Vowels

“Three percent of Americans claim to have been abducted by aliens” and I know one…kind of. I know this chick, who knows this dude who dated this guy who got his hair cut by a woman who bought a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever from this gentleman who had a maid, whose brother’s sister-in-law dated a man whose father had a cat fed by this lady, who’s son dated this gal who had a brother that swore up and down he was one of the three percent that got beamed up.

He said that “grays” was the wrong word for them. They’re not gray. More bluish-purple, he said. Probably because they don’t breathe oxygen. Not the way real people do at least. Slits on their necks, just below where a jaw bone should have been, was how they did. Or at least that’s what the guy I’ve never met but know thought. He said they look clinical. Wore white lab coats with scalpels or something I reckon. The movies had it wrong about how bright the ship was. It’s not bright as day because of the lights, it’s bright because of the massive amount of reflective surfaces everywhere. The walls, tables, instruments, even their eyes were reflective. Dude didn’t want to go into details. Said it made him uncomfortable. But, he described them as liquid chrome. Staring at him, examining him as they poked and prodded. Pinched and pulled. Injected. Touched. Ran

Experiments

1. (N) a test, trial, or tentative procedure; an act or operation for the purpose of discovering something unknown or of testing a principle, supposition, etc.

4. (V) to try or test, especially in order to discover or prove something

as simple as the way in which disease spreads. I can prove I am right. Though I should not have to. I’m always right and if everyone else could accept it, discussions would go much quicker. However, normal humans are stupid things and cannot acknowledge their superiors. They require someone to prove their superior knowledge with statistics and data. Rats are smarter. They wiggle and squirm in fear of the pain; a needle prick comes but they do not deny their fate. They squeak and thrash in calloused hands. Carefully pinching the organic hose in position for the clean fresh needle to slide in. Gently pushing the pump down so the injection goes in. Nothing leaks out because

“Wise and humane management of the patient is the best safeguard against infection,” but that doesn’t stop the infection from spreading if someone decides that it should. They sing praise because their “God” is reinforcing their bigoted beliefs, punishing the wretched. Or they cry on their knees for His mercy. To wrapped in their faith to even pause and think that maybe, possibly, there’s a remote chance that the raging disease is pushed along by mortal hands not those of some divine being who, assuming even exists, does not deem the infestation worthy of extending a helping hand. Vindictive bastards the lot of them. Too arrogant or naïve to realize the vary air is poisoned. They see the words “chemical warfare,” but it’s a vague terrifying thing that does not come to them. It’s for others to be affected with. Poisonous gasses visibly melting skin and boiling lungs. It never is coincided that just a slight change in the amount of chemicals or even temperature in the air can have a violent effect. From a sneeze, to super viruses, to death of

“A honey bee has five eyes. Two compound and three simple eyes called ocelli” which leave me glad not to be a bee. Not of the compound eyes, but the ocelli. I think I should like to have them sometimes. I do enjoy the bright sun light in the summer while lounging out on a towel on fresh cut grass. Warming like a lazy cat. But then I realize it would greatly disturb my sleep. To have spots of light sensitivity. Any time a light from a passerby shines on my window I would be instantly awake. I imagine that to be large annoyance. I would rather relive the early elementary school years. Frustrated and bored in class. Irritated with my peers for not understanding the simple concept that when you add you get more and when you subtract you get less. No interest in those books though. If they’re any good they’ll be made a movie and if that’s any good it will be a television show. When physical education could still be called gym class and not offend anyone. It was nice having time set aside just to play. To be outside and swinging across the monkey bars, evading the lava monster, but most of all, avoiding the cooties by staying away from

“Male goats urinate on their own heads to smell more attractive to females” like a self-made cologne. Watch the goats in the pen. They’re like high school. You have the boys spraying too much Axe on themselves, reeking up the whole place. Then there are the girls kicking up dust, powdering their noses. The athletes showing off jumping all over the place. All to prepare children for the real world and failing miserably fulfill that goal. The only step towards their proclaimed mission is teaching people what it’s like to slam your head against a wall over and over again. To just keep ramming against the obstacles in your way until your head hurts so bad you forget what you were attempting to obtain or the obstacle falls down. Bam. Bam. BAM! BamBAM! BamBamBam. Bambambambambambambambambambambambambam…over and over just repeating the same steps to the next song again because…

Why not?