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Get it? Clever, huh? Right? Remember, a while back?
This blog got huge traffic because I mentioned Ken Ham talking about Miley Cyrus. So combining Donald Trump with Miley Cyrus should do even better. And “alien attack” is a sure fire classic! Every tabloid publisher knows that “alien” is a magic word. Even antiquarian professors know that.
Ken Ham said that Miley’s choice of only having sexual relations with members of her own species made no sense at all under The Theory of Evolution. I kid you not, folks. If you didn’t read the Answers in Genesis webpage where The Ham Man made that Dunning-Kruger worthy challenge nor the BSF blog about that blooper, I will tell you everything that you need to know about that in order to understand this blog’s headline. You see, Miley’s sexual preference for her own species makes for a “species argument”. Get it?! Pretty good?! Huh? Right? Ya know, like a “specious argument”? OK. I suppose you’d have to be there. Or here. I happened to like it. (I love it when Ham opens his mouth and makes it soooo easy. Next thing you know, Ham will ask why evolutionists would logically choose to have sex.)
Fortunately for Ham, we’ve found a group working hard to topple Ham and his origins industry empire from the leading loon top spot. The Sensuous Curmudgeon blogged about the story and the late night comedians will soon be joining the laughter:
Yes, they want governments on planet earth to build embassies and grand residential facilities for greeting and housing aliens from outer space.
Now, do be careful what you say about aliens. Look what happened to Donald Trump.
If I were Donald Trump about now, I would be watching for aliens very very carefully! I wonder if Trump thinks aliens from outer space would look green, as in those old sci-fi movies. Hey, do you think Trump would get on his bully pulpit again and demand that those outer space aliens all get green cards? [LOL! Right? Get it? LOL? Oh, come on now!] I can just imagine Trump standing at the landing field next to the alien embassy. The alien ship opens up and Trump is standing there with a bullhorn saying, “If you don’t have a green card, go back to where you came from! I’m going to put up a force field around the earth and make you aliens’ government pay for it!”
Ok…back to my story. I crawled into bed last night and got to thinking about this embassy plan. I imagined that we decided to build that welcome center. The first alien visitors from outer space land and are welcomed with great fanfare. But they want nothing but to check-in to their hotel rooms and get some rest. After all, they’ve had a very very very very [add exponent to the Nth power of “very”] long trip.
So, as I pondered these things, I found myself nodding off…. zzzz…. dreaming about such a place and event…. zzzz… and what it would be like… ZZZZZzzzzz…… zzzz. ….dreamed about aliens checking in at the hotel…
…I dreamed…alien check-in…would go … like this…ZZZZzzzzzzzz..
The front desk’s staff has trained intensively for this historic day but the Residence Center manager decides to step up and handle the first check-in himself. He says to the leader of the group, the very first outer-space alien in line for check-in, “Welcome, sir. So pleased to have you stay with us! I will process your registration. First, may I see some identification, please?”
The alien looks a bit perplexed–which is very hard to do with just tentacles and a bunch of unidentified orifices and/or sensory origins–and it asks, “What do you mean?”
The desk manager says, “Any kind of official identification card will do. If you don’t have a driver’s license….er…pilot’s license, perhaps you’ve got an ID card issued by your employer?”
The alien looks up hopefully, “How about my union card? After all, I’m here on business.” [How did it manage to “look up”? I don’t know. It’s an alien! Just shut up and read the damned story. It will go faster that way for both of us.]
The desk manager says, “Sure! That will do just fine, Sir.”
It is clearly evident from the resumption of the flow of green drool from the elephant-trunk-like excretory tube (which the alien drags behind him) that the first-time guest feels relieved by the desk manager’s answer. [Relieved, get it?? Pretty clever, huh?]
While the alien is lost to his thoughts, all while flexing his antennae to absorb the delightfully new flavors of the earth’s quaint and exotic mixture of gases, the desk manager punches up the intercom mode of the PA system and announces so all could here: “Clean-up at front desk. Clean-up at front desk. Be sure to bring the Wet-Vac. Er… Make that three Wet-Vacs…Hell, just bring all of ’em!”
Just as the manager restores reciprocal optical-sense-organ contact with his guest, the alien resumes the conversation. “I really love the atmosphere of this place.”
The manager smiled proudly and said, “Thank you, Sir! We try our best. And our florist daily brings…” as the alien resumed its praise and interrupted him in mid-sentence:
“It’s quite wonderful! Your atmosphere has the delightfully subtle essence of those oxidation wisps…ya know…those wisps you get near a freshly fallen meteorite on most any moon of Uranus? Oh my…the mix so punctually graces those earthy, full-bodied undertones you can only get from a very high-nitrogen air mixture. Yet all blended so splendidly and playfully with hardly a hint of those pretentious, low atomic-number gases ya always find on Jupiter. No thank you! I’ve never liked that place. Not one bit. I just can’t quite put my tentacle on it, but something really bugs me about Jupiter. [Get it? You know, like “Can’t put a finger on it?” Jupiter has no solid surface? Just gases? Get it now? Oh well…] On earth here I was expecting the argon but was very surprised by the low altitude hints of ozone and ….don’t tell me…. let me guess…. ..uhhhhh… halogen gases … and a very rich mix of partly oxygenated hydrocarbons and… and… yes! There’s even a few organometallics! Is that it? Gastro? Where is Gastro? He’s my assistant. Oh, there he is. Right behind me! Gastro, didn’t I say the moment we opened the hatch that that just had to be argon, sulphur, and a few organometallics?”
Another bundle of tentacles sprawled out in all directions just behind the alien seemed to tense up slightly and somehow expelled the words, “Yes sir. That is what you said.” as one of the creature’s sensory organs seemed to do a full revolution of rotation within its socket, as if to ask a question which the manager may have heard only by telepathy: “Why I did I volunteer for this mission? I actually endured 200 parsecs of this blowhard?”
Realizing that the top alien was begging for a compliment, the manager smiled widely and said, “Very good, sir! You must be something of a connoisseur of fine atmospheres! A trained gaseous sommelier perhaps?” The manager bit his tongue as he remembered one of the cardinal rules of his training, regularly voiced by his instructor: “Stay away from puns, turns of phrase, and unintended jokes. Too risky!” Yet, before he could worry too much, the alien replied:
“Oh, thank you, but it’s nothing! I tended air-bar at my uncle’s country club during summers, all through college. Great tips. … Oh! Excuse me. You had asked me a question. What was it?”
The manager politely reminded him: “I had asked you for an ID and you said: ‘How about my union card? After all, I’m here on business.’ ”
“Yes! Yes! The card…” The happy alien laughed so heartily, although it was difficult to determine exactly where the voice was coming from, and how does he speak without lungs to propel the air? The desk manager didn’t know, but he was starting to wonder why the noxious pulses of pungent odor seemed to correspond in sync with each new belly laugh. Is it actually possible that the alien had a club sandwich with extra garlic and onion on his last in-flight meal in the space ship? Or perhaps 10 to 30 hours ago? He didn’t know. Indeed, no one on planet earth could know. Whatever the case, any unfortunate earthlings living downwind were about to learn what the embassy staff already knew. Well.
The alien reaches into his pocket in the back of his fourth tentacle and pulls out his wallet faster than you could say “Take me to your leader.” He grabs the union card inside it with a single, dexterous motion of the first suction-cup of his ninth tentacle and deftly hands it to the desk manager. He thanks him and scans it into the Universal Reader-Translator. [Why does the alien speak English but didn’t plan and bring a legible ID card in the local language? Do you really think I wanna make this any longer by adding a backstory for every gap in the plot points? Just sit still and read the nice story. Slow down your thinking. You know. Like a young earth creationist conference speaker.]
The machine spits out its translation. The manager reads it aloud:
“Galactic Brotherhood of Intelligent Designers, Local #351”
He pauses and says, “Apparently the machine couldn’t figure out your name. It says ‘Boundary error. Char strings exceed limit.’ What is your name, Sir?”
The alien smiled [Don’t ask!] and said, “That last name is DodFaasuznmxzyuaaqqnmadlkjadsaf. Yes, I’ll save you asking: my grandfather was indeed a Faasuznmxzy immigrant, came over on the Sarminian xenocrafts of the Second Therminian Dynasty. It was just after the Splantaric Rebellion and his was one of the first incubation vats to be reactivated with full power by the Darmifian mercenaries, because they thought they could hold the ovapods inside for ransom. They had no idea that he was just one more metamorphosis away from growing up to be their master. So, yes. Everybody always asks me when they hear the name!” as it laughed and smiled even more widely, a feat made all the more remarkable because of the fact that it didn’t seem to have anything resembling a face. “So telepathy might be communicating the alien’s emotions directly into my brain….” thought the manager as another wave of stench made his eyes begin to water, much like one gets when peeling onions …. and perhaps evolution developed such telepathy to accommodate their consistently maintain a personal space between them of around 50 meters. Or at least that was the suggestion of the panel of scientists which kept up a steady stream of color commentary and speculations appearing on the text crawl at the bottom of the large CNN TV screen the manager couldn’t help but see hanging high on the opposite walls.
He realized that his extensive training on reading body language provided little help when one isn’t even sure what body parts to read. So he resorted to the fallback rule for intergalactic culture shock: gush and fawn. Well… …that’s…that’s very impressive, Sir!” gushed the desk manager as he struggled for words while collecting his composure, “And a celebrity deserves special accommodations so I’m going to give you an upgrade to the VIP suite.” (Of course, at intergalactic embassies, everyone gets a VIP suite–and all UFOs get free valet parking.)
“Thank you. Thank you. But no, I prefer to be treated just like everyone else. And I’ve never felt like a celebrity, despite the famous surname. To everybody else, my grandfather was Seventh Supreme Overlord of the Xzyl-Razmoid Empire, Merciless Slaughterer of the Klyqedfjdiiel Resistance, and Grand Puba of the Galactic Council. But to me and my brothers…he was just Pops.”
Getting better at handling the unexpected, the manager asked, “By the way, speaking of VIPs did any of our staff outfront tell you that we have valet parking? It’s free to our VIP guests.” The manager chuckled to himself and thought about being remembered as the first human to make a joke to an alien. He could take the chance because he learned in his training that the aliens had been monitoring earth’s TV broadcasts for years and the scientists who had communicated with the aliens in the months leading up to the landing said that the aliens not only understood the English language quite well, they had an excellent sense of humor. For them, the 1950’s TV shows premiered just 15 years ago and they loved the sitcoms. So despite his training to avoid humor, he had gone ahead and asked if the alien wanted valet parking for his space ship.
The alien replied without any indication of mirth, “Yes, somebody among your staff out front asked me if I wanted that kind of parking service you say you have, so I said yes to take advantage of it. After all, my vehicle–I heard you earth people call it a UFO–is quite large. I was afraid you wouldn’t have enough space to accommodate it. So I was very happy to bring the guy on board to help out and we found just the right place to park.”
“Sir, it sounds like one of our staff was just making a friendly joke by offering you valet parking, a service where our people out front can park the guest’s vehicle in a special place. But, back to reality, with your… uh… vehicle. It will be quite safe because our military will be guarding it no matter where you parked.
“Yes, I do understand what you mean! I never saw so many soldiers and military vehicles surrounding us. And they welcomed us with so many sirens and lots of people running and screaming and shrieking. It was much like Elvis in the building as you say.”, it explained. “We felt so very welcomed. I really do appreciate the parking service. We were lucky. My spacecraft just barely fit in the parking space. Very beautiful hills on both sides.”
The desk manager tried to hide his confusion, and asked the alien: “Barely fit? Hills on both sides? Where exactly did you park? Did our employee actually direct you to the spacious valet parking area? Did he say if it was a specific valet parking area? We have an east and a west valet parking lots. Did he say which valet parking lot?”
“Hmmm….Oh! Yes he did!”, exclaimed the alien, “I remember now. The young man happened to mention it was San Fernando Valley parking. I’m not sure that they were expecting us but it will do just fine.”
The manager froze for a minute but realized this was the very type of situation he was trained to handle. “Keep your composure throughout” was the rule of operation at all times. But before he could think for very long, the alien continued:
“Oh! I should get back to your question that I never fully answered: The first name is Ieiwzmoiqewmmiuasdfuiqwemmskfjaskdf. Ieiw for short, pronounced like ‘Iiieeeiooooew” but remember that the second ‘e’ and the third ‘o’ are silent except when used in the vocative case. So the full name is Ieiwzmoiqewmmiuasdfuiqwemmskfjaskdf Adsoiuxy Dodfaasuznmxzyuaaqqnmad. You can feel free to save space and use a middle initial instead of Adsoiuxy. That’s fine.”
The alien could tell that the desk manager was overwhelmed by the name and it surmised that the manager was going to have difficulty with the spelling. So after a brief silence, the alien said, “I am Ieiwzmoiqewmmiuasdfuiqwemmskfjaskdf Dodfaasuznmxzyuaaqqnmad. But why don’t you just call me ‘I.D.’ for short.”
Obviously relieved, the desk manager exclaimed, “Excellent! Now I’m sure I have heard of you.”
The manager asked the alien, “Sir, I mean, Mr. I.D., would you like a smoking or non-smoking room?” As soon as he speaks the words, he realizes again that the alien has no lungs–because it absorbs gases directly through its slime-covered, yet reptilian-like skin. “I beg your pardon for my not thinking that through, sir. You see, we’ve never checked anybody into the Embassy Conference & Living Center Annex before. You are our first guest alien. I’ll just go-ahead and give you a non-smoking room. … Let’s see…what else…uhhhh…. Oh! Would you like a bellboy, or perhaps even two?”
The alien replied, “No. No thank you. I had a really big lunch on the flight.”
It paused a moment and resumed: “And then they always hand out those endless bags of nuts. Insufferable nuts. We beamed them up from Seattle and Kentucky before we knew what we were getting ourselves into.”
The desk manager remembered his training and tried really hard not to react as the alien continues.
“Plus, I really need to lose a few pounds and work on my cardio. My wife hassles me about it. Keeps reminding me that my father died of congestive hearts disease. All five of them. It got to where his hearts wouldn’t even grow back anymore. What a sad and slow way to die. So I’m trying to do a better job of taking care of myself. After all, ya only live thrice. Maybe four times, tops.”
“Always good advice, Sir.” The desk manager replied while still trying hard to react as little as possible. After all, he was specially trained for this. He recalled countless hours of extensive study and practice, all in preparation for this historic event, and that schooling included a thorough practicum in intergalactic cross-cultural interactions. The manager regained his composure and continued:
“Oh! Almost forgot… Sir. Do you have any pets that will be rooming with you?”
The alien answers, “As a matter of fact I do. Just one.”
The desk manager smiles and nods affirmatively, “Very good, sir. And what type of pet would that be?”
The alien replies, “I don’t know what you earthlings call them but on my planet we call it a luskin.”
(c) 2015. Professor Tertius & the Bible.and.Science.Forum at Gmail.com.
All rights reserved.
If you like Professor Tertius’ brand of humor, or you simply like to see YECist “creation science” shredded while the science-denialists cringe, or you just love to see reminders that a theologian-linguist-Bible-translator-professor-minister sage-wannabe doesn’t have to agree with Ken Ham’s wacky pseudo-science and Bible-illiterate shenanigans to be a “genuine Christian”, than we’ve got a Professor Tertius classic for you: The April Fools Day Massacre & the Seven Deadly Questions YECists Dread.