Daily Archives: August 16, 2015

Ask the Alien – 8/16/15 – G.P. Eynon – Why Do Aliens Have Better Stuff?

Greetings Earth losers!

Alien Jones here, beaming the Bookshelf Battle Blog full of extra-terrestial extra-intelligence.

This week’s question comes from G.P. Eynon, proprietor of the blog, “How Do You Pronounce Eynon?”

I can relate, G.P.  Humans can’t pronounce my name either, so that’s why I have to go with “Alien Jones” for the purposes of this column.

Have you ever considered you might be an alien?  Food for thought.

The Esteemed Brainy One, Champion of Science, Despiser of Pants

The Esteemed Brainy One, Champion of Science, Despiser of Pants

Anyway, G.P.’s inquiry:

Ok, here’s a question for you Esteemed Brainy One. How come you aliens always have better stuff than us, you know: starships, probes, laser guns, and the like? And when we finally get ourselves some quality starships, probes, laser guns, and the like, what the hell are you guys gonna be using? Do we even stand a chance…?

Good question.

The short answer is…we are totally smarter than you.

The longer answer starts with…sex.

Or rather, my species’ inability to have it since we’re clones and those pesky bits and pieces that often manage to be the downfall of human kind have been written out of our genetic code for eons.

For more on this issue, I recommend picking up a copy of the Mighty Potentate’s copious volume, “Sex:  The Bane of the Universe’s Existence.”

In it, the Mightiest of Potentates explains:

  • How all beings pretend like they do the work they do to fulfill themselves but really, everyone’s just looking for an angle to get rich and famous so they can obtain the mate of their dreams.
  • That in theory, this sounds like a good motivational tool to inspire the masses to dream big, live large, and dedicate themselves to education and hard work.
  • But in reality, all the greats who invent something magnificent usually switch their brains off once all the money and sex starts rolling in.
  • That my planet, the name of which is none of your business, was, many thousands of years ago, not unlike Earth.  War, pestilence, plagues, famine, reality television, all which came about due to various despots seeking to prove their worthiness in the hopes of getting, well, you guessed it.
  • That once aliens of my species were cloned sans junk, our world became a happier place, one where we were free to experiment, try new ideas, explore, discover and create without fear that failure might lead to us not getting sex, because you know, we’re not interested now.
  • And finally, that despite our sexless existence, sometimes our egos get in the way, thus the need for the Mighty Potentate to remind us that our transgressions = vaporization.

By the way, more than lack of sex, the Mighty Potentate’s threats of vaporization are additional factor to which I attribute the advancement of our society.

For example, take the memoirs of Alien Guzman, inventor of the first intergalactic flight capable spaceship:

“While many before me looked at the stars and saw them as mere decorations dotting the sky, I dared to dream that one day I would be able to visit them.  They are real, tangible, and the only thing that separated me from them was science.  I would deny my dream no longer, for the limits of my ability are only limited by the depths of my imagination.

Also, the Mighty Potentate wanted a spaceship and said he’d totally vaporize the shit out of me if he didn’t get one.”

– Alien Guzman, The Esteemed Flying One

How moving.  Or what about this quote from Dr. Alien Himmelfarb, who discovered the cure for alien cancer?

“This disease had cut short the lives of too many.  It left nothing but suffering in its wake, for its victims as well as the caretakers of those afflicted.  Something needed to be done.  Society could no longer be allowed to live in fear of the ravages of this intolerable malady.

Also, the Mighty Potentate was diagnosed with it and threatened to vaporize the crap out of me if I didn’t cure him.”

– The Esteemed Healing One

There you have it.  In short, the key for humans to become better inventors is two-fold:

  1.  Clone your genitals out of existence.
  2. Swear allegiance to a maniacal despot who will motivate you through threats of vaporization.

Really, number three would be “invent vaporization” but I suppose you could replace it with any manner of demise until one of your human scientists realizes that a vaporization cannon can be created by hooking up a dehumidifier to a leaf blower and filling it with…

Nope.  Never mind.  I’ve said too much.

Now, to the next part of your question.

And when we finally get ourselves some quality starships, probes, laser guns, and the like, what the hell are you guys gonna be using? Do we even stand a chance…?

We aliens have done our best to keep humans from inventing these items, largely as we fear you’re not able to handle the consequences of them, but mostly because we fear you’ll use them to export reality television.

Surely, we can’t keep this up forever, and you are correct.  By the time humans develop breakthroughs that are yesterday’s news to us aliens, we’ll already be onto the next thing.


STARSHIPS – will be replaced with intergalactic teleportation.  The venerable Alien Reynolds has already developed the technology, it’s just a matter of creating a business model.  Some aliens think there should be a gateway portal every ten miles, while others believe that there should be a gateway in every alien’s living room.  Rumor has it that the Mighty Potentate is currently considering the issuance of a vaporization threat, so you can expect this to get off the ground shortly.

PROBES – Already obsolete.  After millennia of probing, there’s no spoilers left in your spoiler, as it were.

LASER GUNS – have been obsolete since the invention of vaporization cannons.  Currently, firearms expert Alien Alvarez has been commissioned by the Mighty Potentate to develop a prototype explode-o-vaporizer cannon.  If successful, the device will cause a target to spontaneously explode, and then the remaining pieces are instantly vaporized.  Word has it that AA is behind schedule and that the MP has declared that if he doesn’t pick up the pace soon, AA will be required to invent the device and then immediately use it to explode AND vaporize himself.

In closing, humans will always be woefully behind aliens, but by adjusting your society, getting ridding of your sex drives, and swearing fealty to a vaporization happy dictator, you’ll catch up in no time.

Look at that.  I finished this column on schedule.  I won’t be vaporized today!  Huzzah!

Alien Jones is the Intergalactic Correspondent for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, on a mission to raise Earth’s collective intelligence levels one question at a time. Do you have a question for the Esteemed Brainy One? Tweet it to @bookshelfbattle on Twitter, leave it in the comments on bookshelfbattle.com, or stop by Bookshelf Battle on Google Plus. If he likes your question, he might even promote your book, blog, other project in his answer.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier (Part 4)


Part 1   Part 2   Part 3


Sergei Yakubovich chomped on a cigar and studied his hand like a sinner looking for a loophole in the bible.

“You are bluffing, Mr. Hatcher.”

“There are two things I never do, Sergei,”  I said.  “Bluffing’s the first.”

The Muffster

The Muffster

“And the second?”

I took a hearty swig of of scotch.

“Drink with a commie.”

I motioned for the waitress to fetch me another.

“But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

Sergei had a permanent dour glare on his face, as if someone was perpetually pooping on his party.

He looked down his nose at me over a pair of circular spectacles.

“You are full of the shit of a bull, American swine.”

Yakubovich held himself out to the world as a legitimate businessman, though it had long been rumored that he had secretly made his scratch by using his politburo contacts to obtain and sell Russian arms on the black market.

One of the many reasons why I despised the pinkos.  The guys who always got on their soapbox about how the villagers should share toilet paper rations were always the first ones to get all capitalist when it came to their own personal wealth.

“Only one way to find out.”

The waitress, a darling auburn haired lovely in a skimpy black dress, set another scotch down in front of me.

I flipped her a chip.

“Keep ’em coming, doll.”

“Oui oui, monsieur.”

Muffy rested her chin on my left shoulder.  One whiff of her perfume was all I needed to feel like a man.

“I thought I was your doll?”

“You know you are, my sweet souffle.”

Sergei pushed a large mound of chips into the already heaving pot in the center of the table.

“Prepare to be crushed, comrade.”

Count Rickard tossed his hand down on the table and backed away.

“Mr. Hatcher,”  my former client said as he stood up and fastened the top button of his coat.  “If there’s one lesson I learned when you bailed me out, it’s how to not be drawn in by greed a second time.”

Signora Isabella Bellavenuti was quite a sight.  She was an Italian fashion designer of world renown, though what passed for trendy finery back then always amazed me.

Coincidentally, it still does today.

She wore a white mink stole, likely produced from the pelts of a hundred deceased varmints and an elaborate hat, festooned with feathers and miscellaneous plumage, curving at various, oddly chosen angles.

PETA would be up her ass with an electron microscope if she were around today.

“This is, how you say, ‘Too rich for my blood?'”

She too backed off and sucked on her filtered cigarette as if it were her last.

Yakubovich and I engaged in a stare off.  Neither one of us was going to budge

“Your will is like that of your countrymen, Hatcher,”  my Soviet adversary said.  “Bloated, lazy, and soft.”

I belted down my newly arrived scotch.

Then, I pushed the remainder of my chips in.

“Au contraire, Yakubovo-whatever,”  I said.  “Your resolve is like the Communist Party’s motto: sacrifice is great, especially when the other guy’s doing it.”

The tension between us grew thick and palpable.  You could cut it with a knife, eat it up and still have enough left over for seconds.

Signora Bellavenuti lightened the mood.

“Marone!  Had I wanted to witness a pee pee measuring contest, I’d of watched my last two lovers duel over my hand!  Show your cards already!”

Yakubovich splayed his cards out on the table.  Eight, seven, six, five, four.  All hearts.  A straight flush.

The looky lous who’d gathered round the table emitted a collective gasp.

“Sacre bleau!”  Muffy cried.

Old Sergei had played better than I gave him credit for.

“What in the name of Barbara Stanwyck’s underpants?!”

The Russki snickered and started raking the pot towards his side of the table with his hands.

“I guess I underestimated you, Yak-a-boo-boo.”

“Is Yakubovich,” my nemesis said.  “And yes, you failed to recognize Russia’s might, just as your leaders will when we fly the hammer and sickle over the White House.”

“Over my dead body,”  I said.

“That is idea.”

I stood up.  I looked around the room.  All eyes were on me.

The French waitress brought me another shot.  I drank it, then slapped the empty glass down on the table.

“That’s good,”  I said.  “That’s really good.”

“Do not embarrass yourself, Hatcher.  Take your lumps like a man.”

“Say Yaka-bo-bo, what did the Queen do after she dropped a big steamer?”

I tossed down my hand.

Ace.  King.  Queen.  Jack.  Ten Spot.  All clubs.

You could have knocked that Bolshevik over with a feather.

“A Royal Flush?”

Cheers.  Applause.  Accolades.  And most of all, money.  Sweet, glorious cheddar.

It was mine.  All mine.

Twenty-five thousand smackers.

I know, 3.5.  That sounds good, but not life changing, right?

Wrong.  Adjusted for inflation, I was staring at the modern day equivalent of a quarter million.

Muffy hugged me like she wanted to push herself through me.  She planted her lips on mine and we sucked face like a pair of flounders who’d just crashed into one another on the ocean floor.

And not for nothing, but as soon as that bread was the property of yours truly, a lot of chickadees in that joint started giving me that look.  You know the one.  Like we were on the plains of the Serengetti, they were jaguars, and I was a nice, ripe, juicy caribou butt that they wanted to sink their teeth into.

But as far as I was concerned, Muffy was the only kitten I was interested in.

Outraged, Yakubovich slammed his fist on the table and stormed off.

Count Rickard shook my hand and it was congratulations all around.

An attendant gathered up my chips.

“I’ll cash you out sir.”

I accepted adulation for awhile until Fabian’s wife, Arianna, the Countess Rickard, found us.  She was an average looking broad.  Wouldn’t knock your socks off but you wouldn’t turn her down in a pinch either.  She had a slight hair lip, though it was nothing that a little hot wax couldn’t have cured.

“Muffelia!  I’ve been looking all over for you!”

The Countess had taken a real shine to my better half, treating her like the daughter she never had.

“Come dear,” the Countess said.  “I simply must introduce you to the Duchess of Shropshire.  I think you will both get along famously.”

“Merci.  Excuse moi, Jacob.”

The missus wasn’t gone for more than a few seconds when I felt a strong hand slap me on the shoulder.

I turned around.


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