he new television season barely underway, Fox executives are already lamenting the low ratings for their most calculated new show of the season, Desperate Alien Prison Escape.

“We don’t understand it,” lamented stunned network executive Roger Bacon. “This show capitalized on every hot trend currently on TV. We even had swearing. It should have been the biggest hit of all time. Fuck.”

Fox’s latest ratings hopeful follows the travails of Juk, a member of a secret alien invasion conspiracy who intentionally gets arrested for sleeping with a bored suburban housewife in order to help his cousin escape from jail, using a detailed map he had tattooed on his scrotum, which due to his alien anatomy is located where a human being’s eyelids would be.

The series premier drew a 3.0 rating, which translates to 3 million households either watching the show or having the TV set to that station so they can play their X-box. The second episode of the season, however, was quickly down to a 0.1 rating, which at the time tied the record for the lowest-rated program previously set by the 1972 broadcast of the British Cooking Championships. The show’s most recent episode drew a disappointing -1 rating, which means it wasn’t even watched by the camera operators while filming. Industry insiders believe this fact explains the show’s avant-garde cinematography, with the camera often focused on the corner of a room’s ceiling while the scene’s principals are heard talking off-screen. That’s what industry insiders hear, anyway, not that any of them watched the show.

Few of Fox’s new shows have fared any better, including The Crew Chief, where Gary, Indiana McDonald’s employee Tyler Buick thrills viewers with this cutthroat fast food management style. The show’s limited appeal was clearly illustrated in this exchange between Buick and underperforming drive-thru cashier Gladys Phillips in the series’ pilot.

“You’re toast. Asta la pasta, dirtbag.”

“You don’t have the authority to fire me; you’re just the crew chief.”

“Sayonara, won’t see ya tomorra!”

“Get out of my face.”

“Thanks for playing. Don’t let the automatic sliding doors close on your ass now!”

Analysts believe the poor showing of Fox’s latest derivative programs may be a sign that viewers aren’t watching television any more, likely instead spending their time viewing pornography, playing video games, surfing the internet and freebasing cocaine.

Other analysts consider this analysis to be far-fetched, preferring to go the music industry route of blaming new technology for the public’s lack of interest in a low-grade product.

“This is all TiVo’s fault,” groaned Fox executive Nigel Thomas. “When you can watch things whenever you want, on your own schedule, I don’t know. That’s bad for some reason.”

Other Fox employees remain optimistic, suggesting that viewers are likely just too busy joining terrorist organizations to tune in to Fox’s fantastic new fall shows.

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Imagine my dismay when I was driving in the great state of Arkansas earlier this year, the window down and enjoying the smell of oppression, listening to Neil Young's "Heart of Gold" on the radio, when the local newsboy interrupts to tell me the news that the space shuttle Columbia had blown up on its way to landing. I could not have been more infuriated—everyone knows "Heart of Gold" is the best Neil Young song ever. The astronauts would not have been any more expired had they waited another few minutes to give me the news.

Not that I take the death of astronauts lightly. They are the pilgrims of space, without dressing in the stylish black as much. It was a shame, but I have been writing angry, rambling letters to NASA for years advocating the use of weaponry on shuttles, and it was sad that someone had to get killed before they'd realize the wisdom in the suggestions.

Yes, hopefully when they file the official report on the Columbia shuttle disaster, of course blacking out the good parts with ample use of a Sharpie, the one good piece to come out of all this will be the recommendation of equipping future space shuttles with high-tech cannons and other defensive machinations. The fact Columbia was wiped out so efficiently only proves we are getting closer than ever to the alien lifeforms we've been seeking all this time.

I'm the first person here on terrestrial earth to sing the praises of peace, of trying to work out all our problems through non-violent means; but these green-blooded bastards have never heard of Gandhi, and non-violence means about as much to them as blassalbe grizzlesnorp means to us. Which is alien for "Whatcha cookin'?" if you must know. Yes, I say if the aliens want some, we bring it. Bring it hard.

Laser weapons are effective, true, but mighty costly and really only more visually fun to look at, not any strategic value. It is plain to the most uninformed observer, as I have observed, that laser weapons as used by the unidentified aliens, were used to some effect while Columbia was in space to wound the shuttle so mortally it wouldn't survive the return trip. But if these fancy pants think our weapons don't have enough pop to show them a thing or two, let's show them how it's done down here.

Traditional repeating firearms are more than enough for these pricks. Ample streams of gunfire will make our point quite nicely, and the fact you don't see a neon stream of green hurtling toward you gives you, as an alien, less chance to move out of the way. The real cool thing about space, should we engage in orbital dogfights, which I'm excited enough about prospecting to wet myself, is that with no friction in space and very little in the way of safe cover, these bullets will go on until they hit something, somewhere. Aliens can't outrun them! And even if they did, the things would keep coming, slow and steady, like the tortoise following the hare. Only this tortoise turns alien flesh into sloppy joe meat.

It goes without saying, until I say it, our first intentions should be to get on friendly terms with these aliens. No doubt they can help us with their endless advanced technology in areas of space travel and medicine and convincing an entire species to wear the same outfits. And we can help them become more profit-oriented and learn to argue amongst themselves.

But, just to make it clear, don't let them think we're pushovers. A size 10 shoe leaves a mighty big footprint on gray alien ass.

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I'm not a bad guy, I go to church, I pay my taxes, so what I wanna know is: Hey, when's God gonna stop bustin' my balls? I swear, I get home from work and my belt sander throws a gear, my wife wants me to take her to see Ricky Martin, and my son, dat little tree yeah old fairy climbed inside a spare tire in the back yard and he won't come out for nothin'.

"Hey-oh, ay, those're my balls you're tramplin on up there, big guy! They're the ones that are all blue and swollen from bein' stepped on too much, ya big bum...". Not that I got a thing against God, mind you. Me and the big guy go way back to the third grade when I went to ask Wendy Fischer out onna date and when I sat down in the next seat over from her, some sick sonnofabitch had pissed the chair, I swear to Christ almighty, he was bustin my tiny, hairless balls even back then. I had to sit in dat chair straight through lunch and for the rest of the day until all the others kids had gone home so nobody could see that my trousers was as wet as Tony Danza's back in a raquetball match.

That's some serious stuff for a kid, too, let me tell you that. As an adult, you piss yourself and you can play it off, like "Woah! That Lowenbrau snuck up on me! I ain't been this drunk since da eighth grade graduation!" and that kinda thing. As a kid though, it's taken more as a sign that you ain't never mastered your bladder control and the cheetahs is gonna thin you out from the herd, boy.

One thing I gotta hand it to God, that guy's one hard-workin SOB! He ain't laid off bustin my balls for 34 years, and just when I think he's takin a break, my collie upchucks a canna Manwich onto my new Camaro's suede seats. You couldn't WRITE better ball-bustin' than that.

Even when I was inna prime a my life, eighteen yeahs old, God was there with a bicycle seat and a faulty retaining bolt. Me and Marie, we was goin' steady, and lemmie tell you we was goin' at it. We would have sex at the drop of a hat, and believe you me there was a lotta hat-droppin goin on back den. But we was safe about it, y'know? A Carbone don't ever go into battle unarmed, if you know what I mean when I say that. I always make sure Marie used a rubber, and so I figure we ain't got nuthin to worry about, right? Wrong. Turns out the dumb broad was eatin' the damn things, one of her girlfriends said somethin about oral contraceptives and she got all confused. Next thing we know, bang-bang, we got little Ant'ny taggin along and whenever Marie's got gas it's like a little kid's birthday party around here.

Now I ain't sayin I don't love Marie, and know dat I'm just talkin here just to talk so lemmie talk, but that woman's got about as much sense as a two-legged gopher tap-dancin in a microwave. Or two mountain goats screwin' on the Eiffel Tower, I dunno, somethin like that. Point is she's dumb as shit. We understand each other heah? Good, 'cause nows I can go on about God and my balls and stuff.

God continued to bust my much-maligned balls trew most of the 1980's. Memorable events include da time da Anaheim Angels kicked my motherlovin ass for pukin' in their dugout, da tree months I spent in jail for exposing myself to a boyscout troop, and dat time I came home to da wrong house and ended up punching out a pony and givin' tree armed policemen wedgies after they say I ruin some little girl's birthday party. I spend the weekend in the can after that little caper, but thankfully I'd stuffed enough hot dogs down my shorts on the way out that I was eatin' like a king da whole time.

But don't think that God's Carbone-ball-bustin' plans ended with the era of Regan and bolo ties and all that. Uh-uh. God kept his ping-pong paddle at the ready next to my family jewels for the whole of the new decade as well. Like the time I got caught in that pair of panty hoes with that wild boar, for instance. Or the time I was up on da roof, drunk as hell, tearin' off roof tiles with my golf cleats, and I'll be Goddamned if a stiff wind didn't pick right up and make me take a header off that roof and land on some little old lady who'd come by to sell Amway. For six hours I hadta listen to her bitchin' and moanin like "I think you broke my back! My ribs have perforated my lungs!" Jesus Christ, lady, do I look like a doctor to you? It took damn near forever for the paramedics to get there and a good four hours for them jaws of life to pull her on up outta da sidewalk. Dey almost had to drill under my foundation, the sonsa bitches. It's a rare time like that when God misses a chance to bust my balls further. He musta been off planning the Manwich thing.

The 90's ball-busting that takes the cake though, has to be the time Marie ran outta them contraceptive sponges, and she thought onea them kitchen sink sponges with the green scrubber side would do the trick just as good. Did I mention that Marie's dumber than ten pounds of dirt? When it was all said an done she was pregnant with lil' Jimmy over there and I hadta wear them elasticy beach pants for two months. Jimmy! Get outta the oven, Jimmy! You're too old to play in da oven now, ya little hangnail ya. There're snakes in there, howya like that? Yeah, I thought so.

I wondered all my life, when God's gonna stop breakin my balls. But ya know what? I'm tired of wonderin'. Vinnie Carbone's got a plan. See, I plan on bein extra special nice and good and all that shit my remainin' years of this life. So as I can get into heaven and all, that kinda thing. Then, when I meet God, you can bet I'm gonna give him one hell of a kick right in his hairy, omnipotent sack. I'm gonna strike a blow for the Vinnie Carbones of the world, and then I'm gonna say "Sorry God, but you was breakin' my balls, you was askin for it." And we gonna shake on it and go out for beer and pizza. It's gonna be nice.

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