So, yeah. It’s been almost five months since I last posted a story. I know, disappointing. There were circumstances.
I was actually working on the next story. I mean the very next one to be posted after this. But mid-writing session, a tragedy occurred. Okay, maybe not a tragedy. Just a lack of planning on my part. I went to refresh my glass of Trader Joe’s Bourbon. Don’t judge, I’m on a budget, and besides, it doesn’t suck. Go ahead, try it. Well, I turned up the bottle and I’ll be damned if all that was in there wasn’t just a couple of drops. You know how the newborn Darth Vader, when he’s told that he killed Natalie Portman, throws up his hands and yells NOOOOOOO!! Well, I reacted kinda like that. Only, the depth of my pathos was more believable.
I could not continue with the story, obviously, until this problem was remedied. You know the old saying, “Write drunk, edit sober?” I have it tattooed on the instep of my left foot. I looked down at my foot. Then, I put on pants and shoes and stuff you need to be seen in public, and started the walk down to the closest liquor store, about a mile. I know you’re thinking, why not just drive? Well, because I’m not a dick. I don’t drive drunk. No one has ever said to me, “Hey Whiskey, you’re a dick, man.” A few women may have called me whiskey dick, but that’s only happened a couple of times. When I was kinda stressed or tired. But I digress. Point is, I was walking to the liquor store cause I’m one responsible motherfucker.
Okay, that’s not the main point. The main point is that if you see Cameron Diaz, dressed in a bikini, beckoning you towards her in an alluring fashion. From behind the dumpster. Down the dark alley. Next to the liquor store. Yeah, that? That shit’s not real. Turns out, bikini Cameron Diaz is to alien abductors what jigs and crankbait are to bass fishermen – a solid year-round lure. I bit hard.
So there you have it. The reason I haven’t posted a new story in five months is that I was abducted. By aliens. Now, let me stop you right there. You’re thinking, “here we go, an anal probing story.” Turns out, aliens, at least my aliens are sick and tired of being portrayed in our media as a bunch of inveterate anal-probers. I’m not saying they don’t do some anal-probing. Cause they do. I mean, they love a good ol’ anal-probing – they dig right up in there. But, to be fair, they probe whatever you got. Nasal-probing. Urethral-probing. Ears, eyes, pores, whatever you got, it’s getting probed. But they’re really nice about it.
After I blacked out in Cameron Diaz’ dumpster-aroma’d embrace, I awoke strapped to a table, staring up at my handler. Chafr&4dex!2. It was on her name-tag – they do try to be accommodating. I later found it was pronounced kinda like Geoffrina, if you sneezed between the f and the r and ended with a Wilhelm Scream. Her five cow-like eyes were moist and somehow comforting. She reached up with one of her furry tentacles and stroked my forehead, smoothing back my hair. Then she said, “GHERLGHFFFFATHEZ.”
I shit myself.
Chafr&4dex!2 shook her enormous head and said “Oh! I’m so sorry! I forgot to adjust my voice modulator. You poor dear.” She shrugged what I assumed were shoulders, “You’re my first.” Her five cow eyes blinked in sequence.
Chafr&4dex!2 probed me almost daily. Before each probing, she would have me wheeled down to the ship’s movie theater. We would sit next to each other watching the movie. One time it was Steel Magnolias, another time it was Moonstruck. She would squeeze my hand reassuringly if I welled up with tears. Then, she would wheel me to a place set up like a five-star Earth restaurant. She would tell me to order whatever I wanted. But, once the waiter arrived she would always order for me – always exactly what I had thought sounded good. She would try to impress me with dinner talk like, “You know the Nasca Lines? My mom made those. And I helped.” Then, back at my cell, or quarters, or lab, whatever it was, she would begin the probing. Gently at first. Then more roughly. If I gave any sign of discomfort, she would back off for a bit, then resume as before. After each probing, she would hold me with all eleven tentacles until I fell asleep. How many times did that scenario play out? Couldn’t say. I lost count. If it was one it was a hundred.
One day, after I’d been there who knows how long, Chafr&4dex!2 entered what I had by then come to regard as my quarters. She was holding a box. A cardboard box. Like the kind printer paper comes in? A box. Her cow eyes were even more moist than usual. She tilted the box so that I could see inside. It looked to be full of Nerf balls. She pointed at me, with all the tentacles that were not currently occupied with the box, then pointed at the Nerf balls. “We did it,” she said. “You’re a daddy. Look at little Wgklat#+ash@&’s nose. He looks just like you.”
I was confused, then overwhelmed with emotion. Wgklat#+ash@& did look like me. Sorta. My growing feelings and genuine affection for Chafr&4dex!2 spread quickly to our little brood. All of the movies and grilled salmon with kale salad we had shared. They meant something. We tossed little Wgklat#+ash@& back and forth for a bit and laughed. Suddenly I no longer cared about Earth, or Santa Cruz, or Manhattans at Rosie’s every other Sunday. I just wanted to be a part of my new family.
“I’ll never forget you,” Chafr&4dex!2 said.
I said, “Wut?”
They sat me back down in the middle of the Nevada desert. Not far from Vegas. Me and five other abductees. I was sure I had been up there for at least a year, but once my I-Phone rebooted, I realized it had only been about five months. Now, I’m back in Santa Cruz, with a full compliment of bourbon and pounding out some fun little stories. Keep an eye out for them. And, if you see Bikini Cameron Diaz behind a dumpster, or Speedo Brad Pitt for that matter, just keep walking. Or don’t if you’re up for a bit of adventure. It might not be the worst thing that could ever happen to you.