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As much as Trevor wanted everyone else to believe that aliens were responsible, deep down he suspected he had been drunk the evening before and set his own cornfield on fire.
In a dream I had last night, aliens were turning people into animals, and even though I’d been turned into a cat, I remember these things happening - when I ran, it was in great big strides like I still had two long legs, I was walking through a downtown and came across an art gallery whose sidewalk out front was made entirely of headstones, laid on their backs, and that I went inside the gallery after being lured in by a woman who seemed to be the owner and was offering me a slice of cake, and that once inside, I kept looking out a side window, insisting to people who passed between the buildings that I had not been turned into a cat, but was, in fact, a duck.
Asparagam stood, staring off into space, a tear running down his chlorophyll-stained face.
“I am only a tourist here on planet Earth,” he said taking a drag from his cigarette, “I’ll be god damned if I spent eight hours of my time a day working at a job I hate.”
You can’t seriously expect me to believe that an octopus isn’t an alien from Planet Xargle.
“Take us to your olive producers” said the gaunt and mildly-obsessed looking green thing.
I swear, if it’s not ducks, then it’s ants and if it’s not ants, then it’s spiders - the little bastards parasailing in numbers from the roof - I’ve stopped looking up because when you look up and see ten of the little buggers and then hit them with a full blast of bug spray and they still keep coming - you don’t really want to know how many more are darting about on the ceiling.
After my anal probe down at the title company the other day, and having just scheduled another one with the mechanic down at the John Deere dealer, I have no choice but to believe that the aliens are already among us.
Soon after discovering that the campus has been attacked by huge mean tempered beetle-aliens who hate students almost as much as she does, Prof. Speigelman explains to her huddled class how they are going to beat the aliens using the principles of business writing that she has been teaching them all semester and sends them off to implement her plan, while she stays behind to create the necessary distraction, although it will cost her life, despite protestations and a very sexy, very forbidden kiss from a hot former lifeguard student; After celebrating their success and the destruction of the aliens, just as the students regret the death of a teacher who in retrospect taught them the secret to survival itself, they notice a shape far the distance that at first appears to be an alien, but reveals itself to be a human form struggling under an alien corpse, which when hurled, still smoking, to the ground reveals itself to be Prof. Speigelman covered in alien goo, but sexy as ever, who strides through her silent class stone faced saying only, “Class is cancelled for tomorrow,” and as she strides towards the sunrise, she yells over her shoulder the closing line of the film, “I don’t know about you, but I need a martini and a bong hit.”
It’s so perilous to live on this little tiny rock in the universe that I don’t blame space aliens for keeping all their visits covert.
The tall buildings hinted at a land of slender, willowy people, but the smell that lingered promised something else.
If not, how do you explain the existence of people who openly and enjoyably eat molluscs?
The anthropologists could not discern the creatures’ intentions, while the biologists, equally vexed, tried in vain to locate the genitals.
Although they had never before in their lives seen anything like the creatures, the realtors assured them with wide toothy smiles that they had just the house they were looking for.
The creatures appreciated the comforting simplicity of the Target logo, but couldn’t bring themselves to step inside on account of the overwhelming popcorn stench.
When the answer to the alien captivity turned out to be mold, I awoke from the dream, irritated with my subconscious’ obvious lack of originality.
After the probing, Henry demanded to Glorko that they take the longcut home and show him something spectacular like the Sombrero Galaxy; “It is customary on Earth to woo your conquests,” Henry informed Glorko and the other aliens who were listening, “so think of it as the dinner before the one-way we just had.”
The musty air smelled of dead things, unkown dead things and creatures made of mold and alien spores; the musty smell of ancient, lingering nightmares feeding off the fright of young children looking for a visceral, hormonal thrill, like I had when I last walked through the decaying home with my cousin Jolene, all those Halloweens ago.
The body looked alien, internal gases had caused it to swell massively to the point that what remained of his torn clothes revealed yellow-gray flesh splitting its seams causing the body looked like a zombie version of the Michelin Tire Man
Fast asleep, Henry flipped through the dream channels searching for something sexy, but awoke the next morning to find he'd wasted yet another night watching eight straight hours of his favorite show, Alien Invasion.
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