I got bored watching a teenage comedy last night, so I switched to the Science Channel. (Hey, I’m multi-faceted). I napped through microorganisms living under harsh conditions on other planets. Yawn, snooze. I woke up in time to hear about radio communications from space, foretelling an imminent alien invasion. How did we get from primordial goo to a superior race? Why wasn’t I told about this? Man, I hate when that happens!
Since we may be getting visitors, I decided to spruce up the house a bit today. This included packing away the manger scene left up from Christmas 2009. My aversion to dusting meant that baby Jesus was buried under dust bunnies the size of fully loaded Volkswagen Beatles.
While I was digging out the wise men, I pondered the age-old question. Why aren’t UFOs visiting the Big Apple or Rodeo Drive? Instead, they frequent places like Couer d’Alene, Idaho, (motto: bring your own toilet paper). Do aliens even use toilet paper?
I figure that since I live in Stixville, South Carolina, conveniently located near the Hell Hole Swamp (no, seriously), my house should be a prime target for the impending invasion. I don’t get company very often, so I’m hoping that I can pull off being the proper hostess to the hordes of socially superior life forms.
As an ambassador for the human race, there are so many considerations. Will country music paralyze their nervous systems? Will they feel threatened by my collection of garden gnomes and plastic pink flamingos? I’d hate to be vaporized over a simple misunderstanding.
If the end of the world does come about this year, I hope it’s not because of angry aliens with an allergy to dust bunnies.