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Scwk’s and Bzls’ Excellent Adventure

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Editorial Note:  The aliens depicted in the story are fictional and any resemblance

 to any alien lifeforms – past, present, or future – is purely coincidental.


Scwk rolled his third eye stalk around in his cranium and croaked, “I don’t know about this, Bzls; I think we ought to give this planet a pass.”  Of course, he didn’t vocalize this thought, and not just because he lacked vocal chords.  As befitted his kind, he simply beamed his thoughts at his sole shipmate.


Excitedly, Bzls waved his tentacles and beamed back, “We can’t just write Earth off so blithely,” he countered reasonably.  “Humans have been around about a quillion pqjs, and theirs is the only planet in this solar system to support intelligent life.  This indicates evolution.”


“After even minimal monitoring of their communications, you call them intelligent?!?  You call this evolution?!?” Scwk sneered.


“Look.  We don’t have enough fuel to leave this solar system, swing by Alpha Centauri to see what’s shakin’ there, and still make it safely back home.  I say we hang out on Earth for a bit and see who … and what … may be worth saving.  Or exploiting.”  In anticipation, Bzls flushed a fetching shade of lime green.


In two shakes of a qlkg’s tail, the aliens had landed smack in the middle of Greenwich Village on All Hallow’s Eve.  Transvestites of all shapes, sizes, and adornments cavorted flamboyantly and merrily down Sixth Avenue or rode on floats, trailed by street-clad butches of both sexes.  Music trumpeted, confetti fell liberally, and cameras flashed.  Steam rose from open manholes, rookie cops averted their eyes, and the air was redolent of gyros, dirty water hot dogs, and rotting garbage.  No one paid a lick of attention to the two aliens.


“Would you look at this?” Scwk scowled.  “Other aliens beat us to it! Scads of them!”


“No, no,” his companion argued.  “Take a closer look.  All of these beings are bipeds: humans!  We hit the jackpot!”


No sooner were the words out of his Bzls’ brain than he was grabbed by one of his tentacles and pulled into the crowd.  Scwk swooshed off in hot pursuit.


“Well, aren’t you the inventive one!” chirped Bzls’ kidnapper.  He bore an uncanny resemblance to Cher, but for the telltale athletic cup bulging from his Bob Mackie knock-off gown.  “Great costumes! I’m Timmy, by the way.”


The aliens introduced themselves and Timmy batted his false lashes.  “Excellent get ups!  I don’t even see your lips moving!  Actually … I don’t see any lips at all.  This your first Village Halloween parade?”


“Well, yes.  We’re from out of town … way out of town.”


Timmy sniffed. “Hmmmfff.  The Bible Belt.  I hear that.  Don’t worry; you’re among your own kind now.”


“We are?!?


“Sure, sugar.  And you’ll both probably take First Prize in the parade this year.  Ohhhhhh … there’s that adorable biker who likes to hang out by the record shop on St. Mark’s.  He’s got a real way with that whip that he cracks oh so subtly.  You two will excuse me, won’t you?  Love is in the air!”


In a pouf, Timmy was gone.  Confounded by all the hoopla, the aliens sought a human not caught up in the revelry.  In the darkened alcove of an adult toy shop, closed for the festivities, lolled a male human in torn, dirty clothes.  With a mouth minus a few teeth, he grinned oily at the parade, happy for this annual distraction.  Scwk nudged his companion, indicating their target.


“Aliens, huh?” the man squinted.  “Well, breathe easy. Obama’s in office and even he wasn’t born here.  I’m Harold, by the way.  I used to be a computer programmer in better days.  You guys sightseeing?”


“Actually, we are in need of much information, and we require it quickly.  Information about your society.”


“What, you guys got no Internet hook up?  The economy hit you two hard, too?  What sort of info ya need?”


Blzs said, “We wish to know who or what is worth saving here and who or what is not.”


Harold scratched his head.  “Geez. Ya really are from out of town, ain’t ya?  Well, ya can’t be terrorists; ya wouldn’t even be askin’ that.  And ya wouldn’t be botherin’ with the likes o’ me.  What the heck?  I’ll bite; you two are more entertaining than the parade.  Come with me.”


He led them to an all-night newsstand and threatened the owner with loitering there all night long and stinking up his air supply if the guy didn’t hand over a copy of a thin magazine, gratis.  “Here ya go,” Harold said, after the Chinese newsagent had given him what he’d wanted.  “Here’s yer Bible.”


“Bible?”


“Info.  Condensed.  With photos, too, lots of ’em.”


The National Perspirer?” Scwk asked.


“You got it.  Come over here under the street lamp, and I’ll show ya.”  Fascinated, the aliens watched as Harold turned the pages.


“This here’s Kim Kardasian.  Her family blew $10 million clams on her wedding.  Ten million!  I can’t get a job but these people are tossing away millions.”


“This is bad?”


“This is a crime!  She ain’t worth savin’.  And this here babe with this itty bitty dog?  I seen rats that could eat her pooch for an appetizer on this very street.  That’s Paris Hilton.  A waste of life.  Not worth savin’.  Ah, and this is Tiger Woods.  Rich as Croesus, famous as hell, and he bopped whatever walked.”


“Bopped?”


“Screwed.”


“Screwed?”


Harold sighed.  “He attempted to procreate with many women other than his wife.  He’s gotta go, too.  Now we come to the politicians.  Oh hell.  Just off ’em all, I say.”


 


All?


“We need to clean house.  Well, maybe spare Sarah Palin.  I hate her politics, but she’s a babe.  A guy needs a little eye candy.”


“Is there anyone worth saving?”


“Sure, lookee here.”


And Harold went on to show the “out of towners” several stories of hard working individuals and families.  They reached out to each other with food, clothing, and shelter.  They established and promoted charities and other grass roots organizations designed to give comfort, both concrete and emotional, during the one of the darkest periods in the nation: 2011.


“You wanna save these folks,” Harold confided.  “And you wanna save people like me, too.  People who, through no fault of their own, lost their jobs, their homes, their lives.  Save, also, the educators, the artists, the writers, the doctors and nurses and engineers — heck.  Ya just gotta get ridda the rich and powerful, basically, as well as the terrorists: it’s a pretty small group compared to the rest of us.”  Wishful thinking, Harold thought, but the aliens had caught it.



Sagely, they nodded.  They had seen the light, and it wasn’t the streetlamp.


Nearly a year later, peace reigned in the land of the free and the home of the brave.  All wars had ceased.  The Earth began to replenish herself and the humans lived happily off her.


The rich and powerful had been beamed out into space … sans spacecrafts.  Their wealth had been distributed equitably amongst the hard working, the newly poor, and the age-old destitute.  Decisions were made by consensus and every vote counted; there were no hanging chads.  Neither were there any “I never inhaled” and draft-dodging Presidents.  America had returned to its initial intended state: a true democracy, with life and liberty for all.



Timmy married the biker in a lovely ceremony in Washington Square Park.  The bride wore petal pink and his groom wore leather, chains, and tattoos.  Harold, Scwk, Bzls, Mayor Bloomberg, Wendy Williams, and a host of others celebrated the nuptials with champagne toasts and revelry.  The aliens had hired Harold to run their IT unit — with one caveat.  He was to convey nothing but good news through the ‘net, which Scwk and Bzls now ran in full cooperation with Bill Gates.


A year after Timmy’s prediction, Scwk and Bzls did indeed take First Prize in the annual Village Halloween Parade.  Eyewitness News reporters covered the event and then joined in the annual march.


All’s well that ends well.  Except, of course, for the s***bags, who were now space dust!  


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