By Erin Sherbert
By Howard Cole
By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
I've seen the summer blockbuster and Tom Cruise vehicle War of the Worlds. Let me tell ya, space aliens are out there, ready to swoop down on Earth, for the sole purpose of:
Putting us humans in human space zoos.
Using us humans in lab experiments to test out the safety of their alien cosmetic products.
Kicking our human butts and then simply laughing that smug alien laugh of theirs (a laugh only dogs can hear).
That's why I need to protect the world from an alien invasion. They're not going to destroy my Earth. No sirree! Sneaking over OUR intergalactic borders, taking OUR intergalactic jobs, and messing up OUR neighborhoods, while playing their loud extraterrestrial hoochie music -- not in my backyard, they don't! We need to preserve the human race, especially the American humans. Chant with me: HUMANS-OF-USA! HUMANS-OF-USA! HUMANS-OF-USA! That's right, we're No. 1, we humans (of USA, of course)!
Already there are clear-cut signs that aliens are fucking with our species. How else do you explain Tom Cruise freaking out about Scientology on the Today Show? Do you want what happened to Tom Cruise to happen to you? (Damn you, aliens!) Nothing good comes from an alien invasion (unless it's the oft-mentioned "alien anal-probe").
Just like most of you routinely have fire drills in your homes, we humans need to have alien drills, to be ready for an invasion by those shifty-eyed, E.T.-looking, towel-headed space aliens.
Through a Google search, I find a listing for MUFON, the Mutual UFO Network, with a phone number you can use to give your babbling report of a UFO sighting to a "Field Investigator." This is great; it will give me a little practice for when we're at full intergalactic Amber Alert. The MUFON site says that UFO field investigators not only have references from the UFO community, but also have experience in UFO cases, animal mutilations, or UFO government cover-ups. These are my kind of people!
But let's test the waters to see if they can handle a full-on, War of the Worlds invasion.
I call a UFO field investigator who is located in Mobile, Ala. His name is Clay. I give him the full scoop.
"UFO Reporting Center," says UFO Field Investigator Clay.
"SON OF A BITCH! SON OF A BITCH!" I exclaim to indicate the frazzled state I'm in as a result of my recent sighting. Besides, the swearing adds to my credibility. "I'm spooked! I'm kind of spooked! Son of a bitch!"
"Calm down, sir."
"I would like to report a sighting!" [Pause] "I am not a crackpot!"
"Let me turn off the TV." [Sound of loud TV being turned off]
"Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!"
"OK, tell me what you saw."
"It looked like a goddamn giant woodshed with lights that hovered, then shot straight up like a goddamn bullet, that's all! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!"
The best that MUFON Field Investigator Clay can do is take down all the information concerning the incident, while I graphically describe the alien anal-probe I encountered, after which I give him the phone number and address of my ex-girlfriend, in case he needs further information.
But it soon becomes clear: If they just take notes in Mobile, field investigators like Clay offer little hope to the human race. And I need to hit the aliens where they live. So I go to Mountain View and attend NASA Space Camp for kids -- as an adult! To take action for the good of mankind. To prepare for space. To get one step closer to an alien anal-probe.
Aahh, an alien anal-probe!
Sure, I know what you're thinking: This all sounds like a craaaaaazy Jack Black movie waiting to happen. Can you see it? Jack Black as a chubby, hung-over, way-over-the-top substitute Space Camp instructor who must whip a ragamuffin crew of kids together to become space cadets. Then, due to a series of mishaps, he accidentally ends up launching himself and the kids into outer space, causing them to bond together to get the craft safely back to Earth. But here's the ironic twist: They all end up tragically dying of asphyxiation in their capsule, like the Russian Sputnik dog Laika, because they're all severely undertrained for a space mission. Whoops!
The movie would be called Crazy Space Death!
In preparation for NASA Space Camp, I study the NASA manual and memorize many space acronyms that I'll spout freely so I fit in during training with my space-enthusiast peers. Also, I devise my own spacesuit for "my mission" -- an orange jumpsuit, with the words "HUMANS #1" scrawled on the back, and adorned with bits of Christmas tinsel, to give it a futuristic look of tomorrow.
It's time for liftoff.
Inside a large NASA building with walls lined with smiley pictures of past astronauts, I soon learn my fellow Space Camp-mates are spotty, pre-adolescent kids who have paunchy dads. I guess NASA is preparing for a time when children and paunchy adults are needed in space. These are my fellow astronauts, an elite squadron I'll recruit to be on my team when the alien invasion begins. I'm the only one dressed in space regalia. Yes, just a grown man alone, taking in NASA Space Camp.