May 1, 2015 by T. Gregory Argall
Like most people, I learned all I know about alien abductions and anal probes from deciphering the hidden messages in Bob Newhart’s comedy routines, and so it was with great enthusiasm that I embarked on a weekend adventure in the emerging sport of UFO-baiting.
The important thing to remember is, just like with fishing, you’ve got to use the right bait. UFOs won’t appear for just anyone.
So I went out and got a beat up old pick-up truck, a plaid jacket and a hat with earflaps. Then I parked in the middle of nowhere with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a cheekful of Redman chewing tobacco and an 8-track tape of Conway Twitty’s greatest hits. I sat there for hours, waiting patiently with my thumb on the trigger for the 37 spring-loaded nets I’d hidden in the trees, just waiting to catch a UFO.
But the UFO fellows are tricky buggers and they snuck up behind me when I wasn’t looking, or awake, or something.
Suddenly, I saw a bright light and I was being pulled upwards in their tractor beam. This wasn’t just a normal tractor bean, either. This was like a John Deere tractor beam. Then they knocked off my hat with their hurricane-tickle ray and sent a squadron of mutant squirrels to give me noogies.
Turns out the truck had a leaky exhaust system and I’d been breathing fumes for about three hours. The doctors say there was no UFO; it was just another near-death experience, like that time I passed out facedown in the giant vat at the Budweiser brewery.
Good thing the vat was empty by the time I woke, because I really had to pee.
Try to be nice to each other.