both drunk and laughing like what he called “skeeksas.” As luck would have it, we stayed at the same Arnold Palmer designed hotel. But when we met the next day at the beach, I was shocked. Here he was, wearing Nike Phantom shorts now, a Raiders cap, and with a plastic, blow-up Steelers inner tube around his waist.
At the sight of the Washington State Caribou antlers I winced.
And winced again when from one hand he strategically dropped a chewing tobacco wrapper while his other hand gripped a Red Bull with one of those tiny umbrellas in it.
“Hal,” I said, approaching him in dismay. “Hal—you look just like a. . .a sports fan!”
Hal grinned. “Good disguise, eh?” he said, with a prophetic laugh.
At which point two dozen other sunbathers looked over at me and winked. Twice.
DIEry ENTRY 3: Geeks VS. Thals
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away there used to be a show on TV called The Invaders. It featured an architect named David Vincent who learned that we are being visited by aliens from a dying planet who intend to take over our own. Only David knew it, but couldn’t convince anyone else of the truth. Sometimes I feel like David Vincent. Sometimes I think the show was a documentary, and that the aliens have replaced logical humans with robot clones whose actions are controlled by radio signals from Planet ESPN. In this warped sports universe, does there exist not a single non-gay non-geek guy like me who also secretly questions living on the gridiron (or Matrix) like some tailgater’s boom box battery? Flummoxed by the obsessive attention lavished on propelling balls toward some nonsensical goal, I am, in short, dangerously weird. Or unique. (One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.)
According to Walter, (who insists he’s not a geek because he isn’t rich and doesn’t use a pocket protector. . .and who not only speaks to me in night terrors and daydreams, but also animates my writing hand in auto-neurotic episodes of pseudoscientific “remote eschewing” worthy of H2 on DirecTV), our modern era is basically divided between two classes of people: Geeks and Neanderthals. The first create things, crunch numbers, and are responsible for philosophy and science and literature and jazz and architecture and exploration and adventure and invention and imagination, (but not religion.) The other species claims to do the same (and to inspire such), but really all they do is throw and kick balls, or dribble them. They don’t read much beyond the sports pages, and don’t inspire the Geeks, either, because the Geeks don’t watch much TV. (The Google guys have better things to do.) The THALS are responsible for the great advances made by Sports Illustrated for Kids, the Pentagon, politics, and gaming, but not banking. (Yes, bankers are heavily into gaming, particularly poker, but they only bet with your money, never their own bonuses, and so, in fact, are not sports fans but rather OVERSEERS.) Interestingly, no sporting Thals have made Time Magazine’s PERSON OF THE YEAR, although Geek Enron whistleblower Sherron Watkins did, as did the unnamed Protester of Occupy Wall Street (red ink on his shirt), along with Geeks like Jeff Bezos, Mark Zuckerberg, Bill and Melinda Gates. As for the ultimate Geek, Albert Einstein, he may have ruined many a puffy shirt, yet made PERSON OF THE CENTURY.
Chew on that plug of tobacco, Mr. Skoal Redman.
DIEry ENTRY 4: The World is Not My Race Track
Just so you know, it’s not my oyster, either. I don’t know about Walter, but personally, I never liked oysters anyway. In their raw form they look like something that comes out of your nose. Seriously, if the world was my anything related to ownership, it would be my snail. Something that moves slow and leaves a slimy trail, kinda like my first car: a stinky used Peugeot that leaked oil, had no air conditioning, and at which I shouted (whenever late for class): “Shit car—go!” (Note: the French put an “e” at the beginning and a “t” at the end of Escargot, but don’t want to say either letter, which is why the movie E.T. wasn’t as big a hit in Paris as was Mel Brooks SILENT MOVIE.) Oh, and I never used the word “shit” on my private religious school’s campus unless the windows were rolled up because I would have been expelled (and later tossed “one for the money, two for the show” into hell.) With the windows rolled down so I could breathe, I was forced to shout: “S car—go!” instead.
No doubt you’re now asking why in hell I didn’t just run away and join the racing circu(it)s, giving my life a direction (circular), and my ego a sporting chance at a checkered flag (death.) The answer is, I didn’t have an ego. Or much of one. All I had was Wally. My real self was beaten down by peer pressure, and by several thick wooden paddles. (On movie night they also showed us how Satan handles big egos who talk back: by pouring lava down their throats. You might think the experience of seeing this movie, even in 2D, would be “chilling.” But that would be inaccurate, since they also put cayenne pepper on the popcorn.)
Back on track; let me now offer up two words about egos in general: ownership and speed. Generally, you can tell how big someone’s ego is by a) how important ownership is to them, and b) how much of a hurry they’re in. If you’re always trying to acquire more “stuff” that needs polishing, (while you’re impatiently multitasking), you could be related to Napoleon. For example, say you’re trying to read this on a computer display while driving your luxury vehicle (equipped with in-dash Darwin Award winning designs.) Okay, look in your rear view mirror, now. See that jerk in the red Corvette or supercharged Mustang tailgating you, looking for an opening to pass? Big ego, tiny brain. Actually, I take that back. It’s not that just their brains are tiny. They’re also both out of order. Unused circuits have few connections (ask fanboy Napoleon Dynamite.) Those neurons that do fire send one message: Life is like the Firecracker 500. Yet what’s the rush, anyway? And what exactly do they win other than the Big Sleep?
I asked a former campus jock this question, but all the fat fool wanted to talk about was term life. An insurance salesman now, he didn’t take kindly to my suggestion that if NASCAR wanted to be anything other than lame and boring (while roaring around in circles burning fossil fuels) it sh
ould sponsor the TEXT 400, a race in which drivers would be required to text the entire first chapter of Dale Junior’s autobiography to a special phone router during the race (or be disqualified.) “Allow drinking too,” I suggested, “just like the encouraging ads on the side of muscle cars. The car-nage that would follow could be on pay-per-view Prime Ticket!” When he looked confused by my loco-motive thoughts, I slipped in the fact that not only didn’t he own the sky above him or the air he breathed, but the REPO MAN in the sky would soon collect his ‘82 Mustang convertible, right after his airhead wife divorced him. At this point he came around his desk to attack me with a letter opener in one hand and a stapler in the other. But that’s when I pulled out my starter pistol. . .(which in the afterlife, by the way, wouldn’t contain just blanks.)
Before we go any further, let me extend my insults to cover you personally. Hopefully, you won’t have read this pre-purchase, and do not have ready access to things which wouldn’t make it through airport security. . .although, come to think of it, you could drive your red Corvette across State lines, joining a pilgrimage of devout soccer moms in speeding mini-vans.
Okay. Here it is. Ready?
Just who do you think you are, anyway?
I mean your identity, pal (‘o mine.)
That’s right. Not only don’t scientists know exactly what the human consciousness is, (as Pop didn’t), but the human soul has never been defined. . .although Satan is said to have exchanged popularity for it in the case of Kim Kardashian. (More about this later.) Just who in HELL do ANY of us think we are, anyway? Because if the brain in our skulls contains whatever our essence is, what are our thoughts other than neuronal connections activated by electrical impulses? Why should this nebulous “us”—this tiny electrical current—believe it should oppose and compete with “them” in various races, anyway? To wit, why does that slimy three pound blob in your head get a charge out of watching guys throwing a rubber bladder through hoops while eyeing a shot clock? And what is the amperage of that neuronal charge? Small, I’m guessing. Maybe enough to electrocute a flea.
By the way, the brains of jocks and TV addicts are their least used organ, while their most used organ is often referred to as having “a mind of its own.” Many say that sex is mostly in the brain, but of course the people saying this don’t really want to play with their brains. In any event, your brain controls everything, and your body is only its Animatrix. For instance, you can lose your arms and legs and still be 100% “you.” Liposuction has no effect on you, either, except to make your shell more attractive to other hormonally-driven brains. But if you cut out the brain, well, that’s it. You’re cooked. So the lesson here is that people are really only three pound clumps of jelly, which you could probably only hold in your hand for about three seconds before freaking out. This also means that for much of your life you’ve been worried about what some other clump of jelly thinks about your clump. Meanwhile, at various locations across the country there are three pound jellies who recognize the shell holding your clump, and your clump wonders how these jellies are “doing” or “feeling,” too, and if they are coming close to yours for what is termed a “holiday,” and if the alignment of electrical impulses inside your jelly mold can ever “forgive” or “love” or “respect” or “whatever” them again. Or even if you should. And, of course, there are huge 600 lb. jellies moving this direction at near light speed to make slaves of all the smaller jellies on this tiny world they’ve dubbed “Oyster.” Don’t you watch the History Channel?
CHAPTER 4: Witty Imagined Headlines
RACE CAR DRIVER JEFF GORDON WRITES TELL-ALL BOOK
NASCAR driver Jeff Gordon today announced both his retirement and the publication of a book he has co-written with Deepak Choprah titled LIFE, THE UNIVERSE, AND THE CHECKERED FLAG. Speaking to a group of Hollywood traffic school attendees who are required by law to buy his book, Gordon told Halle Berry, Jack Nicholson, Snoop Dogg and others that they should slow down and enjoy life instead of being obsessed with the future. “What is life anyway?” Gordon asked, metaphorically. “Is it a race? If so, is death the finish line? What about just living your life and accepting the present moment, which is all you will ever have?” Getting no response, Gordon proceeded to outline the meaning of life, and the mysteries of the universe, using the blackboard and various charts and graphs. When done, he wiped the chalk from his hands, turned to the audience, and asked, “Now, does anybody know where I can buy a good used Toyota Camry?”
NFL TO ADD CAMERAS TO ALL HELMETS
Since fans want to see “up close and personal” each and every play, the NFL has decided to add POV pay-per-view cameras to players’ helmets. The tiny cameras will be built into the helmets as shock-proof devices enabling viewers at home to see what the players themselves see, just by switching channels on a cable remote. Says technical consultant J. J. Abrams, “While it won’t be HD at first, it will revolutionize the sport with sights and sounds no one has ever seen or heard before. Imagine being able to switch channels back and forth to view different angles on the same play, and with recording and playback options. You’ll hear the calls, grunts, curses, and even the farts in slow motion on instant replay. Get your face planted into the ground, hear some ribs crack. Well, that’s all part of the game, isn’t it?” Coaches and officials will have access too, in order to track performances and violations. DirecTV is anticipating never having to put their subscribers through another contract negotiation marathon on empty channels ever again, although they do plan on raising rates in the very near future. As for the prices of these adult-only THIRD EYE PREMIUM TICKET channels, DirecTV has declined to comment.
EMMY KILLS EMMA
A fifty foot tall 24-caret gold Emmy statue weighing sixty thousand pounds crumpled and fell under its own weight, crushing Emma Kowalski, a pregnant mother of three watching a TV monitor outside the awards pavilion this week. The incident went unnoticed by the more than nine hundred other star-struck fans because Ryan Seacrest had just stepped outside to share a “cigarette” with sports psychic handicapper Nostra L. Dumbass. The damaged statue was taken under tight security to a warehouse in Burbank, where it will be melted down to make idols (and other craven images) for those attending the X Games or The X Factor. Emma will be buried in Wichita next to her grandmother, who was killed last year by a falling gold Grammy.
OLYMPICS TO ADD COMPETITIVE EATING
Since the fastest growing sport in America is competitive eating, the international Olympic committee is considering the possibility of adding the sport to its Rio schedule. The only thing left to work out now by the selection committee is which food to include first. Among the contenders are hot dogs, hamburger patties, french fries, meatballs, pies, donuts, donut holes, Twinkies, and snails. “We really favor foods with the word ball in it, since this actually sounds like a sport,” confessed Dimitry Syvanovich, “although Matzo balls are out.” The International Federation of Competitive Eating is steering the endeavor, promising funding by PepsiCo and Alka Seltzer since Greece can’t afford anything anymore. When asked if this might send the wrong message to “a starving world of malnourished, Coke-addicted diabetics,” Syvanovich replied: “most of those people don’t own televisions yet, and besides. . .I, ah. . .don’t understand the question.”
AN UPSIDE TO NFL BRAIN CONCUSSIONS?
Will the NFL soon discover a cure for cancer? They aren’t denying the rumors, after one of their players, suffering a concussion and boos, emerged from his coma with a higher I.Q.. “Is this a freak of nature, or a harbinger of future transformational insights related to head injuries?” coach Guy Budswell asked hypnothetically after consulting several books which were amazingly not rule books or record books (and included a dictionary.) “I believe with my whole torso that Butch may indeed score the Big One for the Ripper, proving that a knock on the head can be a good thing. Those few of you out there who are not NFL fans yet should now reconsider your hostile assumptions in light of this new evidence, using as
a basis your very argument that societal progress is made by non-static individual ideas and not groupthink or confrontational conformity. Just think about it, anyway, George and Jeff. And Walter. You guys have been holdouts, and for what? Who’s to say another concussion like Butch’s won’t lead to fusion power or term limits? Call the number on your screen right now and order DirecTV Prime Sunday Ticket. Remember, if you act now you get Ultimate Cage Fighter, with plenty of quantum concussion metrics at play there too. Plus two liters of Coke.” Footnote: Budswell was arrested soon after making this statement for engaging in DUI with a minor. Meanwhile, funding for medical research has been cut, although money for bigger stadiums continues to be generated through municipal bonds.
NOBEL PRIZES FOR BOWLING AND RACING ANNOUNCED
In a move which may upstage the MVPs, Sportsman of the Year, or Wimbledon, the Nobel Prize committee this week announced two new categories of awards: the rolling of heavy balls down lanes, and rolling thunder down oval tracks. These awards will replace the annual awards given in Economics and Physics, according to Hines Hanson, Nobel committee chairperson. “We’re number one,” Hanson told a roaring crowd attending a monster truck rally in Stockholm. Projections for soft drink sponsor revenue alone for the first awards extravaganza, to be hosted by Uma Thurman and Sir Elton John, already exceed the GNP of many Latin American countries. “If there is continued demand for it,” Hanson declared, “maybe next year we’ll drop the Literature prize too, and replace it with Competitive Eating or Ferret Legging.” Nominated for the first Nobels are all the usual faces, but in an ironic twist, the final Nobel Prize for Genetics is going to Dr. Carson Swalensky for his pioneering work in cloning Wrestling icons. And yes, you will be able to try this at home soon.
