The Unknown Writer - Bye Week / Bama Prep Edition

Just thought I'd give BPTiger a break and quell some of the speculation that he is the author.

Looks like our friend is not too optimistic for this weekend, but it's an entertaining read as always! Seems like something T-Bob would like.

Trigger warning: if you've been abducted, the following may cause some unpleasant flashbacks.

quote:

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On this bye-week Saturday night, one week before LSU plays Alabama, I went to bed early. What follows is a truthful account of that evening’s events:

Restless legs stilled by Requip, blood thinned by 81 mg of aspirin, neurotransmitters’ reuptake inhibited by bupropion, I fell asleep to the comforting screams of distant sirens and the rattling sound that emanated from my stomach every time I moved, like a maraca being shaken in a mariachi band, assuming the maraca was filled with pharmaceuticals. The next thing I remember was a conical beam of light shining from above, through my ceiling and onto the bed where my dog, Trevor, and I slept. I recall Trevor lifting an eyebrow as he watched me float from the bed and ascend through my bedroom ceiling. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a waiting room in what looked like a medical office aboard a spaceship.

The magazines were old. The Highlights I thumbed was from 1962. Goofus strangled a cat with string connecting two Dixie cups. Gallant rescued the cat. The Timbertoes carved a pumpkin. I found a rake and a corncob pipe hidden in a picture of a working farm. I was about to peruse a Sports Illustrated featuring Gary Player on its cover when I was interrupted by life-forms, presumably my alien abductors. With the exception of the one I took to be their leader, the aliens were large and chiseled. Most had dark skin coverings. They wore crimson suits and helmets.

The alien leader was much shorter. Unlike his followers, the leader’s pale outer membrane covered flabby muscles and he wore no space suit. He had what appeared to be human hair on his head. I cannot state with certainty that it was, in fact, hair because it had a color found in neither nature nor bottles. It was not pink exactly. It was pinkish, almost salmon-colored, but not quite. It seemed to defy gravity in that gravity-controlled spaceship. It rose and stayed put, like a well-executed soufflé. The leader’s affect was somehow both flat and angry, as if he’d consumed Thorazine with an intergalactic Red Bull chaser. He looked to be passing a sizeable kidney stone, possibly a diamond.

Oh, but the leader was boring. He spoke an English, of sorts. His mechanical patois was liberally sprinkled with wordy phrases making him sound like an alien’s idea of an educated Earthling. Phrases like “in terms of” and “relative to.” He droned on and on about something called The Process. When I made the mistake of interrupting for clarification, the leader’s pale membrane turned red, steam issued from his lateral head holes, and he screamed, “I’ll SHOW you what The Process is in terms of what I’m talking about relative to what you’re about to experience!” It was then that he took me into a smaller, adjoining room.

First, I received a rectal probe which, I understand, is standard in the industry. Only this probe was anything but standard. It looked like a rectal thermometer custom-made for André the Giant. With the probe inserted thusly, I was forced to watch hours upon hours of enormous, red-suited aliens—-like the ones who first greeted me—-run around on a striped surface. They seemed programmed for efficient, violent destruction, executing their maneuvers like perfect killing machines. I covered my eyes to the horror.

I must have passed out. I awoke, trembling and sweating, in my own bed. My bunghole burned like the dickens. Imprinted upon my consciousness were two numbers: 48 and 10. And my dog snored on.

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