|
|
|
|
Sex and the Single Alien |
|
|
Humor Menu |
I think I'm pregnant. Since I may be the first writer of the masculine variety ever to begin a column with those words, I feel an explanation is in order. Last month I interviewed a man who claimed to have been abducted by aliens. It was just your everyday, run of the mill, sucked-into-the-vortex-of-time-and-space story until he said he'd been forced to undergo several hours of bizarre sexual experimentation. After making sure he actually hadn't spent a weekend with Madonna I asked if he could get me, a journalist whose mission in life is to seek truth where ever it may lead, aboard the mother ship so I may be able to write about the experience firsthand. I believe my exact words were, "How can I get a ride on this inner-galactic Love Boat?"  Several days later I was abducted from the parking lot of the county courthouse, just moments before I was scheduled to explain to the judge why I had 87 unpaid parking tickets. (That's my story and I'm sticking with it.) Within minutes I found myself strapped to a steel table, surrounded by creatures more hideous than a Ricki Lake studio audience. I can't recall everything that happened, but I have vague recollections of leather wrist restraints, a cattle prod and a 52-gallon drum of Cool Whip. I can't escape the feeling that I'm carrying an alien love child. I have all the signs. I'm experiencing mid-afternoon sickness (I guess things are different with space babies), violent mood swings (I go from happy to really happy in the blink of an eye), and I'm retaining Pepsi. My breasts are sore and I don't even have breasts. The worst of the symptoms may be the strange cravings. For breakfast everyday I have a dozen donuts, a medium pizza, four cans of sardines and a glass of milk. I must be pregnant because I never drink milk with breakfast. Of course, this may just be some kind of alien "false pregnancy." I'll know soon because I broke down and called a specialist this morning. I was fortunate enough to get an appointment with Dr. Ima Nutkase, who, according to his ad in the back of Alien Abductions Weekly, is the world's most respected alien obstetrician and channeler of Elvis Presley's ghost. As one who's convinced every headache is the beginning of a massive stroke, I'm not about to go through this without the finest medical minds available. After all, I saw the movie Alien and want to be sure I'm loaded to the gills with heavy duty pain medication before the baby tears through my chest cavity. Dr. Nutkase told me that in the case of alien pregnancies, the baby's sex is always the same as the person giving birth. He also told me my son will have to go through life with his sex organ in the middle of his face. While his cute little "button nose" will probably mean that I, his genetic blueprint, will never go on another date, at least I know he'll really enjoy the chronic hay fever he's likely to inherit from me. While it's nice to know my child's sex in advance, there are still questions that remain unanswered:
I hope I'm worrying
needlessly. I'll know soon because the doctor has scheduled a pregnancy
test for next week. I wanted to take a home pregnancy test, but science
has yet to develop such a product. Evidently I need one developed by
science fiction.
Although Dylan Danforth shows signs of alien
origin his mother has not been near a spaceship since I've known her. |
that would be dangerous to a human fetus. Dr.
Nutcase is insisting I take up smoking and wants me to drink a minimum
of 15 beers each day. While that's going to make breakfast a lot more
fun than usual, I hope my readers keep my Bud Light consumption in mind
in the unlikely event my columns start to get strange.