The Moon-men Respond, Yet Again
Dear Earthlings,
Well, shit. You got us.
To be clear: We never said we didn’t have water. Sure, we danced around the topic a bit. When you guys were up here in ‘72, and we were having that farewell brunch, one of you asked, “What’s the local water scene like, anyway? Hoppin’?” Our response was to do little shrugging kind of jig and say, “A glass a whatnow?”, and then deplete enough oxygen from the breakfast nook for you to pass out. Then, while you were sleeping, we faked our own deaths, so that you’d wake up and get so freaked and guilt-ridden that you’d leave. Instead, you dumped us in the trunk of your space-buggy and drove around for two days, arguing and sobbing and listening to that same Dr. John cassette over and over again. Not fun, guys! All he does is “hurm-a-ham-a-hurm-ham” and “bowitty-boo-bow-bon” all night.
Anyhoo, after you finally left, nobody bothered us about water again. We just stayed up here, selling outdated JavaScript manuals to developing nations, and occasionally making moon-pies (”pies,” by the way, is moon-slang for “love”). Everything was cool until last month, when you found out we were holding out on you.
But who can blame us? After all, you guys have been uncool to us the last few years. Major uncool. For starters, we’ve somehow become synonymous with your mildly rebellious rectal displays. And we’ve been vilified by your media, which portrays as a source of menace, werewolves, and overly art-directed Duran Duran videos:
Plus, there was the whole hitting-us-with-a-5,600-MPH-an-hour-satellite ordeal. Seriously. You guys can be such dickards sometimes.
And yet, despite these transgressions, we recognize the need for diplomacy. We don’t want to end up like Pluto (who’s doing fine, by the way, and tries to act nonchalant when asking about you, though the pain is audible and deep). So we propose a trade. In exchange for a one-year supply of moon-water (”water,” by the way, is moon-slang for “pies”), we request the following goods and/or services:
- Two (2) Vlad the Impaler cardboard standees.
- One (1) flame-throwing telescopes.
- A satisfying (yet not too-tidy) storyline resolution to the prematurely canceled 1989 dramedy Hooperman.
- No fat chicks.
Please place these objects in rocket, albeit one that’s NOT solar-powered; we don’t want to give that glowing goofus more work. You’ll get your moon-water once a month, in an anonymously marked box; if you choose to keep it, do nothing, and you’ll be sent a new box each month (You’ll also be sent a bunch of Timbuk 3 cassingles that, frankly, we bought as a prank, but now just can’t justify keeping around). NOTE: For the love of God, do NOT consume, touch, or gaze longingly at the moon-water, as it’s 30% corn syrup and 70% ricin, which is pretty much the same formula as Zima, give or take a few percentage points.
Hurm-a-ham-a-hurm-ham,
The moon-men
RSS Feed