Alien Night Club - Show 39?
Alien Night Club <the transcripts>
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Show 39!
Hello, hello, hello!
Welcome, welcome, welcome.
To the Alien Night Club club club.
It’s classy and it knows it.
I am your host whether we like it or not, Captain Blank. Welcome, all my fellow Rageaholics.
Real quick, before we dive in, a note to HP: the annoying sound of my laptop fan is like fingernails on the chalkboard of your soul. I haff to shove my earbuds into my ears like a virgin bearing down on prom night. A nonintoxicated virgin of legal age able to render legal consent, of course. Which is oxymoronicalicious. Almost no prom goers are of legal age. Anyway, HP, is there any way you can send me a new one? One that doesn’t sound like fingernails on the chalkboard of your soul all the time?
That’d be great.
Office Space.
Not sure how we would get it up here.
Anyway, hello, everyone. Friends from around the system. Whatever system we’re in. If we’re even in a system. I have no idea. Looking out the window is like looking out the window on your cruise ship. A whole lotta nothin. It’s obviously not nothing. It’s something. And it’s beautiful. It always seems to make me a little sad, though. There’s something about looking at all that space. It conjures insignificance. Which always seems to strike me as an odd juxtaposition to the obvious miracle of life that each of us is. It’s weird.
I need to find out how fast we’re going. It might be like in Interstellar when they go down to that planet with the mountain that turns out to be a wave coming at them and when they get back up to their ship, the guy they left behind has been up there by himself for some insane amount of time. 16 years or 26 years. Imagine 3 hours of your life passing in the time 26 years passed for one of your friends you just saw 3 hours ago. For all I know, everyone on Earth who saw me get abducted is already gone. If 100 years have passed on Earth just since I’ve been up here, I wonder if they could build a ship and catch up to me. Maybe bring me some spaghetti. Even though I can eat spaghetti any time I want it. You just haff to conjure it and it comes out of that nebulous quantum realm I suspect is the universe’s biggest sweat shop. Spaghetti and garlic bread, too. And a peach pie. The secret is to put your piece of pie in the microwave for about a minute or a minute and a half so it’s really hot. Then put a couple big scoops of vanilla ice cream on top. And then wait a minute for some of it to melt. It runs down the sides of the pie and gets absorbed by the crust. When you take a bite, the key is to get the juxtaposition of the hot pie with the cold ice cream.
SV?
Yes, Captain?
Do your thing, my friend.
I thought you’d never ask. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up intergalactic lovebird style for the hardest working band in whatever system or galaxy we’re currently in. And if we’re currently in between galaxies, what do we call that? Deep space? The space equivalent of international waters? I have no idea. Here they are once again to eat gourmet vanilla ice cream out of the thoroughly-cleaned anus of your earholes–
Thoroughly-cleaned anus of your earholes?
Do not interrupt me.
Sorry. Carry on.
The thoroughly-cleaned anus of your earholes…. Get ready for musical ecstasy guaranteed to send you over the nearest moon. Here they are doing their latest hit song titled Hot Pie, Cold Ice Cream…. It’s The Hot Fudge Sundaes.
{musical interlude}
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Sundaes. Thank you, SV. I wish my penis was big enough to bend it down and make love to my own thoroughly-cleaned ice cream anus. Or that Hancock was here to help me be able to rim myself.
To quote Ross: The word you’re probably looking for is: Anyway….
On with the show.
Now, before we get into it, I gotta say something. This is just between you and me. Come closer because I’m a little embarrassed or something. Cause here’s the thing. Last night, when I was standing here while you guys were, um,...finishing, was it me or was that kinda hot?
I thought it was kinda hot.
Maybe you thought it was awkward, I dunno.
I found it to be let’s just say enjoyable.
Next time — Next time?! — I’m gonna stand closer to the thing so it really seems like I’m in the room. So you can only see me from chest up. And I’m gonna make sex noises and jerk back and forth a little like, Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Just like that. Keep going. Yeah, like that. Oh, that’s so good. Just like that. Oh, yeah.
You get the idea.
I think I’m a little verklempt.
However you spell that. Mike Meyers, how do you spell verklempt?
Anyway, on with the show. Welcome, once again, to the Alien Night Club. I am, like I said: for better or worse, your nonadjectival host Captain Blank.
There’s a very interesting aroma in here tonight. I’m not even sure how to describe it. It’s a good smell. Definitely a good smell. Some sort of food. Like a good restaurant you pass by when you’re walking down the street and the aroma hits you full-on and even if you just ate an entire large pizza, you immediately want to go inside and eat whatever is creating that amazing aroma. Like fried food but not too heavy. With a hint of something heady. Not meat, exactly. Soup, maybe. And perfume.
What’s that?
Okay.
Wow.
I’m so confused.
For those of you not here in the classiest nightclub I know of — which is saying a lot because I’ve always hated nightclubs — you probably couldn’t hear that but someone just said what the smell is.
I’m not sure — long pause — what to say.
I’ll just say it. I was told that that smell is a special word in another language that roughly translates to divine sex organ.
How do you say it?
Okay, they’re telling me that it’s a little like sign language. You say the word or make the sound but you also haff to make a gesture. Remember when Spock did Live Long and Prosper with his hand? Kind of like a peace sign using all 4 fingers? Do that with both hands and then pretend each hand is a horny human female grinding her crotchal section — thank you, Dane, for chestal section — her crotchal section on another horny human female’s crotchal section. Scissoring. Although one need not be strictly female down there. Point being — AHHHHH!!! That was fast. — the smell I’m smelling that is making me simultaneously hungry and horny is the smell of one of the people here tonight. People? Species? Lifeforms? I’m sorry, I don’t know the proper vernacular.
I’m being told people is fine.
Okay, we’re all people. Good.
Wow. I’m guessing eating that would be like eating a warm, fresh, sweet, fried funnel cake or maybe a waffle cone in a Jacuzzi.
Tonight’s show is brought to you by the following:
Bearclaw Coffee. Amazing coffee served in extra large mugs for people with big hands.
And by Jesus H. Christ popsicles. If the guys from Jackass had used those after the hot sauce enemas, buttons would have been pushed. As if enough weren’t already.
And by Lamborghini and the all-new Lamborghini Supervelocce Jacuzzi Shower. Visit their website today and design your very own with their state of the art configurator. It’s awesome.
Brew a cup of Bearclaw, grab a Jesussicle out of the freezer, settle into your nice hot steaming Lambo spa, and take a selfie. Hashtag bearclawjesusinalambo. And be careful not to drop your phone in the water. Maybe prop it up on the side of the Jacuzzi with the timer set for 10 so you have time to grab the mug and the popsicle and pose with your tongue not sticking out. Unless that’s your thing. Just know that the rest of us kind of hate it.
10 bucks says we’re going to get a bunch of pics of people with the jesussicle somewhere other than in or near their mouth.
Tonight’s show is also brought to you by an all-new sponsor: Jesus H. Christ frozen suppositories, now with a convenient applicator made entirely of sustainable bamboo. They’re sugar free, gluten free, nondairy, totally vegan, and totally delicious. Even though an anal suppository on a stick that also tastes great is kind of confusing. Available in 6 delicious flavors: Cotton Candy, Pina Colada, Cherry Pie — of course; that’s Vince Neil’s favorite I hear — Chocolate Fudge — Ew. — Watermelon Jolly Rancher, and Scorpionlemonpepper, which is as hot as it is sour and as sour as it is hot. It’s like sticking a tiny Jesus-shaped capsaicin secreting cactus up your tusik. Jesus H. Christ frozen suppositories, redefining ass to mouth for the past 30 seconds.
Capsaicin is the neurotransmitter for pain, by the way. When you eat something spicy and it burns your mouth, the nerve endings in your mouth are registering that pain as heat or spiciness. It’s also in pepper spray. And it’s also in all-new Jesus H. Christ frozen suppositories. Available now in your grocer’s freezer. Unless you live in certain areas. Then you might haff to drive across state lines to get yours.
I see tremendous black market potential for Jesus H. Christ frozen suppositories.
There’s a really good joke in there somewhere, I just don’t know what it is yet.
Have you ever been watching a YouTuber and they do a sponsored ad in their video, which you fast forward through by tapping the right arrow key as many times as needed, and then they say, And now let’s get on with the video.
And then an ad pops up.
They Rick Rolled you.
Clever little shits.
But getting back to the time thing. I couldn’t sleep last night and I was lying there thinking about what was happening back on Earth. If everyone is aging exponentially relative to me. And then it occurred to me that the opposite could also be true. Because as Joey taught us: opposite is opposite. Ergo — thank you, David the Scientist Guy who went to Minsk, AKA Hank Azaria — I could be aging exponentially relative to them. Maybe I’ll be up here for the next 40 years.
Symbolism!
Hopefully NOT complaining about it the whole time, as is my wont. Something I am aware of, by the way. It’s the 2nd-most thing I hate about myself, right after being too nice, being subject to motion sickness and not able to ride roller coasters or fly or enjoy being on a boat, being fairskinned and blue eyed and not able to enjoy the beach, and not knowing how to make money. Other than that, I’m peachy.
But what if they take me home 40 years from now, perhaps it’s 20 years each way, and when I get back to Earth, only an hour has passed. And Einstein was totally fuckin wrong. Or at least got it backwards and the opposite was true. And if only Joey Tribiani had been there to show Einstein his clothes, Alby would’ve gotten it correct.
Imagine that from the Earthling’s perspective. Everyone’s day is interrupted when an actual flying saucer comes down from the sky and goes to a nowheresville town in California and grabs some dude no one has ever heard of, and flies away. And no one can do anything about it. The military is totally unprepared and caught totally off guard. The ship never appeared on any radar screens. It came in cloaked or invisible or whatever so no one ever saw it. Until it was a few thousand feet over my dad’s house. And then I went outside and got in it and it flew away. It was gone just as quickly as it had come. And me with it. Suddenly everyone was probably digging up everything they could on me. Every government in the world convened immediate phone calls and video conferences to figure out what the crap just happened. Because it revealed how totally unprepared and impotent they were. And now they need interplanetary Viagra.
SB?
Yes, Captain?
Hit it.
Sure thing. Ladies and gentlemen…. Ladies and gentle men, give it up, and I do mean give it up for our favorite musicalists as they regale us with more earhole glory hole goodness. Here they are now doing their latest smash hit song guaranteed to get your earholes juicy. It’s The Hot. Fudge. Sundaes. Doing. Interplanetary Viagra. Friends…hit it.
{musical interlude}
Are your earholes gaping? My earholes are gaping. It hurts so good.
How big a shit would everyone take when a mere hour after it left, the ship comes back. Same deal. No warning whatsoever. Even though the skies would be FULL of fighter jets and AWACS planes and helicopters and the works.
Nevertheless, the ship comes right down, totally immune to all of that. It hovers over my dad’s house. The elevator thing comes down again, and a little old man walks out onto the lawn. He looks up, waves goodbye, or gives the finger, which would also be hilarious, and the ship zips away.
The whole area would probably be cordoned off by US Army personnel in full cammo and helmets and boots and black sunglasses. Yellow caution tape everywhere. All the neighbors taken away for tests. It would be crawling with cops, FBI, NSA, CIA, MI6, KGB, MiB. And loads of scientists wearing hazmat suits. They’d be walking all over the place with various measuring devices, searching for harmful radiation and whatnot. They’d grab me and Rodney King me before I had a chance to ask for spaghetti and garlic bread and peach pie with ice cream. Then they’d kidnap me. They’d throw me into the back of a van and take me away. And I’d go to some government lab inside a mountain. There I’d be held mostly against my will for an unspecifiable amount of time. They’d take some blood and look at my teeth and figure out that I was the same person from an hour ago. Just old as fuck now.
I’d be the most famous person in the history of the world.
I’d never be able to go home. The government would haff to keep me someplace where nutjobs couldn’t snipe me. No pink mist, no canoeing, thank you very much. That’s when a sniper scores a headshot. I recommend you not google it.
If I got back one hour later and was hella old, I’d probably haff to take a nap before being able to answer questions.
Imagine the eventual press conference.
There’d be no way to not believe it.
Because they all saw it.
I’d haff to do a global worldwide no holds barred media tour. I’d go to every country. I’d meet all the leaders and presidents and prime ministers and kings and queens and princesses and princes. There’d be celebrities out the ass. Everyone would want a piece of me. The abducted one. Who returned home. Publicly. Not like in Close Encounters where it’s all done in secret.
You saw it.
For one hour, you sat there staring at your TV or your computer or your phone. Kinda sorta shitting yourself. Trying to absorb it all. Process it. Figure out what it means. The larger implications.
Because guess what?
The age-old question as to whether or not we are alone in the Universe was just answered right before your very eyes.
And the answer is:
Fuck no.
A lot of people would say it was fake. Staged. Hollywood bullshit. A prank. Special effects. CGI. AI. The USA would blame Russia and or China and or North Korea and or the Taliban and or ISIS. All of them would blame the USA, the evil capitalist great Satan pigs flaunting their technology as usual in order to subjugate brown people and steal their oil. Blah blah blah.
Until the President comes out and has a live press conference and goes, Um, listen, folks. No idea what just happened. We saw what you saw. We are looking into it. Hard. We’ll get back to ya.
It’d be like in Contact after they received The Signal.
Google the Wow Signal if you’ve never heard of it, by the way. It’s awesome.
And then a few minutes after all that, the ship comes back and drops me off and the hazmat people grab me and shove me into a van.
And because you are astute you will notice that when the ship came, a door opened and I got in. No one grabbed me. No one shoved me. No one forced me to go.
But now that I’m home — quote unquote home; fuckers — they’re totally violating my rights. Essentially kidnapping me.
Oh but it’s all under the guise of national security. I could be a threat. I could be a spy. I could be carrying a new bacterium or virus or plague that would sweep across the world and kill every human in less than 24 hours so that the invading aliens can show up and take over a perfectly good planet. All they’d need to do is get rid of X billion bodies. Yuck. Maybe they’d miniaturize them and send them to the quantum realm from whence our things are conjured. So that the people there could eat. Because they’re cannibals. And that’s basically the aliens keeping up their end of a truly bizarre and utterly repulsive trade agreement.
You give us anything we want the moment we ask for it and in return, we’ll send you billions of juicy creatures to eat.
Yuck.
After the mediastorm passed and all that didn’t happen, life went on, the sun set and rose and set and rose again and again a whole bunch more times and people got bored of me, then what? Where would I live?
I don’t think most people would want me around.
They’d be afraid of me. Even if the government says I’m quote unquote clean and no one around me has actually died, even though people would say they had, everyone would be afraid of me.
They’d fear and loathe me. In Las Vegas as well as everywhere else. Because I’m the one who got chosen; not them. And I was the one who got rejected by the aliens. Who obviously didn’t want me. It had nothing to do with them doing me a solid by bringing me back to Earth so I could live out my days among my own kind. It’s because I wasn’t good enough for them. I was the representative of Earth. And I blew it. I wasn’t allowed to stay there. Wherever there was. I got kicked out. I was expelled. I obviously did something wrong. I obviously did something I shouldn’t have. And because of me, the aliens would one day come back and destroy you all. The aliens obviously studied me and learned everything there is to know about humans in order to find our weaknesses. To destroy us. I was obviously chosen because I was so stupid and weak and feebleminded that I didn’t have the common sense to NOT get into the elevator thing when it came down from the ship. All I had to do was stay in my dad’s house. Not go outside. Not be abducted.
But I didn’t do that.
I did go.
I gave them all of our secrets.
And now they’re going to come back and destroy Earth and everyone on it. They’ll come and invade and enslave everyone. It will be Hell on Earth. Far worse than any war ever fought or envisaged. It would make North Korean labor camps look like a day at Disneyland.
And it would be all. My. Fault.
So of course millions of people would be out to murder me. They’d be convinced that sacrificing me would be the only way to appease the aliens. Someone would kidnap me and tie me to a table and plunge a gigantic David Bowie knife into my stomach, moving it around in circles while chanting some inane bullshit about learning the error of our ways and please don’t smite us oh all-powerful man from the sky.
Sound familiar?
Or what if a weird sex cult got ahold of me and strung me up and cut me open and spilled my guts — literally — and used my blood and guts as lube for the orgie. McLovin brought a tube of lube. They cut open the most infamous person on the planet. And smeared themselves with whatever they could get out of me. Hoping to imbue and infuse and embalm themselves with whatever I had that made me special enough to have a bona fide motherfuckin alien come down and get me. Which they perceive as the ultimate compliment. Making me someone to be revered. Yet they’re so totally fucked in the head that rather than sit at my feet and listen to me tell stories of what I did and what I saw and where I went and what I ate and what I drank while I was away from Earth, they cut me open and wrap my intestines around their necks and chew on them and try to get my poop out of me. Because whatever I ate on the alien ship to keep me alive would still be in my intestines. Even though the government would have given me the colonoscopy of all colonoscopies. And an enema to boot. It could’ve filled a boot. They’d be so fascinated to see what was in my poop. Which actually makes sense from a scientific perspective. The method of fecal extraction is likely to be debatable, however. Either give me a nice cup of herbal laxative tea and wait for me, the little old man, to have a poop…or strap me to a table and shove a shopvac up my ass and down my throat so they can suck it out before it gets digested. If I have weird, undigested alien food in my stomach and they could get it out and look at it under a microscope, that could advance human understanding of biology and xenobiology exponentially.
So yeah, by all means, let’s not be shy about treating the little old man back from space as though he’s a salmon we plucked out of the river to measure, tag, and release with a tracker surgically implanted inside him. And a camera in his eyeball. And a microphone in his ear. In case the aliens come back for him. The intergovernmental agency squabbling over who gets first dibs on my blood, poo, pee, spit, semen, et cetera would be unprecedented.
Once they got everything they could out of me and it was obvious they’d learned all they were going to, they get rid of me. They’d either poison me and say I had a heart attack or they’d drop me off in the middle of the night at a bus station somewhere with an envelope with a couple hundred bucks in it.
Gee, thanks.
Or what if the opposite happened? What if Joey showed us our clothes and I didn’t come back an hour later?
All of the above would still happen. The attack on my dad’s house, the scientific and governmental analysis, the immediate passing and signing of a defense bill bigger than anything ever previously conceived.
Lest the aliens come back and abduct more of us.
Someone would probably make a counter. A website. Maybe a screen in Times Square showing the number of days I’d been gone. Maybe there’d eventually be a bronze statue erected. A hammered metallic likeness of me looking up at the stars. With a flame burning. And maybe a nice poem written by Stephen King because word would’ve gotten out that I was a fan.
Dear Starman,
We hope you come back.
And don’t kill us or anything. Because we had nothing to do with it.
Sincerely,
The People of Earth
Thanks, Steve!
Maybe I can have the aliens pick you up and bring you up here. And we can sit up here somewhere out past the Moon. We can look down at the Earth and talk shit about the dimwits and bureaucrats chasing their tails and fearing their own shadows. Even though we’d haff to admit that some of their fears were founded.
Because like Arthur C. Clarke once sagely said, Either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Either possibility is equally terrifying.
And at that moment, everyone on Earth would know — with ZERO doubt — that we very much are not.
Would that revelation lead to the downfall of society?
That is one of the leading arguments as to why the UFO coverup was put into place after Roswell. It was believed that proof of life beyond Earth would upend religion, faith, spirituality, et cetera. And that that would wreak havoc. People would stop going to work. The global economy would contract if not outright freeze in the most severe recession of all time. Such that it would probably never fully recover.
The truth must therefore be hidden. To protect everyone from themselves.
I hate when people try to protect me from myself.
I went out to dinner with a group of friends once. We were going to all smoke weed and go eat. But everyone balked. So I said fuck it and smoked anyway. By myself. My friend drove my car. Because I was baked. Fine, no problem. When we got to the restaurant, I asked for my keys. I wanted my keys because if they weren’t in my pocket, at some point during dinner I would absently rest my hand on my right leg, with my hand separated from the familiar lump of my keys by a thin layer of denim. A panic would ensue as I realized I’d lost my keys. Only to then abate as I remembered my friend had them. I didn’t want to experience that moment of keylessness. Because I’d done it before and didn’t care for it. If you’ve ever misplaced your keys, you know what I’m talking about. So I asked for my keys. And I explained why I wanted them. And I was told, You don’t need your keys. I was now the drunk being protected from himself. It irked me. It kind of ruined the dinner for me. Everyone treating me like a junkie. Talking about me across the table because they thought I couldn’t hear them.
But I’ve also been a party to physically preventing a most-definitely intoxicated friend from getting into their car in order to drive to the house of an ex.
But that was different. They were trying to drive. Whereas I was not. They were trying to commit felony DUI and trespassing. I was merely trying to prevent an unwanted adrenaline rush.
But getting back to the aliens….
Did you ever read or see the series Fleet Day? It was 8 books and 8 seasons. One season for each year. Basically, an alien ship was spotted with one of Earth’s telescopes. An amateur skywatcher, as a matter of fact. He got so scared he had a heart attack, by the way. Helluva way to start the story.
24 hours later, everyone on Earth knew about this ship coming toward Earth. The scientists and astronomers and physicists all got together and analyzed the data. They determined that at present velocity, the ship would reach Earth in 8 years.
The story was what happened during those 8 years.
There was the initial shock and the catastrophic reaction as fear took over. Riots and millions of people praying and a surprising number of people taking their own lives.
But mostly people took it well and life went on. Cooler heads prevailed. Mostly.
And every year on the day of the discovery, everyone commemorates Fleet Day.
Whomever is in office holds a press conference. Science advisors speak and give updates, saying they still don’t know anything and that they’re launching probes but the ship is very, very big and is very, very far away and is moving very, very quickly. Like, insanely fast. Their best guess is that by the time their probe reaches the alien ship, the alien ship will be about as far away as Saturn. And Earth will have about 3 days to analyze whatever data comes back before the ship does whatever it’s going to do.
Some people think it’s going to hit the Earth and destroy it. That it’s a giant interplanetary alien kamikaze.
Like the comet no one believed in in Don’t Look Up. Put it on your diet app.
Other people believe the ship will stop and will send a smaller ship — or ships; gulp! — to Earth.
To quote the TV broadcaster from Contact, The question, of course, is what happens then?
So each book and each season of the show got more and more tense. Because you always haff to have a ticking clock. And that was a fatherfucking motherfucker of a ticking clock.
Harry spent 8 years at Hogwarts.
With a mostly happy ending.
This was the opposite. With a happy beginning. Sort of.
A lot of people stopped watching the show between seasons 3 and 7. But everyone tuned in to watch season 8.
I won’t tell you what happened. But it was good.
The thing I liked about it, though, was not so much the spectacle of impending disaster everyone was secretly hoping for. Like waiting to see the Earth get a friendly visitation, an unfriendly visitation, or blown completely out of the solar system.
For me, the cool thing about the story, the books and the show, which did a really good job of being faithful to the source material, was watching the characters deal with what was happening. Because life went on. The sun set and rose and set and rose. And it was going to for 8 years. People still needed to eat and sleep and make life livable. Kids went to school. Parents went to work. People fell in love and had sex and sometimes got pregnant.
That ignited a fierce debate, by the way. Whether or not a child conceived under those circumstances should be allowed to be born. Because what was going to happen? Everyone under the age of 8 was going to grow up in a world where an alien ship had made contact with the Earth. And hopefully not enslaved it.
It was a serious moral quandary. People in real life broke up because of it. Because of a TV show. The show got a lot of heat. Totally unfairly, in my opinion. It wasn’t real. And people who couldn’t separate fiction from reality and allowed themselves to get all worked up seemed kind of stupid. A lot of people said it was a good thing, though. Because those people weren’t ready to be reproducing yet, anyway.
It was a very good show. I read the whole series twice. In fact, the day I attempted — and failed epically at — the great Houdini spaghetti escape, I was actually thinking about that show. Having cold spaghetti noodles down your throat and in your larynx — your windpipe — and in your lungs is an odd sensation. I couldn’t cough them out, either. Each time I tried to cough, I had to breathe in so I could get air to cough out. Which made me inhale more spaghetti.
What is the deal with me and spaghetti?
Because spaghetti is a-freaking delicioso! shout the Italians. If it’s a good enough fora God, it’s a good enougha for you! Even if you a drown in it. We should all be so lucky.
Maybe. Make sure you warm the spaghetti, though. Cold leftover spaghetti is delicious but you wouldn’t want to take a bath in it.
Unless maybe you’re using your custom built Lamborghini Supervelocce Shower Spa.
The point, however, is that I jumped into the big tank of spaghetti and realized how dark and cold and slippery it was and that there was no way I was going to be able to get out. I knew I was going to suffocate. I was surprisingly calm, though. Calmer than I had been before I’d jumped in. Working up the guts to jump in was the hard part. But once I was in there and knew I was definitely fubar, it was really only a matter of watching it play out and hoping things turned out well. I had a safety harness in place to yank me out of the spaghetti. Which it did. And I had defibrillator patches on my chest ready to shock me back to life. Which they did. But I had no way of knowing if they would actually work. I had to wait and see. Which is what the characters in Fleet Day had to do. And the thing that struck me most about that series was the decorum people showed. Obviously there were the hysterical people who freaked out. But mostly everyone stayed calm and worked together. Right up until the last minute that they got a really good up-close and personal look at that big fuckin ship that had been hurtling toward them for the past 8 years. I think there was a lot of disaster fatigue, too. If that’s what you call it. The nervousness before a sporting event, for example. You really just want to start the game, start the race, start the match. Whatever it is, you want to get going. Because then you’re in action and you’re doing something. You’re not just mindlessly waiting, feeling helpless. So I tried to remember that decorum when I was at the bottom of the tank of spaghetti. It was darker than I had expected, too. And heavier. I could barely move. It was so heavy. Pick up a can of Spaghetti-O’s. It’s surprisingly heavy. Now multiply that by about 2000. That’s probably 1000 pounds of spaghetti.
You may be wondering what I did with all that spaghetti afterwards.
I will tell you what I did with it.
Oh, shit. I just thought of something. What if that guy came to get me and brought me here because someone else was coming to get me. And he wanted to get to me first. What if he saved me?
But what if the other people came looking for me and I wasn’t there?
What if they turned the Earth upside down looking for me?
And I wasn’t there.
I hope the Earth is still there.
Does anyone know if the Earth is still there?
I can’t see shit with the lights in my face. Anyone?
Nothin.
Noone knows? Seriously?
Well. That’s great.
That’s called sarcasm, by the way, for those of you in the audience with us here tonight. It’s when you say something that you don’t actually mean. Because you actually mean the opposite. It’s meant to be humorous and to show the extent to which you’re angry or upset over the matter.
God stroke Gawd, I wonder if they heard me.
You know how the Earth has been sending signals out into space — totally on accident, by the way — ever since the mid-20th century when radio and TV were invented? The theory is that aliens could’ve been listening to those recordings this whole time. Learning everything there is to know about humans and life on Earth. Crazy as it often is. Well, when I was little, I went on a TV show.
Man, I haven’t thought about that for forever.
My mom took me. It was the Brian O’Conan Show. He was a tall, lanky guy. Nice guy. I always liked his show. He did one of those segments where they bring kids on and ask them questions and kids say the darnedest things.
I was one of those kids.
I am like I said I was.
Have you heard about the sexy, fun new novel by a sexy, fun new writer?
It's called February Steel.
By February Steel.
And you also haff to buy the companion novel February Reign. It, too, was written by February Steel. And you haff to read it. It's so good. You will love it, I promise. It's about a supercool chick doin supercool stuff. There's action and high-level hand to hand combat. And cool gadgets. And sexy cars. And sexy people. Often wearing tight, wet clothing in the rain or the ocean and it always looks cold as fuck but somehow it still seems hot. It also helps that she's hot. And every bit as smart. Her undergraduate degree is in Engineering. And she got the degree from a school known for their e program. And she attended on a dual jiu jitsu and track scholarship. Jiu Jitsu and track. If you mess with her, she will chase you down. She will catch you. And she will kick your ass or submit you or choke you out. You'd better fuckin hope she chokes you out. That's gettin off easy. She could get you in an armbar and bend your elbow backwards. She could get you in a kimora and twist your arm sideways until it breaks just below your shoulder.
She's one of those girls.
Most weeknights and weekends, she sings and plays lead guitar in her band, February Steel and The Pipelayers. Her Spotify, YouTube channel, and socials are insane.
She's been on magazine covers for magazines about engineering, jiu jitsu, running, and guitar.
And fashion. Because that's where the money is.
When she's out of town, which is often, she's often overseas working as an ambassador to a country or for a cause or doing her own investigative journalism with her trusted crew.
She's like a female Tom Cruise.
She's the female 007 we should've had a long time ago.
And, best of all, in high school and college she worked at more than one coffee shop. So she knows a lot about coffee. Especially how to make one and what it should taste like. So when she says a place has good coffee, it has really fuckin good coffee.
Be sure to watch Please Cut Back On the Coffee with Amy Pohler if you haven't been. There's just nothing funnier than a super cracked out hypercaffeinated Amy Pohler trying to stay calm.
The best part is when she yells and screams. Because she's just so cute and adorable.
Did I mention that February Steel is also a successful novelist? She's penned 2 brand new novels about a sexy, spicy, asskickin badass singer songwriter engineer athlete globetrotting international superstar.
People say the absolutely insane adventures are based on her own life. You haff to read it and decide for yourself.
She's also producing and starring in a feature film called Summer Wine. Inspired by the song.
She wears boots and a miniskirt. While she chokes a guy out.
And guess what? She’s bi. Not that it is anyone's business but she’s so bi. She’s as bi as the day is long. That doesn’t make her a promiscuous slut. She doesn’t sleep around. But she has been known to have both boyfriends and girlfriends. Though never at the same time. Yet.
To be honest, I wasn’t keen on that part. I’m a bit saturated on the hypersexualized pansexual stuff. Your sexuality is your business. It’s private. So…just let’s all shut the fuck up about it already.
Moving on.
Imposter Syndrome.
Which is why I’m going to go check and see if Earth is still there.
That’s our show!
Thank you!
Goodnight!
Remember to tip your waitress!
Next episode coming Saturday!