The Square Root of Infinity

...concluding this little story...

The little bubble-headed alien told me what his name was but I couldn't pronounce it. He told me that was because I had a tongue which was, in his estimations, the biggest barrier to speaking the language of outer space, in addition to speaking the truth. I let his snide remark slide as we began our descent.

"Where is this place?" he asked in utter amazement as we both stared out the front porthole of his little starship. "This isn't the same Earth that we used to visit and monkey around with ."

"Well," I said, not surprised by the sudden time shift and unpredictable turn of events, including this bubble-head's spontaneous confession, "it used to be."

And then we exited the roving wormhole and landed.

Close Encounters of the Square Root Kind

...continuing with this little story...

I started the weekend a little early last weekend. Last Wednesday night (it was actually wee-hours Thursday morning), I stumbled down the front steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge for the "umpteenth time squared" (actually, it was more like the square root of infinity) full of Death-A-Hol and pleasant thoughts about immortality when this flying saucer appeared out of nowhere and hovered above the nearly-empty parking lot. A green beam of light shot out of the bottom of the spacecraft and produced a little bubble-headed biped.

"Take me to your leader," said the creature in the green beam of light. His voice sounded bot-like and mechanical.

"Oh, really?" I said, with a flippant attitude that would have gotten most people ray-gunned into flaming skeletons. But not me. I felt invincible and stood my ground. "You mean you don't want to take me aboard your evil starship and open me up to see what makes me tick?"

"Been there and done that," replied the alien, in his own flip manner. "Besides, I already know what makes you tick. Now, are you going to take me to your leader or do I have to ask somebody else's alter ego to take me?"

"No problem, pal," I responded with more complacency than excitement. Bubble-headed aliens are a dime a dozen in this part of the space-time continuum, so this joker wasn't doing me any big favor. On the other hand, I was tired of just going home every night and listening to classic "soft rock" on old vinyl LPs— like Simon & Garfunkel and The Mamas and the Pappas — and sipping hot cocoa. So, I was up for just about anything.

"Do you have transportation?" it said to me in a serious tone that made me think twice about needing a little diversion.

"No," I replied, still flip as hell. I figured why not push the interactive envelope? I had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. "No, mine's still in the shop. We'll have to take yours." A big smile crossed the extraterrestrial's little mouth that seemed more like a leer than a smile, but I was still up for adventure and for even kicking some alien butt, if it came to that.

"OK, then," he said, stepping aside to let me into the green light.


"I don't know if you'll like our leader," I confessed, "but the crazy old son-of-a-bitch is all we have." I figured honesty was the best policy when you're dealing with aliens who can beam your ass off a tavern parking lot in the middle of the night without even blinking an eye.

And then we were beamed aboard.

this story to be continued...

Nebula / Nebbish

Maybe I've seen too many movies — who can say? — but last Saturday night, Earth Time, I became part of a hideous, twisted parody of the movie "Victor Victoria", that glitzy 1982 flick where Julie Andrews plays a woman pretending to be a man who's pretending to be a woman. Or something to that effect.

Anyway, it was close to last call when I came back from the male species room at Think-A-Holic Lounge and found one of those energy creatures (see pic) occupying the space above my barstool, where my own head would have been. I was glad I'd already relieved myself because just the sight of another patron in my spot pissed me right off. And I don't piss off easily.

Now, you'd figure he or she or whatever it was must have seen the Solar singles and Fins and Sawbucks on the bar, right beside my half empty shot of think-a-hol and the nearly full schooner of Buxx Brew, a bubbly chaser made from malt, hops and buck-rub bark from north central Pennsylvania, back on planet Earth. Buxx Brew has the opposite effect of the standard pilsner beer. While the regular suds eventually makes every woman on Earth look like Kim Basinger in her prime, Buxx Brew makes every female creature in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine. We drink it for our own good, not because we like it.

Anyway, I ignored the fact that this idiot energy cloud was in my spot, smack dab in front of my drinks and my money, because Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, hates any kind of nasty scene right at the bar. So, I automatically assumed that this energy creature was a female creature because, even though males outnumber females elebenty-leben to one at Think-A-Holic Lounge, the most desperate lounge lizards among us are eternally optimistic about finding Ms. Right sitting on a bar stool somewhere. The average guy from Earth outgrows this ridiculous fantasy by age thirty but I've never been known for doing the right thing at the right time in my entire life. So, I figured, why start now?

"So, are you from around here?" I asked the amorphous entity.

"Whaddaya want from me?" it protested. Its voice sounded male and defensive. "I'm a nebula. I'm allowed in here."

"Sure you are. I'm, Jonco," I said politely, wanting to shake hands but a nebula has no hands.

"And I suppose this is your personal bar stool," it said, a slight feminine whine creeping into its voice.

"No, it's only mine as long as my money and my drinks are in front of it," I said, starting to get even more pissed off than I already was.

'There!" it snapped. "There's your money! There's your drinks! There's your money!" This nebula from hell began sliding and pushing and shoving the bills and change and sloshing the drinks. The male tone of voice was back but the whining was more high-pitched and annoying than before.

"Not so fast, pal," I said, trying to remain calm and collected. "I was going to buy you a drink but now you can buy me one to make up for all the think-a-hol and Buxx Brew you just spilled."

"Oh, sure," it said, suddenly sounding like a defensive middle-aged woman with an axe to grind. "The story of my life. Every guy I meet thinks I'm Ms. Money Bags."

"Wait a minute..." I stuttered, losing my grip on reality.

"Whaddaya, whaddya?" said the male side of the nebula again. "I travel fifty million miles a day. I'm selling encyclopedias to a galaxy that gets all its information online. On top a that, my boss wants me to retire and...and my wife's sneaking around with a younger nebula... and you're gonna rob me?"

"Take it easy, buddy," I said, feeling this Nebula/Nebbish nightmare rapidly becoming a cosmic reality. "Here. Let me buy you a drink after all." I looked around for Angus but he was busy washing glasses. He finally saw me and I pointed to the living anomaly sitting beside me and Angus nodded back. "What's that you're drinking?" I asked the paranoid salesman/saleswoman.

"What's to drink?" said the woman side of the thing. "I don't know you from Adam."

Then the nebula began to dissipate right before my eyes but not before I heard its male and female sides arguing with each other. I was stupefied, impressed and bewildered all at the same time. I was also speechless and unable to move.

"Never bring me here again," whined the female nebula. "Besides, you'd rather be with that what's-her-face anyway, wouldn't you?"

"Ya had da ask?" replied the sarcastic nebbish. Then the scary trans-nebula was gone. And so was I.