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Saturday, October 21, 2017

THE 'OTHER' CRAFT. ROSWELL. RIGINAL.

by riginal (writer), moe australia, January 03, 2015

We are not alone. The proof was in my garage.

THE 'OTHER' CRAFT ROSWELL. riginal.

I was sitting in a white stucco garage twenty miles east of Roswell when it happened. I started thinking.

Would i, at the age of seventeen, be stucc o in this God forsaken place to repair autos for the rest of my boring life?

Just didn't seem white, the garage was. I had heard the commotion around town, if you could call it that. Farming country mainly, bored cattle. Bored farmers. Even the water bores were bored. I mean what self- respecting well wanted to sit round gurgling brackish water all day. Talking to well- meaning bored cattle. The cattle were so bored they were on the verge of smoking grass...eating it was just so duh.

Oh, there was the occasional exciting report of a cow with its insides disemboweled and its head on backwards. The cow coroner put this down to an 'inside' job. Under close investigation the cow was found to be fake. Plastic head, internals, plastic tits. The forerunner of the type plastic surgeons now implant in bored socialites in Bollywood. Indeed, as i just remarked, the cow was a head turner. Used to look back at its rump exclaiming, "aren't i gorgeous insides and out." Plastic personality.

The burn marks on the grass, the oval fields of flattened flax: supposed alien landing craft disturbance, the lights in the sky, the military hush hush. So much mush to contend with, more so when you're staggering around the fields at night picking up supposed little creatures. Bored aliens smashing their dishes into the ground from a far flung hot rod shop in the planetary system?

Rubbish. It was all a hoax. Want proof? The insides of the craft carried no warranty cards or dish insurance in case of an accident! No windscreen wipers, faulty tail lights. Who the hell hoons around in space traveling at hyper speeds of 200 miles an hour with blown tail light globes? Utter rubbish. My father, now deceased, after he pressed the starter on the crashed craft; brought home a strange piece of metal. The writing was not of this world, the townsfolk remarked that neither was my father and his bored son. My father however, wasn't stupid. He spoke alien. An online course following a mechanic's course of course.

Translated, the strange markings stated, according to dad after he inspected the metal scrap under a bottle of Tequila, which magnified his state of belief, translated thus. "One hundred per cent proof Tequila!" Even at my young age i could see immediately a problem. Dad! Remonstrated with him. "Dad! you are reading the contents label of the earthbound Tequila! Try reading the strange markings on the piece of metal!" Dad took a slug, it had attended the alien translation course also. Slowly it read the markings in slug talk."This metal is not of your planet. It comes from..." the slug died. Not from a heart attack. Dad plonked the T bottle on its head!" Dad took another slug. Not wanting to suffer the same fate as its brother it stuck its slimy gums into my father's hand, ran off...slowly!

I picked up the metal. Crushed it. It returned to its original shape. Dad had also done an online blacksmith's course. He melted the metal down, made a cow bell out of it. Placed it around a volunteer cow's neck. From that day forward it didn't matter what sort of shape the cow was twisted into, it returned to that of a cow. The Army knocked on the door late one night. Took the slightly twisted old cow away. That was my Tequila drinking dad taken care of. The belled cow attended a 'coming of age' belle of the ball...did the twist, the Wahtusi, joined a lo cal head banging bell clanging local twisted sisters band. I was alone. Stucco in my garage. I was warned by the military that if i spoke to the media to tell the pests, a cow holding a weather balloon dropped out of the sky,clipped an alien craft hooning around the hills. The explanation rang a bell. You see the townsfolk had only one boring film. Mary Poppins. They weren't hard to convince that a flying cow, ballooning, wearing a long ankle length dress, patented leather shoes, (see my ad) large hat to keep the moon out of its eyes when jumping the same-was entirely possible. Now this is where the story becomes convoluted and strange.

One month later, on the knocker, there was a ring at the door. I opened it. I could have left it closed. They say curiosity killed the the bat, bat i had never killed one. Imagine my surprise when i was confronted by two heavy breathing peculiar looking little green about the gills generally-and all over-little men. Their eyes were enormous. I rubbed mine. In the background i could see a craft i'd never seen before. Obviously it had been pushed from a crash site.A late model saucer with the sign no one in America i dare say has seen on the back window of their car. "PAID FOR!" I was astonished. The craft had a bent fender, inoperative tail lights. One of the men said to what i thought was another man, "listen dear can you open a few cans of tomato juice, refuel. I'll get this online mechanic to belt the fender out, replace the tail globes, and we'll be on our way." I realized they weren't speaking, it was some sort of telepathetic mumbo sing- song jumbo. "Wait a minute" i thought to the man. "Cans of tomatoes don't grow on trees. Are you that hungry? Not so fast my little green friends or foes." Eek was the female's name. "Not so fast?" queried Eek, "we travel at 200 plus an hour? That's not so fast?" She actually went "eek!" when i quoted the dented fender at $4000 interplanetary dollars. "Ripoff!" said her husband.

"We don't want to eat, the cans of tomatoes are propulsion for our dented craft!" I gasped. "Well...i'll be a twisted sister, " i shouted in astonishment. "I always believed your anti-gravitational thrust atom nuclear spotifyer with backup clout retrencher was the way to go?" "Mrs Eek sighed apologetically. Waved a thin arm at the tomato tank. "We discovered Nuke is not beaut. Like my husband on a night out with the greenies...tomato juice fed backwards into the main thrust degravitate suspender is suffice to drive the main open can. Other aliens say we can't but we've proved we can. Henceforth if you'll can can with us, check the oil detractor spline, grease the spiral overload grip, bang the dent out, replace the tail light globes, we'll be on our way."

I complied. What else could i do? Their companions in the other craft had a weather balloon cow fall on their r udder. I put an extra couple of hundred cans of tomato juice in as a special treat. Had they carried insurance and paid the first $4000 then they would have not been out of pocket. Checked the stop tail lights. They paid by check. I shook hands with them. Oil and water topped. The husband and wife let out an "Eek." She was driving. Selected reverse, backed into the garage door. "How the heck do your bodies cope with the enormous pressure on your being when you're flat out going for it," i scratched my thoughtful head. Eek stuck it into drive. Went red. "Well young man, after flying around Roswell all day we only have the energy to crash!"

She blew me a tomato pip. Handed me a CD package. I watched as she smacked into a near stationary old cow hogging the sky holding onto a weather balloon. If you don't believe this near true account give me a bell. :>)

NOTE: I opened up the gift package which was marked, 'personal, to an overcharging mechanic, dent remover.' I had already seen the CD. 'Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!' I went to the video store, exchanged it for 'Mary Poppins.' Buried it near the crash site. You never know, maybe i'll hear an "EEK!" one day. You know the way these alien women drive. Wonder what planet she got her license from? Maybe an online crash course? For goodness sake you trippers from heavens above, make sure your craft is insured. No, i'm not selling disc o insurance. Surprised? :>)




About the Writer

Bio...bioio...daylight come an i wanna go home. Come missa tele man tele me banana. A banana tele? Seriously would like to hook up with other comedy writers to engage.
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