On my, oh my. Buford has been a ‘pondering again, talking to the dog and the dog's been talkin' back. He thought when the clown car caravan called the primaries ended, things would slide back to semi-normal. Well no way, it's even stupider.
You see the way I have it figured you there are these two groups. One is the "I-holes" and the other the "We-butts" One is "Got mine, up yours" the other is "Hey, can't we all just get along?" And never, never, never should they agree on anything.
These people are runnin' away from each other so fast that they rounded the barn and collided. They argue about the color of the sky. I plum can't take it anymore. Nothin' faster than stupid. Did a Google on it. Turns out it's called "Toxic Cogitative Bifurcation Disorder" (TCBD). Well, whatever.
Been out talkin' to everyone about this. This seems to be spreading all over the planet. I mean even the banksters are getting nervous ‘cause they can't find a way to make a buck off it. As they used to say over in the big green latrine: BOHICA. (look it up dear hearts). As a last resort, I went out to the home and sat down with Aunt Agnes. Remember her? Stands on the porch lookin' up at sky and just smiles. She's a bit touched in the head if you know what I mean. Talks to herself, answers back too. I asked her if there was some kind of extraterrestrial thing goin' on. She smiled, wiped the drool for the corner of her mouth and said, "wondered when someone would ask".
She told me to wait until way after sunset then go out back, face South and put my right index finger in my left ear. Then very quietly recite, " Do Be Do Be Do" three times. Hey, run out of corn squeezin's, too wet to plow might as well ‘cause this stupid thing is buggin' me.
Tried it and I'll be dammed this little critter pops up outta noting'. Strange lookin' like Cousin Caleb. Short, skinny and bug eyed. So I asked, "Who are you?" He, it or whatever says, " None of your damn business. If I wanted to let you know I'd wear a name tag, doofus. Let's just say I come from a far off place called the Pleiades star group. Far enough way just in case you idiots down here really screw the pooch." Just what I need an alien with an attitude. Tryin' to be friendly, I ask him, "Where'd you get them peepers"? "Lens Crafters, where else? I had a coupon." Wiseass.
So he starts talkin', sort of. I'm hearin' words but he doesn't have any lips. That brings up all kinds of anatomical questions but I will stay focused, damned ADHD. So, he allows the story. "Know how you go down to Mexico every winter because it's cold here? Well we Pleiades's come to Earth every couple hundred thousand years for the same reason, sort of like a Galactic Riviera for us. "
Been here before. Neanderthals was our first shot, then came back and did you humanoids. And that's where it started. "Got the DN of A messed up. Astroglide the fool working on it messed up real good. We thought that 2-strand solution to slowing down evolution was cool. But NOOOOOOO! Something happened. So, you have a kind of thinking regression going on. The "I-hole types" have been going backwards in time. We've been watching Faux News. Cracked me up. But, I get the short end of the laser stick and have to come down here and fix it up. They owe me big time. I'm going to take an eon off and go hang out in Orion when I get back."
"So we got to step in and fix it ‘cause it is broken. Hey, don't believe what I'm telling you? Well, you just go run a DN of A sequence on that guy in Arizona. Sheriff Joe or something like that. Cross check that with that frozen woolly mammoth they found up in Siberia. Yea, we leave little traces of our handiwork around just for the hell of it.
We're going to insert our gravitation ultra-sound wand in at the South Pole to fix things. Astroglide will be here to help, but he's not allowed to touch the control knobs this time. We'll reverse the magnetic field and snap you out of it. Like Gomer said, "Spit in the back of it, and whomp it real hard, it usually works"
"Expect a little blow back. Some people will go total kablooey. Better open up a few more Homes for the Terminally Stupid. That's why I'm talking to you. We want to give you a leg up on an investment opportunity. Hey, go private. We got some insiders at the Bane Galactic Private Equity. They're looking for opportunities for unlimited market potential. It worked for prisons and drug rehab why not the terminally stupid?"
"Remember what the Brits did a few hundred years ago? Rounded all the misfits up and sent them off to a far off island—I think you call it Australia now. Well, hell just round ‘em up, rope off a continent or something and send them all there. If you need some help shifting those tectonic plates around, let me know. We've been playing chess with that since our first visit. Just love them volcanoes. They scared the snot out of the Neanderthals."
"OK gotta run. I'll be touch. Don't tell anyone about our little visit. They will think you've really gone ‘round the bend. I'm telling you all this so you can relax, have a stiff drink and watch the forthcoming stupidity. And remember go long, go private. Wink, wink, nod, nod. I'll have my aliens call your aliens."
We hope to hear from Buford again soon. Understand he's been diggin' a big hole behind the barn and bringin' loads of concrete, extra bourbon, and cases of Spam. Huum?