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Ah…
Argh…
Hello.
Thank you for coming back. This is amazing, you guys. For those of you who are unable to see it at this very moment, I shall take a moment and attempt to describe it to you. Or is it y’all?
What do you guys say here?
Because on Earth, it’s pretty much become y’all. Probably because of that commercial from a few years ago, I think it was ESPN or maybe NCAA, those are both sporting, I almost said sporting goods, those are both sports organizations. Big ones. Two of the biggest on the planet, by the way. The whole planet Earth, Planet Earth, capital P, capital E.
Anyway, the commercial had a cool scene with all these guys on what looked to me like a high school football team. Like, a good one. Probably inner city. Most of the kids were Black, I think. Not because I don’t know what they were, they were obviously studly guys, a whole heck of a lot studlier than I was at that age or than I am now, but because I can’t freakin remember.
Anyway, they were all singing this song:
We ready
We ready
We ready
For y’allllll
And it was very simple and very catchy and everybody started singing it. I sure did.
By the way, it seems we’re going red tonight. I like it. Yeah, for those who can’t see this, this place is awesome. Alien night club? No, wait, I see poles.
Holy shit, I just noticed the poles.
Is this a strip club?
An alien strip club. We’re in an alien strip club. I thought it was a night club.
Fancy that: you get abducted…to an alien strip club.
What are the odds?
Pretty fuckin small.
But again, for those who can’t see, this place is nice. Like, italics on the nice. It’s pretty large, it doesn’t look like it but for some reason it reminds me of the old, old Tonight Show, with Johnny Carson. Carson was the man. Blue curtains on the stage. Sky Blue. Baby Blue.
Please note that those words are capitalized.
Because they’re nouns. They are proper nouns. Person, place, or thing. That is a THING which has a name, like a person. So, yes, motherfucker fatherlover, they are nouns and therefore get capitalized.
I should apologize for my potty mouth. My mouth has a mind of its own. And it seems always to be screaming in silent rage.
Now, back to the curtain. Sky blue, rippled and flowing with that scalloped in and out and in again thing curtains do. And they look fuzzy. That’s how Johnny’s looked. I don’t know what color these are. Tonight they’re red. I want to go over and touch one of them. Perhaps we’ll do that at some point in the show tonight. We’ll have a curtain touching. I’m sure it’ll be powerful. Touching the curtain on an alien spaceship for the first time? It’s definitely going to be powerful.
Lighting in here overall is very good. Stage is well-lit, audience is basically dark. Very, very shadowy, just the way you want it to be. I can barely see you guys from up here. I can see you, so I know you’re there. I can discern movement. I can hear you a teenie tiny bit. Eating, drinking, smoking, because there is an array of aromas in here. I’m glad that you are enjoying yourselves. Whatever it is your species does, exactly, when in a comedy club.
Wait.
Are we in a comedy club?
Suddenly it–
No. It’s too big and nice, like…ritzy. Comedy clubs don’t usually have that look or that vibe. Because it’s less funny. It’s harder to be funny in a really upscale place that feels almost like a theater, the way this room does. This room demands a certain amount of formality. It’s not shorts and tee shirts in here. I mean, look at me: I’m wearing nice pants, nice shoes, a nice frickin jacket that I think fits me perfectly, so good job, guys, on the tailoring. And then the other thing, because, abducted onto an alien night club or not, I am not without a strong sense of irreverences.
Irreverences?
No, it’s not irreverences, although that IS a word. And remind me to come back to supposably later, please, so I can sort that one out.
No, it’s not irreverences. It’s irreverences.
Crap, I did it again.
Jesus, maybe it is irreverences. My subconscious sure as shit seems to think so.
But, no, it’s not; it’s not irreverences. It’s, watch me mess up and say it incorrectly again, it’s irreverence.
There. I said it. In an alien night club strip club comedy club supper club whatever this is. Is this going to be like not knowing what show it is? Every night we’re gonna do this and we’re not going to know A, what show it is or, B, where even we are. Where we are.
Where are we? No idea. Somewhere in space. I would love to know how fast we’re going, by the way. If someone wants to just shout it out, I’m all ears.
I don’t hear anything. I guess that means no one knows or no one wants to shout it out. Which I can understand, like I said before, this is a nice place, an upscale place. And here’s the thing: it reminds me of a dinner theater from Vegas in the ‘50s or ‘60s.
Vegas, for you nice folks, is a city back on Earth. In a country called the United States. Although is was not very united when I left, when you guys came and got me. Fuckin politics and shit. Politics became a motherfuckin sport. And it’s a sport anyone can play. Everyone can play. And it’s fuckin nuts. Because it’s about power and who’s going to be in charge. And anything can happen. And it does.
Honestly, I kind of had to bale out. To use an aviation metaphor, because I do have a pilot’s license, by the way. I don’t really consider myself a pilot, although legally I am one. I can go rent a plane and get in it and fly it. You could come with me. It would be totally legal and mostly safe. And you could watch me preflight the aircraft, do the whole walk-around, I’ll talk my way through it and tell you every single thing I’m doing, so that you will have a better understanding of what everything is and kind of how it works, because it’s not that complicated, really, it just takes time to become familiar with it at first when you are new to flying. But if you have ever wanted to go fly a plane and perhaps get your license and become a pilot, I highly encourage you to do that. It’s awesome. It is. It is very fun. And very exciting. And a tiny bit scary because, let’s be honest, you’re flying. Yes, you’re in a tiny little plane and something could break, and even if it does, you’ll probably be able to land just fine.
Most general aviation accidents involving small planes happen because the pilot ran out of gas.
How fucking stupid is that?
Like…hello!
There is no excuse for that. Unless your motherfucking fatherloving gas gauge is broken, straight-up broken, and you are unaware of it, there is no reason to ever, EVER, let your plane run out of gas. Same with your car. There’s no excuse. My dad told me that when I got my first car, which he bought for my spoiled ass, by the way, and the guilt I have over it shall be eternal, by the way. But yes, as he told me, I’m telling you guys, if you ever go to Earth and you rent an airplane or you drive a car, make sure you have enough gas.
Now, that being said, probably most pilots who do that go off-course and the route doesn’t make sense and they fly for too long before they take action, like getting on the radio and calling the nearest air traffic controller and asking them where you are and where your destination is relative to your current position. Because shit looks different up there. It’s hard to know where you are by looking out the window and seeing what’s there and then trying to compare all of that to these teenie, tiny pictures and illustrations and drawings and symbols on a chart. That’s called pilotage, by the way. Pilotage. A chart, by the way, is a map. But they’re not called maps for some reason. They’re aeronautical charts. Don’t they do the same thing for boats? They don’t use maps; they use charts?
I know very little about boats. I love the beach and looking at the ocean. But that’s about it. I usually get torrentially fucking seasick on boats and find myself residing in my own private hell for 6, maybe 7 hours, until the boat ride is over. The boat ride I’m referring to was a scuba diving trip in Maui. Which is in Hawaii. Which is also part of the United States. Although THAT has become a contentious fucking conversation. SOOOO many people now fucking hate the fact that Hawaii is part of the United States. They hate the fact that it was conquered. It was seized and taken over by the United States. The story I read is indeed pretty fucked. Like one day the queen of Hawaii or whatever her title is, no offense, I simply don’t know and can’t look it up at the moment, but basically the queen of Hawaii was sitting on her throne and she and her people were doing their thing and the motherfuckin American United States Army shows up. And they come in and say, Hi, we’re the American Army, and we’re annexing all of this, all of your land, everything, and we’re appropriating it as needed because of what we call national security and geopolitics.
There’s that fuckin word again: politics. The ultimate sport.
No, it fucking is not. It is not a sport. Sports are supposed to be entertainment. Like football. Whichever variety you prefer.
So the queen is like, Fuck; now what?
And her people are all like, we’ll kill all these motherfuckers if you want us to. Just say the word. We’ll take them captive and they can either get back on their boats and go away and never come back or we’re going to kill them now, like, probably in the next hour. Maybe even the next 15 to 20 minutes. Her lead warrior, her general, probably looked over at the Americans, the Army Lieutenant or General or whichever guy was in charge of that whole cluster fuck, which they call a Charlie Foxtrot, by the way.
And the General was probably all like, Well, sir, I reckon you and your boys could certainly give us one hell of a fight. And you might even win. But if you do, when my superior officers learn that I haven’t returned from this place, and they hear that I have not been in touch with any of our people in any way, including a simple radio call, they will come looking for me. For all of us. And many of them will come. Many more than I have here with me today. And no matter what you do to me and my men here today, you will not be able to do that to them. They will come in overwhelming numbers and with mighty weapons. And they will give you a choice: surrender or die.
And if you surrender, which, in my opinion, you should do today before any blood is spilt, if you surrender to them, you will be treated fairly. Whoever was responsible for killing me and my men will be arrested, tried, and sentenced accordering to American law.
Accordering?
That’s not even a word. Like Monica said, when Rachel said Transponster: That’s not even a word!
And she was right; it’s not. Supposably is. But Joey didn’t use it right. But we’ll get back to that.
The American U.S. Army General will tell the queen and her people and her General that if they surrender, most of their people will be treated fairly and will be allowed to go on with their lives. Because Americans are pretty nice people, overall. Most people in all countries are pretty nice people overall. Which is why war is so fuckin stupid. Killing our friends we haven’t taken the time to even meet yet.
And now we never will.
Because one of us is dead. Fuckin dead.
That’s permanent.
So the Queen, who was obviously a genius woman, which is how she got the job, looked at that American General in his uniform, surrounded by all his men, and all of them had weapons and looked VERY serious. And she did a quick bit of math and made her decision:
Surrender.
Duh.
Either surrender or we all die.
What good is dying going to do?
We’re obviously fucked. Let’s be cool and live to fight another day. And maybe it won’t be that bad.
And it seems like it’s worked out pretty well. Maybe the locals don’t think so; I dunno. I haven’t gone to Hawaii and done any surveys.
Although one of the two times I was there, my dad got in an argument with a guy who worked in the pizza place where we were having dinner and my dad got the guy in a headlock. That was some shit. That guy told my dad to go back to Idaho. To which my dad replied, You’re probably FROM Idaho.
The guy could’ve been from Idaho. He didn’t look Hawaiian to me. He looked like a white guy. A White guy, with a capital W. He looked totally caucasian.
So who knows where he was from. But he mouthed off and I’m not sure why. My dad may have said something about the pizza taking a long time. And we ordered two and only one came and it was several minutes before the other one came. Like maybe 10. That’s kind of a long time to have to sit and wait for your other pizza to show up. Especially when it’s a big group of people and the two pizzas have completely different toppings because everybody wants something different on their pizza.
At any rate, it was long enough for my dad to get the guy in a headlock and for them to yell at each other and the whole restaurant to go quiet and for a bunch of the men to stand up.
The place went totally quiet and five or six or seven men actually STOOD UP.
Because if there was going to be a fight, they were going to stop it. That’s why. Men learn how to do that as boys or as teenagers. When we’re growing up, there are many times that we’re in a situation where we’re with a bunch of other guys and two of the guys will get into it. Some sort of argument. Offience
Offience? That’s definitely not a word.
OFFENSE is given or taken and the two guys say a bunch of angry stuff to each other and they stand up, ready to fight.
And all of us there are like, Oh fuck.
And some of the guys, often almost all of them, will stand up. Because we need to be ready. To either stop the two of them from fighting, like actually punching each other in the face and really trying to hurt each other, or because we’re all going to fight. Like it’s going to be a melee. And that’s pronounced MAY lay, not MEE lee. When I was a kid and my friends and I played D and D, we learned that word but we didn’t know if it was may lay or mee lee. It’s may lay.
Melee. Like in that movie Anchor Man with Will Ferrell and Christina Applegate. And Steve Carell and Paul Rudd and Vince Vaughn, who is like six-foot-six, by the way. And maybe someone in the melee has a trident. Like Steve Carell did in that movie. It was so ridiculous. A fucking trident? You bring an actual trident to a street fight? A brawl?
I never was actually in a brawl, by the way. Was never in one, never saw one. I think I saw one legit fight in my entire life. And it was in Junior High and two guys went at it in the bike rack. And one guy got the other guy in a headlock and picked up a rock, like a big white rock or a piece of cement that has smaller rocks in it, and it was bigger than his hand, like it was so big that it was kind of hard for him to hold onto it. But he had the guy on the ground kind of underneath him, so his weight was on the guy and the guy couldn’t get up, and he grabbed that big cement rock and began smashing the guy in the face with it. Several times, by the way. Multiple times. I was kind of far away, I wasn’t right there in the bike rack. I was on the other side of the basketball court standing on the grass of the soccer field. So I was maybe 30 or 40 yards away. Maybe not that far.
I think he let the other guy up. No, he got up and ran away. I think maybe he saw the teacher or principal coming, because one of the adults who worked at the school came out and grabbed the other kid by the arm and sort of helped him up, I guess, but pretty much hauled him inside, where I always have thought he probably got expelled. And they probably asked him who he was fighting. Or if they already knew, they just called the other kid’s parents and told them what happened and that he was expelled, too. I dunno for how long. Maybe permanently. Like, you now have to go to an entirely different school, you dumbfuck.
But the kid who was being smashed in the face by the kid with the rock in his hand had a purple eye when the teacher helped him up. A weird, lavender-white color and it was all swollen and puffed up and freaky and terrifying. I’ll always remember that.
If your kid got into a serious fight at school and got expelled forever and you had to find a new school for them and it was pretty much a humiliating nightmare, would you want your kid to at least have won the fight?
That’s the real question.
Because if you had to drive your kid across town every morning to attend a different school, that’s going to require a lot of gas. So don’t fuckin run out of gas.
Anyway…
I’ve been debating whether or not to tell you how much I spent on my flight training before I pulled the plug. The original plan had been to be an airline pilot. Like to become the person who flies a big airplane, a big one, full of people, from the city in which they took off to the city in which they want to safely land and deplane. Often Hawaii. Where there are caucasian Hawaiian kids who like pizza but hate people from Idaho.
The reason I pulled the plug was because I only found out later what it’s like being an airline pilot. You’re gone a lot. It’s hard on the family.
By the way, who is flying this thing? Is someone sitting in a chair, looking out the window, with their hands or appendages or tentacles or mental telepathy waves or whatever actually ON the controls? Or at least giving orders to another being who is also there who DOES have their hands on the controls?
Is someone sitting in the big chair and saying, Make it so! and, Engage!
Or is this bad boy automated? Giving all you find people–
Find people?
Find? That’s like when Monica got sick and was still trying to seduce Chandler and wanted to make hot sweet sexy sweaty love with him and she said “I’m find.”
And Chandler said, oh wait, was it Ross? Shit, I think it was Ross. He said, “When you put a D on the end of fine, you’re not fine.”
Awesome.
Anyway…
I should probably stop saying anyway.
We should call this show Anyway.
Anyway, starring me. And it’s shot–
Shot? Taped? Filmed? Photonically captured via some other technology I’m not aware of? You guys will have to fill me in. Maybe later.
Anyway, in an alien nightclub.
That should be the name of the show: Anyway, in an Alien Nightclub. Or, Meanwhile in the Alien Night Club.
And I am your host….
Dude, I almost said my name.
What should my name be?
You guys have no idea what my name is. Or maybe you do, I dunno. The guy who came and got me back on Earth knew my name. He broadcasted it on every fucking TV and phone on Earth as far as I can tell. Jesus, I’m probably the most famous motherfucker to ever live. There are lots of names almost everyone on Earth knows. People like Davinci. Or a name of a dictator, which I was about to say but chose not to because fuck them and this is an alien night club and I don’t want to think about Stalin or Hitler or Ghengis Khan or anyone like that. We’re here to have fun, not talk about dictators. That’s a heavy discussion. A heavy discussion for another time.
Crap. Now I don’t know what to say. I’m so busy trying not to think about that that now that’s all I’m thinking about.
I wonder if you guys have dictators on any of the planets you’re from. Maybe all civilizations experience dictators. The vile, violent, psychotic, murderous ones. And if so, was it a long time ago or do you still have them?
I hope wherever I’m going doesn’t have them. Or one single one who governs the entire planet. Imagine that. Going to a planet that is owned and governed by one single group, atop which sits one single person. And they have complete sovereign sway and final say over everything and anything. And they can be benevolent and let people do their thing or they can call for the murder of anyone they choose. Simply by virtue of the fact that they are in charge.
They have the power.
Unlike Michael Douglas in Indecent Proposal with Demi Moore. Or was that the one with Woody Harrellson and Robert Redford? It’s pretty funny that both of those movies has Demi Moore playing a strong, powerful, sexual woman and because of that, I can’t remember which one. And I love her, by the way. Always have. All the way back to Saint Elmo’s Fire and Wisdom.
God she’s good. Icon. Icon.
Do you guys have icons on your planets? Dictators and icons. Dictators who become icons. Can icons become dictators? Imagine if Demi Moore was in charge of the world. Imagine if Demi Moore was President of the world. President of the Earth. Queen of the Earth.
If we had such an office back on Earth, and Demi Moore got the job, how would that have gone down? Because she’s smart and caring and awesome and someone nominates her and we all go, Yeah!
And whammo, Demi Moore is Queen of Earth.
Same thing that probably happened when the Queen of Hawaii got her job. She would be a very good person to consult. If you’re going to be Queen of Earth, it would be a really good idea to sit down with all the other queens, as many as you can find, and get their input. Ultimately, you’ll have to be the one who is in charge and is making all the decisions but those torah–
Torah?
I mean to say those other women would be good to talk to. And I’m sure they would be more than willing to sit down with Demi and give her the 4-1-1. And maybe the 4-1-2. And the 4-1-3. And the 4-1-4.
Speaking of 4, this is Show 3, right? Or is it Show 4 but we call it Show 3? Are we one ahead or one behind?
See? I already forget. We’ll never know. A bunch of you are probably thinking, It’s Show 3, you idiot!!!! With a whole bunch of exclamation marks at the end of your thought. At the end of your train of thought. Your thought is a train sailing down the railroad tracks. Now, I know boats sail, not trains. But this train is really chugging along nicely. It’s reached its cruising altitude, shall we say, if we compare it to an airliner, which is a really big airplane flown by really smart people who work really hard to be good at their job. A job which, for me, was just too stressful, which is why I pulled the plug. Two weeks before my initial C.F.I., by the way. So those of you in the industry can do the math. I was in pretty deep.
I was probably always doomed to fail.
Point being that your train of thought is really moving along at whatever percentage of its top speed is comfortable for it. And at the very end of the train, running on the railroad tracks trying to catch up, are a bunch of exclamation marks. Or maybe they’re just hanging off the back of the caboose. Maybe it’s one of those old-timey U.S. Presidents and everyone was just at a campaign stop and he made a speech at the train station.
A whistle stop tour. Because they stopped the train and blew the whistle. And everyone in the town came to hear him speak. And they showed up and they listened. Because they knew the other guy was coming in a few days and he also was going to talk about why HE should be President. And all these people were going to have to go to their courthouse or wherever and vote for one of these two people.
So the train just left the station, maybe 10 to 15 minutes ago, and it’s well outside of town now, and it’s hauling ass through some spectacular, very pristine, very beautiful but also possibly very deadly terrain. If you guys watched Westworld, you know what I mean.
Man, wasn’t that a fucked-up show?
Good.
But fucked up.
So violent. Like, my God, this is too violent. It wasn’t Squid Game; but it was violent. And Squid Game two was even worse; what the fuck?
And I heard Squid Game 4 through 11 were even worse but I never saw them because it was just too many squib packs. I think that’s what they’re called. It’s like a little bag of fake blood that pops and covers the person wearing it under their clothes in fake blood. That and showing people get shot. That was too much for me. Watching bullets rip people apart is not entertainment.
But…I guess that’s the point. That’s what it would look like and it helps drive home the harsh reality these people face when they agree to play the game. Which shows exactly, precisely how desperate they are.
Hey, here’s a question: if you had to choose one, if you HAD to, which would you choose: Squid Game or The Hunger Games?
Or…
The Running Man. The original one with Schwarzenneger and Richard Dawson. It was hilarious at the time because Richard Dawson was the host of Family Feud. For those of you who don’t know, Family Feud was a television game show in the 1970s. It was on during the evening, I believe. And it involved two families competing for cash and prizes. And it was a trivia game. They all had to answer questions. And then the right answers were revealed and whoever guessed right was awarded money and whoever had the most money at the end got to go for even more money. And the team had to choose two people to go to a lightning round. Chandler majored in lightning rounds and Monica was also good at them as I recall, but fuckin Richard Dawson used to kiss all the women.
He would KISS all the women.
The families were usually a mixture of men and women. Sometimes it was parents and their kids. Sometimes it was all siblings. But there were almost always women on the show. And every time Richard got to them to ask them the question, he would lean over and kiss them.
And they kissed him back!
They totally leaned in and kissed him back.
It was such a different time.
Imagine you’re a checker at Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods or a server at Chili’s or you work at McDonald’s and you’re the fuckin window or you work security at fuckin LAX or Laguardia or Ohare or Hotlanta or LAX and every time a person comes through your line and you interact with them, you have to kiss them. On the lips.
On the lips.
Sure, every now and then it’s a peck on the cheek. Especially if the person is obviously a minor, like 14. Otherwise, it’s a peck on the lips. Lips to lips.
If I had to kiss the checker at Trader Joe’s or the person working the illegal pervert X-ray phone booth we all love and adore so much every time I bought food or flew somewhere, I’d never leave my house.
I’d be like Sebastian Manascalco. I’d never leave my house. Pink sweater. Even though it actually looked really good although I could never pull it off and wouldn’t even try. The blue jacket looked good, too. Not sure about the penguin outfit, though. I’m sure he took a lot of shit over the penguin shirt. Maybe it was a dare.
For those of you who don’t know, we humans like to do this thing where we go sit in a room and watch another human stand up on a stage, towering over us, while they say things that make us laugh. It’s like some weird perversion of the medieval period where there were kings and queens and they had court jesters to entertain them.
Entertain me, fool! Or it’s off with your head.
And it very often was off with their head.
Like, imagine Tom Brady goes to Tampa, wins the Super Bowl, blows everyone’s mind, retires, says fuck that, unretires, pisses off his wife, starts the new season, leaves the team, comes back days later, winds up getting divorced, has a killer fucking season, gets to the Superbowl again, gets there again, how crazy would that be? He gets there again and it comes down to the wire. Like they’re down one and they’re going to go for two with two seconds left on the clock.
And they fuck it up.
And immediately, Tom and everyone else on the Tampa Bay Buccaneers gets decapitated.
They get their heads cut off. That’s taking the roast to a whole nuther level.
Remember in Season 1 of Game of Thrones when Ned Stark got executed after the little blond shit became King? Cersei’s boy? Remember what a shocker that was? Ned Stark was played by Sean Bean, who was not small-time. He was presented as the lead of the show. The show started with the Stark family. And he was the dad and the husband. He was in charge of Winterfell, the fort where they lived. He was like the Queen of Hawaii.
Only he got his head cut off unexpectedly.
What’s worse: getting your head cut off unexpectedly or expectedly? Actually, he knew it was coming. It’s not like he was in an accident. Like he leaned out the window of the drive-through to kiss the person in the car before he handed them their Double-Double Animal Style and – wham! – his head gets cut off and he literally wasn’t expecting it. In the show, it happens quickly. But Ned gets arrested, tried, and sentenced by that little blond shit, who I heard was the nicest person in real life, by the way, total sweetheart of a young man, awesome dude. But he got lots of hate mail because everyone thought he was actually like that because so many people are too dumb to be able to distinguish entertainment from reality. And the next thing you know, Game of Thrones is a fucked-up show. And anything can happen.
Oh, gee, just like the politics we talked about earlier. Because where did Game of Thrones come from? It came from a really smart, clever man named George. George R. R. Martin. Having two middle initials sounds cool when you say it. I don’t know his full name. Are those R’s real? What do they stand for? Maybe somebody in the audience can google that.
Oh, wait, no you can’t, because you not only don’t have Google, you have no idea what it is. Back on Earth, it was what we called a Search Engine. And unlike an airplane or a car, you never had to worry about it running out of gas.
Point being that there wouldn’t be any football players. No one would want to play if they knew that getting to the Superbowl only to lose meant you were going to get your head cut off; you were going to get executed. Right there on the field, too. Or maybe they would take everyone to a special area under the stadium, where everything was cement so it would be easy to hose down. With fire hoses. Big ones. Like on a fire truck. That way, it wouldn’t take too long, because it would be distasteful work, but also so it wouldn’t ruin the celebration being had for the winning team still out on the field, surrounded by fireworks and smoke and confetti and everyone yelling at you to put on this new, special tee shirt and matching hat, to squeeze the tee shirt down over your shoulder pads, even though it looks fucking stupid. And then everyone hands around the special trophy, the big silver trophy awarded to the winners, and what does everyone do? Everyone kisses it!
Just like Richard Dawson.
Just like the guy at JFK who wouldn’t let you take your alcohol disinfectant spray through security and onto the airplane because he said it was vodka. Even though TSA in Orlando cleared it like three hours ago.
But it’s cool. Everyone chill. Everyone take a breath. No need to argue. We understand that TSA is a hard job. It’s a hard job. Your greatest fear is that you’ll let some motherfucker through with something you should’ve caught or seen or smelled. But it gets by and that piece of shit gets on the plane. And something happens. And it’s your fault because you let him on the plane.
Now, obviously, it’s his fault, or her fault, let’s not be sexist towards our lady terrorists. It’s his fault for doing the evil deed. But it was your job to screen for crap like that. Crap being him as much as whatever weaponized baked goods or prison shank bullshit he, or she, was carrying.
So imagine dealing with THAT kind of pressure and needing to make sure you are THOROUGH in your job, and being thorough requires TIME.
Yet you are dealing with people who are by and large stressed the fuck out because they spent a shitload of money to get their ass on that plane and go wherever they need to go and they do not want to miss it and TIME is ALL they are thinking about. It’s the one thing they don’t have. And their interaction with YOU is the single biggest impediment to making their flight.
So, it’s basically a powder keg lying there in a barn FULL of dry yellow straw and the barn is old as fuck and the wood is all dried out from the sun and whatever little red paint is left is full of highly-flammable chemicals that will burn like hydrogen.
That barn is the Hindenburg waiting to happen.
And there are a bunch of mice in there. Cute little brown mice. Wearing little suicide bomber jackets that are basically a little leather biker vest, maybe with their colors on the back, and a helmet with a candle on top. A little birthday candle. And they’re basically little suicide mice. The arch nemeses of Ninja Church Mouse. But we’ll get back to him later. And as soon as one of the suicide mice gets close to the powder keg left carelessly out in the open right there in the middle of Hinderberg Barn, the Hindenberg Barn proper, I hate that word, proper.
As soon as one of the mice gets close enough, that little candle heats the outside of the keg sufficiently and up it goes. It’s another of those uncontrolled explosions we talked about the other night, like an old-time rocket from way, way back in the ‘80s, which is not that long ago, by the way.
So it’s an old-time rocket with an unstoppable, barely-controlled despite the sweet-ass gimbals fireball or an engine you can start and stop at will, provided you have sufficient fuel and oxidizer, kerosene and liquid oxygen, I believe, and a system that works properly and mixes the kerosene with the oxygen just right and then provides a spark to make it all go boom, thereby pushing the rocket forward with a force greater than those of gravity and friction.
You think any of those mice with the little helmets would make it out? Survive? They’re wearing helmets. I hope so. Or maybe I don’t. Whose barn is that and why are they in there blowing it up? Is it the barn of a dictator? In which case, hopefully the dictator is in the barn. And up they go. And goodbye and good riddance to them!
Or is it a barn belonging to someone nice? Maybe a queen. Maybe Queen of the Earth. Don’t know much about the barn-ownership history of Demi Moore. Maybe she owned one, maybe she didn’t. We could speculate all day. But if she was – were? – Queen of Earth, what would we call her?
Your Highness? Madame? My Queen?
Would she have a dragon?
And some douchey long-lost brother to stick a knife into her gut while he’s KISSING HER? Like Jon The Bastard Snow did to what’s-her-name-and-how-do-you-spell-it? I don’t know because she’s got multiple names and I haven’t actually read the books, George R. R. Martin’s books, although I very much want to! Daenerys? Is that how you spell it? Daenerys Targaryen? She deserved better. She should’ve had Richard Dawson there giving her a kiss. One of his little pecks, right on the lips.
What was Daenarys’s other name? Khaleesi? Was that her name or a title? I forget.
It might be cool to have a name that is also a title.
I was going to go with Dale Futhermucker. That’s not what it says on my driver’s license. But I think it’s a pretty funny name. But maybe General Futhermucker would be better. Or Captain Futhermucker.
Captain was my call sign, by the way, back when I used to fly. My instructor chose it and one day sneakily put a sticker on my headset that said Captain.
I never really liked it. I wanted to but I also felt stupid because, like I said, I never felt like a real pilot. There were moments when I did. But mostly I totally did not.
Back on Earth, by the way, they call that Imposter Syndrome. It’s where you feel unqualified to be doing your job. And apparently it’s very common and totally normal to feel really out of your element when you’re doing something high-level. And you’re supposed to just push through it and keep going and have faith that the people who have faith in you know what they’re doing. And that everyone feels like that at some point and the important thing is to keep on keepin on.
The reason I didn’t love the callsign was because I flew many times with another instructor who was a retired military aviator. He had combat experience. And he survived when a lot of his fellow aviators did not.
Him I considered a real pilot.
Myself? Fuck no.
And one day we were in the plane pre-flighting and I was left-seat that day which means I was driving and I was in charge of the actual flying of the airplane. Making it go was my job. And he was all like, Okay, let’s go, CAPTAIN.
Emphasis on the Captain. And it felt like mockery. And I think he thought I put that there myself. But I didn’t.
The reason it was there was because commercial flight training is expensive as fuck. I don’t know if you guys have pilots here or who trains them or how much it costs or if it’s subsidized or if it’s all done by computers, but flight training is not cheap. So when I wasn’t shooting spaghetti up my ass, I was selling cookies. Online. Not actual cookies. Just the recipes. Along with a whole bunch of other shit. Colby’s Nachos and Ice Water Chocolate Cake and Grandma’s Potato Salad and all kinds of stuff. And each recipe was ninety-nine cents. And I figured the internet is global and there are millions of people online at every moment of every day. And if I could entice just a few out of the millions to cough up $0.99 for a recipe, I’d be able to pay for my flight training. And the name of the website-slash-company, or website-stroke-company as James May would say, was Captain Blank’s Recipes.
So Captain wound up on my headset, making me feel like a fool. Very much like a fool hoping not to disappoint Demi Moore, Queen of the Earth, lest she call out, “Off with his head!”
And she would be so tough and so fierce and so sexy saying, “Off with his head!”
And there’d be some sick fucks out there who would be so turned on by getting executed by Demi Moore that they would commit a crime just so they could get executed by Demi Moore.
And as they were being led to the gallows or the platform or wherever it was going to happen, the town square, they’d be masturbating the whole time. The whole time. And right at the last minute, just as the axe was coming down or the guillotine blade or whatever, they’d shoot a huge creamy load.
Like, the ultimate load.
The last load.
But ultimate nonetheless.
That sounds like a Black Mirror episode. The Last Load. And it’s all about our hypersensationalism of actors and movies and entertainment and when and how fandom crosses over into obsession and become some creepy, illegal, totally fucking morally wrong shit.
Do you guys have celebrities here? People you watch perform and then somehow, for some reason, come to idolize? To the point where a toxic obsession forms. And you find yourself either hating that person so much that you decide to murder them or you love them so much that you don’t want anyone else to have them. So you decide to murder them.
Oh, God. Is that what’s going to happen to me?
Is that why you brought me here?
Is that what happened to the last guy? Or girl? Because hell if I know.
Am I going to piss off your King, Queen, or Dictator and come out here one night to do a show and Demi Moore will be sitting there on a throne, looking all hot and sexy with short hair, and she’ll say “Off with his head!” And it’ll be curtains for me. Fuzzy Sky Blue curtains I never got to feel? To run my hand over and go, “Wow, that’s soft.”
And if you think about it, flying is very much like that.
If you fucked up and displeased the King or Queen, or the dictator, they could kill you. And there’d be nothing you or anyone else could say or do about it.
And flying is the same way. If you fuck up and displease the Gods of Flight, the Angels, the airplane itself, perhaps, and you let yourself foolishly run out of gas, and you crash and die, and when the airplane hits the ground like a lawn dart because you were too dumb to go to best glide speed and let it glide down into an open field or onto a freeway or a road where hopefully there aren’t very many telephone poles or power lines or big green signs like the ones over the freeway telling you where to go, and you don’t do any of that, which is the proper procedure for an engine-out, by the way. And instead, you augur in, and you fly through the windshield or something and get your head cut off, it’s pretty much the exact same thing.
I love the word augur, by the way. It sounds mystical yet dangerous.
The website did not work, by the way, for selling cookie recipes, and I not only made no money, I lost money.
Well, I didn’t make no money. My sister bought a few recipes to help me test the shopping cart and the whole payment system, which did work. So I did set it up correctly. I got that far. I just didn’t know what to do after that. How to advertise or drive traffic. That wasn’t my cup of tea. The only actual paying customer I had was a woman in Alaska. So, thank you, nice lady from Alaska, for helping a broke young man get ninety-nine cents closer to fulfilling his dream of becoming a pilot.
So that’s me: Captain Blank. Host of Meanwhile, in an Alien Night Club. That’s more fitting than you can even imagine, by the way. The blank part.
Maybe we should call it a supper club. Those used to be a thing. You had to dress up to go eat dinner there and watch a show, some sort of singer or dancers or a band of some kind, maybe a jazz band, maybe a Big Band, I dunno; I’ve never actually been to one. Until now. Assuming that’s what this is.
I suddenly hear Jerry Seinfeld in my head. Assuming that’s what this is. I love his bit about buying cold medicine. You go into the store to buy cold medicine, because you’re sick, hopefully it’s not Covid, and there’s too much cold medicine. The selection is simply too big. There are too many things to choose from. I’m totally murdering this joke, by the way, so my apologies, Jerry. But I’ve never told a joke in an alien nightclub before.
And Jerry replies, “For a real comic, that wouldn’t be a problem.”
And he’s right.
So you’re standing there, besieged by cold medicine options. This one says it’s fast acting, but this one says it’s long lasting.
When do I want to feel better? Now or later?
I love that.
By the way, personally, I would take the medicine that’s fast acting. Because I want to feel better now. Later, when I’m starting to feel less better, I’ll take more. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.
And by the way, there are going to be a lot of by the ways, here, folks. Just so you know. Because I’m going to have to explain a lot of stuff in order to give you, or shall we say y’all, some context.
So, by the way, a driver’s license is a thing you need to operate a motor vehicle back on Earth.
It just occurred to me that red and black are the colors of the Scorpio. That’s interesting. Wait, has it been red and black this whole time? Or has it been changing colors? It’s been changing colors. But for some reason, in my memory, the club had blue curtains and a brown, wooden stage, and looked like Vegas in the ‘50s or 60s. But the lighting in here is a trip. I like it.
Holy shit is that a clock?
There’s a clock on the stage. I know you guys can’t see it from where you are, but there’s a clock on the stage.
Did you guys conjure a clock? I’m not sure if that’s sweet or sinister. If it’s to make me feel more at ease, even though it totally does not, thank you. If it’s designed to be sinister because the time is going to be counting down, making me feel pressured to say whatever I’m going to say and get off the stage like in a comedy club or the Oscars when they play you off with the music, then, again, pardon my French, but fuck that. I don’t want that.
Right now, by the way, the numbers are like weird, random, almost non-numbers.
13:82. That’s not even a real time.
00:004. You’ve got one too many zeros in there, folks.
How about we just set it to count down from like sixty? Sixty minutes. One hour. Or do you guys want this to be a five-hour dinner. Maybe you do; I have no idea. I have no idea how much you guys paid to get in here. Maybe a lot. Maybe nothing. It could be anything.
It is a fancy place. Sinatra would love it. Dean Martin. Sammy Davis. All those guys from that era whom I know almost nothing about.
James Dean. I’m not sure if he ever hung out in night clubs, alien, night, strip, or otherwise, but he seems like the kind of guy who might turn up in a white tuxedo and eat a few bites of steak and taste the champagne before he decides he’s had enough and it’s time to get the hell out of there so he can go outside and take off the stupid bow tie and hop on his bike or climb into his Porsche Spyder and go like hell.
I’ve never seen any of his movies, by the way. And I’m a film connoisseur. A connoisseur is a person who really likes and appreciates something. And spends a lot of time doing whatever it is. LIke tasting or even making wine, or beer, or cheese, or 17th century French poetry. Or film. Cinema.
And yet somehow his movies eluded me. There were only three. East of Eden, Giant, and Rebel Without a Cause.
Not necessarily in that order. I have no idea what the order was. I wasn’t born yet. I was but an egg in one of my mom’s ovaries. And that was only half of me. So it wasn’t even really me. Because my dad’s sperm that made the other half of me wasn’t even made yet.
All I know is he — James Dean — perished in a car accident that was blamed on him for the most part but which wasn’t his fault. He had this reputation as a real rabble-rouser. A larger-than-life, hard-charging, partying, grease monkey racecar driver motorcyclist sex god. And maybe he was.
But the day he died, he was driving his Porsche Spyder, which is a little silver convertible two-seater. And he had a friend with him. And they were way out on Route 66 somewhere in California, out in the middle of nowhere. And James wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t speeding. He wasn’t racing. He wasn’t drunk. Some asshole coming the other way turned left in front of him. At freeway speeds, by the way. It was somewhere near 65 miles per hour. All of a sudden, this asshole turns left. So James Dean had to swerve to not hit the guy. And in so doing, they clipped, he spun and went off the road, into the dirt, the car slid sideways, and he hit a telephone pole. Right there on his side of the car, too. He took the full impact. No airbags back then.
His friend, who was sitting in the other seat, lived. I don’t know if he was hurt. I’m sure watching his friend die, watching The Great James Dean die right there in front of you must’ve been a horror beyond words.
Now he’s a face on a tee shirt.
I wonder if that’s what he was wearing when it happened. A white tee shirt. And jeans and boots or something. To my mind, he pioneered that look. Brad Pitt took up the look. Because he’s the only one sexy enough to pull it off. Fuckin Floyd. What a career.
Speaking of tee shirts, you guys like mine? For those of you who can’t see it, it’s the same one from the other night. It’s black and on the front it says Real Men Don’t Masturbate. In sweet lightning bolt Smokey and the Bandit font. No idea what the font is actually called. Maybe it’s called Smokey and the Bandit. Why not?
I think that should be the message of our show. Every night, when that big-ass clock that has apparently been conjured out of thin air, gets down to zero, or when I get tired and decide to call it a night, I’ll say, And remember: Real men don’t masturbate. Step away from the porn, people. Your future self will thank you. As will your kids.
Breeder! Breeder!
Whatever. Like having kids isn’t the primary biological imperative. Not to be confused with the moral imperative from Real Genius, one of the greatest movies of all time. Everybody wants to rule the world.
Ha-ha. Not everybody.
Back on Earth, where they’re probably reenacting Game of Thrones at this very minute and Demi, Queen of Earth, is shouting “Off with their head!” fifty times a day in order to satisfy the erotic celebrity death machine, it certainly seems like everybody wants to rule the world.
And where are we, exactly? In an alien night club or an alien strip club? And what show is it? No idea.
You know why? Because it’s unknowable. We can’t ever be sure. I mean, is it a strip club? I do see poles, but no one is stripping.
Or is it a nightclub? I’m pretty sure it’s nighttime. I’ve been sleeping and waking in what I think are pretty regular intervals.
There is so much crazy shit that goes on here, too, you guys. I’m talking crazy shit. Stuff I probably shouldn’t even talk about.
By the way, getting back to Joey and supposably. That was wrong. That was a joke. The actual word is supposedly. Now, supposably is a word. It basically means something that is supposable. As in is it something that we can suppose? Did they go to the zoo? Supposably.
No.
It’s supposedly.
Did they go to the zoo? Supposedly.
Was it a good joke or a bad joke?
I dunno.
It was funny.
But it also taught millions of people to say supposably. And they’ve been walking around every day since they saw that show thinking that supposably is correct. God knows how many times they actually said it and one or more people around them heard it and thought, God, this person is an idiot. And they looked around at the other people who knew supposably was wrong and they made eye contact and had one of those moments when you lock eyes with someone and you both know what’s happening but you decide to keep your mouths shut and just laugh about it together privately, just the two of you, every single day thereafter.
Do you guys think we should touch the curtain?
By the way, just to set the scene for you guys, from up here on stage, I am–
I almost said drowning in red light.
I am bathed in red light. Crazy intense red light. And pretty much everything else is black. I can barely see you guys in the audience. I can’t see the poster of the sexy purple alien woman at all. It’s somewhere over there, in the shadows.
James Cameron was really good at making the aliens come out of the shadows. One of the greatest movies of all time.
Imagine if Pixar decided to re-do aliens only when the humans got to the alien planet and homed-in on the tracking beacon, instead of a sea of alien eggs full of face-hugging throat fuckers, they met a sexy purple alien queen on a throne. Played by Demi Moore. And when the Americans were all like, Okay, this is ours now so you guys can all surrender or we can kill you. And if you kill us, more people will come and they will kill you because there will be too many. So what’s it gonna be?
And the next thing you know, they’re all strung up in those friggin cocoon things, trapped, with their heads sticking out. And when they wake up and start screaming and demanding to be let go, Demi Moore, Queen of Earth, will shout, “Off with their heads!”
And all the alien baby chest breakers will come up out of their heads instead, and the blood squibs will make blood spray everywhere, even more than in Westworld, even more than in Squid Game. It’ll be a blood bath. And it’ll be hilarious. Because those douchebags had it coming for thinking they could land on another planet and roll in swinging their big dicks and think they were simply going to take what they wanted without resistance.
And Demi Moore, Queen of Earth, will be sitting there laughing, with the blood of douchebags raining down on her. And the more she gets covered in blood, the funnier everyone thinks it is, including her. Until it’s like a scene in Goodfellas where Ray Liotta and Joe Pesci are laughing so fricking hard it’s both frightening and disturbing. And she’ll end up looking like Sissy Spacek in Carrie. And all you guys will watch it and you’ll be all like, Man, is this the kind of thing humans enjoy watching? Is this the kind of stuff they do on Earth? Is this a documentary? And it’ll all be a very weird, very meta trip because you’ve got Earthling humans making a movie about aliens killing humans and the movie is being watched by aliens. And even though the humans had it coming and the aliens are the good guys, there will still be a big fat blood squib full of moral ambiguity, which we learned from the last 30 seconds of Talladega Nights is the hallmark of all 20th century American fiction.
Wink wink.
So that’s what they’ve been doing on Earth. Making movies about aliens and humans and humans trying to do stuff to aliens and aliens definitely doing stuff to humans.
Meanwhile, in an alien nightclub.
Meanwhile, in an alien fight club. Thank you, Chuck.
So, we’ve got Demi Moore, Queen of Earth, as a sexy purple alien goddess.
Imagine, if you will, thank you Rod Serling, he was the creator of the Twilight Zone, by the way, and the guy who spoke at the beginning and end of each show to give context and meaning.
So, imagine, if you will, Brad Pitt in Alien Fight Club.
Instead of humans pummeling humans, it’s aliens pummeling aliens? Or are we back to aliens and humans pummeling each other?
But at least it’s voluntary. All you’d need is the alien equivalent of an octagon.
Which reminds me, is this actually an alien ship? Or is it a human ship and it’s one giant Uber and we all share it?
And where are we going?
Imagine if there really were ships this big. Have you guys ever heard of Gary McKinnon? He’s a man from Great Britain. And he hacked into a bunch of United States government computers, mostly NASA related. He says he saw names of ships as well as lists of what were called “Non-terrestrial Officers.”
What?
What does that mean?
He said it was lots of boring paperwork mumbo-jumbo. Bills of lading and inventory of meaningless stuff like food.
Except that if it was on a real U.S.-built spaceship.
That’s not boring mumbo-jumbo. That’s crazy.
We’re talking some REAL Men In Black stuff.
Gary was arrested, by the way, and charged. And spent a lot of time in prison in England, I think. And the U.S. government spent something like 10 years trying to extradite him to the U.S. so they could try him and sentence him, probably to 40 years in prison. To make an example of him.
Eventually, they dropped it.
As far as I know, he’s a free man. He’s a fellow YouTuber. Unlike me, he does not almost die in giant vats of cold spaghetti. Next time, I will warm the spaghetti.
Next time?
Maybe. If I ever get back to Earth.
Meanwhile, in an alien night club….
Okay, goodnight, everybody. This is Captain Blank, signing off. And remember: real men don’t masturbate.
Don’t forget to tip your waitress!
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