Extra-territorial Pissings

There are only two things I hate waking up to. One is discovering I’ve
no coffee left. The other is receiving an “official” email telling me
my blog has just been blasted into deep space through some
fancy-sounding dish antenna.

                    ["Official Certificate" can be seen in The Skirmisher]

That just got my goat. To be fair, when I signed up, I really had
wanted to “reach out” to somebody in the star Vega, which was what
inspired the writing of the post, “Jesus Sings Sinatra.” It was my way of saying, “We have here some fellow who walked on water; now, it’s your turn. Tell me your planet’s joke.”

That
was done in the spirit of intergalactic camaraderie, because I had this
feeling in my guts that aliens are no different from people like Scott
Adams’s Evil HR Director or folks who suddenly appear in your cubicle
muttering the line, “Your base are belong to us!”

But in the
intervening time, I realize I might have written something that might
make alien life forms unhappy. How would they feel, for example, when
they read about my War Against Small Animals? What if aliens were just guinea pigs with laser pistols, and they see my recipe for guinea pig cake? I’m also pretty sure they’d take offense with the way I projected Abner Mercado’s importance
in the future of human language (assuming that Abner, in fact, had been
spawned in the raging eye of the birthing of Andromeda; hence, the
exoskeleton, err, I mean, the ethnic get-up).

So, to make up for
it, I’ve drafted a little haiku as some sort of “I come in peace” line
for the aliens who’ll be reading this blog.

Brilliant,
isn’t it? My haiku’s so subtle it’s not very obvious that I’m
apologizing. I guess that’s just the rare beauty of “alien-speak.”

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