Aliens are coming for us? Don’t forget the Rooster Sauce!
So Stephen Hawking is advising us that any space aliens we might come into contact with here on Teegeeack might not be warm and fuzzy Reese’s Pieces-gobbling buddies? As they say down in San Joaquin County where I used to ramble: blinding flash of duh, there, podna. Of course those aliens are going to be the kind of peripatetic space trash that fouled their home planet so badly that they went in search of new environments to despoil, and they were smart enough to load up on giant ships to zoom across the universe to find us. So the big binary question is, do they just want to zap us, or do they view our planet’s captive herd of humanity as a food source?
If it’s the former, we’re all pretty much screwed, and there’s precious little we can do about it except hide. But if it’s the latter, there are other questions we must ask. As a start: quantity, or quality? Are these aliens giant ravenous lobsters — or reptilians, or chitinous bug-eyed apparitions, or slimy sea-things out of the pages of H.P. Lovecraft — whose appetites for things human will be best served by going for the largest concentration of the obese, or is there some kind of gourmet component, and what might that be?
If it’s the former, I have to say I feel somewhat safe I’m in California, rather than, oh, the American South, where so many years of downmarket Caucasian cuisine with its emphasis on batter-fried everything — chicken, hush puppies, shoes, brains, political theories — and inability to recognize even the most basic salad ingredients have resulted in a target-rich environment with lots and lots of overfed people. Given the sheer amount of human tubbage involved, I smugly figure that it will take those aliens at least a week to munch their way through Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Tennessee, South and North Carolina, Virginia and West Virginia, Kentucky, parts of Pennsylvania and Ohio and Indiana and Illinois, not to mention Missouri, Arkansas, Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa and of course the Mormon West: Utah, Idaho, Arizona, Colorado, Montana, Washington, Oregon, Nevada and Wyoming. True that there are parts of California that might suit these hungry aliens’ fancy, but if these aliens are smart, they’re likely to start at Bakersfield and move north up the valley, which gives us time to head for the hills, where the large unhinged crankster population might serve as somewhat of a deterrent.
Complication: gourmand aliens. What if they fancy arugula eaters? Or, gulp, vegetarians? Again, we must presume a modicum of superior intelligence on their part, which means they’re likely to venture to places with large amounts of fit adults whose diets will make them attractive as prey. Which means, of course, that we’re pretty screwed in this part of California, what with the bounty of fresh fruit and vegetables we have around us. Luckily, here in Sacramento, there are enough drive-thru diners mixed in to the fresh-food-eating population to make it more difficult for diet-specific aliens to sort through us all.
Then again, they may not give a damn, and they may just come for us all. Keep a big bottle of Sriracha Rooster Sauce on your person at all times so you can douse yourself with it, in case the aliens have issues with hot food.
There’s a religious angle, too. What about churches with a strong millennialist component, ones that prophesy the return of God and angels to usher the faithful into a new paradise, while damning the rest (read: probably you, me, all our friends) to that great civet coffee-bean roaster at the center of the Earth. What I hope, for some of those churches, like, oh, that big one in Utah, is that when the heavenly mothership is floating over Salt Lake City and the Tabernacle Choir is assembled underneath, that the aliens turn out to be not hungry extraterrestrials with a ravenous appetite for all things human, but celestial expressions of Parliament/Funkadelic circa 1978, and that the head aliens, like an otherworldly George Clinton and Bootsy Collins, hit those crazy pink humans — who were expecting a bearded and long-haired Charlton Heston in a white robe with a holy Winchester rifle — with their bop guns: “Dance, sucka!”
Actually, that’s what this whole wretched Tea Party charade needs. You’ve heard about those secret camps set up by the Cheney regime in cooperation with Wackenhut, or Halliburton, or the Xe formerly known as Blackwater, to herd all the Bushophobes in for reprogramming and Lee Greenwood listening sessions? Here’s a chance for President Obama to use them for the public good. Now I’m not recommending that these Tea Party people be fed mass quantities of psychedelic mushrooms, or that they then be exposed to a 72-hour nonstop jam by reformed versions of Parliament, Funkadelic, Cameo, what’s left of James Brown’s Famous Flames, plus any “free” or outside jazz musicians playing in the tradition of John Coltrane, Ornette Coleman, Albert Ayler and Sun Ra; I’m just putting the idea out there, to see if anyone might be interested. ‘Tis only simple and humble suggestion from yours truly.
Hell, why not invite the Tea Party to this year’s Burning Man? We could start a public donation for all the cool drugs it will take to help Die Tee-Partei get down with the Cheshire Cat and the White Rabbit. —Jackson Griffith