Don’t Panic Earthlings

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I am way out of line here, and I’ll pay for this later. Really pay. But I’m like most of you earthlings-with your priorities so out of whack that it’s a wonder how you survive each day. Like you, I can’t scroll by a video of a pathetic puppy without clicking on it, then crying for anywhere up to an hour, then devoting the rest of my day to saving pathetic puppies.

I’ll spare you the details of what I am, because most of you won’t believe it anyway. And to those of you who do believe in me…well, you are just too freaky. Anyway, three hours to go, transition of power time, and I’m dressed up in a modest black dress, white half apron, white cap, sensible black shoes, and heavy tan hose. Think of a British maid in the 1930’s. But I’ve got myself a rockin’ body. Tits that defy gravity, legs that look good in anything, even these black shoes. Hell, these legs would look good in Birkenstocks. My face is pretty, but not too pretty. Because that’s not where his eyes go, but it’s where the Mrs. looks first. If my face is nicer than hers, I’ll be back in the kitchen scraping food off plates. As I am, she’ll just dismiss me as forgettable.

The Obamas will appreciate the service, and won’t even notice me handing off the cups to whoever brings them over–to one of the most awkward coffee & tea get togethers in history. I mean it, as far as you people go, this is going to be more uncomfortable than Hoover and Roosevelt in 1932. You had to wonder how Hoover, knowing he was called a fat, timid capon choked down a cup of coffee with a guy he thought of as a chameleon on plaid?  I know that information is utterly useless to you people because your personal history goes as far back as what Instagram picture you liked last night when you really didn’t mean to, it was just that you had too much wine with dinner. All I am saying is it could help you in the future if you read up a little on your presidential history. You might choose more wisely next time.

When the butler hands me T’s cup, I’m going to do something to it that defies your laws of science, physics and astrophysics. Y’all are so cute when you try to explain things you don’t understand. The three other humans at this little do are going to get shitty, lukewarm coffee or tea…well maybe the Mrs. will get that 10,000x calorie sugar cube I whipped up last night on her plate, but I’ll bet my seventh eye she won’t touch it. Not because it is suspect-it looks exactly like a regular sugar cube, but because I know for a fact that that woman has been off sugar since she got pregnant with Baron. Oh well, I can hope to tempt her, right?

When T sips his brew, the impact will be instant. It will render him unable to speak, and his fingers will grow so fat, amorphous and rubbery that he will be unable to type on a keyboard or touch screen. He will panic, attempt to get up, and try to run in tiny circles, but the drink will render him unable to react in moronic ways. The effect of this potion on T will only be that he can only operate his body in a stately, calm, purposeful manner. He won’t be able to grab, pinch, pull, tweak or tweet. And he won’t be able to speak.

Shut up! SHUT UP!  You beings are so frigging reactive! I’m not done telling you about this awesome thing, and you’re already losing your shit-half of you screaming and pissing on the carpet about poisoning the president elect, the other half of you are screaming, pissing on the carpet, and tossing your stupid pink pussy hats in victory. God Almighty, I have to wonder for the billionth time, why am I doing this?

Now, to get back to my plan: T will be able to carry out the duties of his elected office in appearance only. He had laid the groundwork for what he is, and for what he wants for his term in office long before this sucky coffee/tea gathering-the symbolic transfer of power that no one really cares to endure. That’s true! You’d think the incoming douche bag would be all, Hey, look at me! I’m shoving the outgoing douche bag out the door so I get get my stink all over this place! but no. Usually by the time this coffee klatch takes place, both incoming and outgoing are either shitfaced, or hungover, or both; useless and beyond care. Technically, my seraphic roofie is an overkill on this particular day.

The major ramification of my concoction is to neuter your new President-in the figurative sense. (I believe he’s been physically neutered since 2007 when the Mrs. caught him with the pool boy.) If he can’t talk, can’t tweet, can’t pout, can’t gesture, and can’t grab, can’t stop his hair from lifting off his head he’s a figurehead. A statue. A symbol. A token. A representation. A metaphor. I’m running out of your words here, and you’re still not getting it…you people really need to put down your devices and start paying attention to what is really happening around you, stop reacting after the fact, and plan a little better. T, in the state that I will put him in, in the position that YOU elected him will be rendered powerless. So it will be up to all of you!

No? You don’t like it? Not even the hot maid in the frumpy dress? Come on! This shit is what you all binge watch on Netflix! Holy crap, my friends were right. My crew totally warned me about this. They told me it wouldn’t work. They said I’d regret all of it, even before it was done. Let them hang by their own hook, you moron! they said, If you actually help those idiots, if it really makes a difference, you know what we get? We get humans in our world! No thanks! We see what they do to their planet! Let them wallow in their own shit until they figure it out for themselves. I can’t believe I’m standing here, wishing I listened to my friends.

Well I guess I’m a sucker, and you all are the pathetic puppies. What the hell, I’m going for it. Two hours to go, and I’m really hopeful. Excited actually. I really believe this will work out for all of you.

Oh, there is one more thing. It’s kind of mean, but this guy T deserves it. I’ll bet you all want to know what this guy-a billionaire, with the hot third wife, the hot smart daughter, all best properties on your planet, now he’s in the most powerful position in the world wants more than anything. He wants it so bad, and he just can’t have it, and believe me, he has tried. God, this is so mean and petty, totally not like a superextraterrestrial being I am, but I have been spending waaaaaaaaaay too much time with you earthlings. I know I really shouldn’t, but what the hell. You know what? If he just asked me nicely when I first appeared to him, I would have given him it without any strings attached. Instead he tried to grab my antennae and…well it’s just too gross to describe, but that shouldn’t surprise you after this past presidential election, right?

Your new President would give up his gold toilet for Alex Baldwin’s hair.

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About EF Sweetman

writing, reading, pretty much everything noir
This entry was posted in Alec Baldwin, cautionary tales, conspiracy, humor, Inauguration 2017, New Year, Observations, Obsessions, politically incorrect, politicians, Politics, scandal, Trump and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Don’t Panic Earthlings

  1. Sinman says:

    Well, that was entertaining!!

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