No One Will Believe We're All Doomed

I hope all of you are content to die in the middle of the night, having accomplished all in life you set out to do. Because it is certain to happen shortly. The world is about to be destroyed by ominous forces from another world or plane of existence and no one will believe me. I suppose that is what really bothers me about it all.

Oh, make no mistake, good people—Rokwell T. Finger has no urge to die. Certainly there's a lot I have left to do in life, like anything substantial at all. Or eat a green apple, that always seemed like a wild experience I wanted to try at least once. But none of that matters now (refer back to first paragraph)—it's about to become dust in the wind, like the band Kansas. I think they also had a song by that title.

These aliens, who will be destroying us imminently, made one mistake: They foolishly broadcast their secret correspondence on Channel 26, the local UPN affiliate, thinking nobody was watching. Lucky for the earth I really enjoy that The Parkers television show. Then again, nobody believes my tale of the invasion, so I suppose the aliens did not make one mistake.

The aliens—or other-dimensional earthling beings, I don't want to sound ignorant to them if they aren't from outerspace—are small, green men that appear to exist in minimal dimensions. I could hear their alien war jargon, and most of it sounded like unintelligible nonsense. Words like "fudge-striped" and "chocolicious" were tossed about as they prepared to stomp the earth flat. Without the help of a translator, I could only guess at their plans by the sinister looks on their small faces. That brown goo-firing gun of theirs spoke volumes to me alone.

This is not another "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast, I assure you—these aliens aren't martians. To mistake them for martians would be to seriously miscalculate and risk losing casualties to their goo-gun, and I'm sure it would offend them as well. Which is not how I want to start my future life as a slave, should we fail to stop them.

Still no one will believe me. It really pisses me off. I can live with getting killed, the insulting part is to realize your friends and co-workers place absolutely no value in your judgment. One even suggested the signal I intercepted was a television advert for some kind of candy product. This is what I get for working with a gaggle of hippies, beatniks, and fruitcakes—they'll believe anything. Except for me. Why won't they believe me?

Needless to say, knowing what I know, I plan on living these last few possible days to their fullest. I've worn my best underwear, straight out of the drawer (no waiting for Saturday now; every day will be wear the nice underwear day) and I've begun writing that play on Norm Abrams that I've always dreamed about. I've also taken to reading The Golf Bible for myself—not just skimming it, but really reading it. And I've begun writing out my will, which will surely be the filler for my next column should this whole thing turn out to be some sort of mix-up. But I'm reasonably sure we're going to die, so I'm not worried about that.

In the meantime, hug your children tight and perform dangerous erotic acts on your loved ones with care, certain that it may be the last time. Maybe these mysterious Keeblers will be thwarted, but it won't be by anyone here at the commune.

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