So I'm just sitting here, tapping my fingers on the desk, with little to suggest for the ol' blog today. Now that we know Roswell was actually invaded by earth-manufactured craft manned by deformed children dispatched from a foreign country, there's little to write. And then we've got Spielberg and Hollywood launching a bunch of UFO/alien-related TV shows and movies, once again proving that people crave UFO fiction far more than UFO documentation. But the week's news wasn't a total loss -- nicap.org has re-released its monumental 1964 report to Congress, "The UFO Evidence," in .pdf format, and it's still free and now portable enough to send along in e-mails to everybody in the world. Getting sleepy. . .no, have to stay awake. . .surely, there's something to write about. . .zzzzzz. . .wake up!. . .last time I fell asleep at the computer I. . . dreamt that the. . . "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" people. . . tore my house down and gave me a fruitcake. . .drat!. . .I'm drifting off. . .can't stop it. . .if only. . .if only I. . .zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. . .
Gladys and Penelope had been friends and neighbors for years, and now, in their seventies, they sat comfortably in Penelope's living room, sipping organic herbal oxycodone tea on this pleasant summer morning. "What have you been up to?" asked Gladys of her long-time friend.
"Well, " Penelope began, obviously proud of her accomplishment, "this morning I was sex-ting Congressman Weiner again -- but he's a busy man, so I'm not expecting another photo until he catches up."
"And I heard his wife's pregnant, you know," replied Gladys, suddenly casting an uneasy glance toward the cage in the corner, a small, yet roomy structure inhabited by Penelope's animal companion of many years, a large chimpanzee named Crazy Ga-Ga. Crazy was staring at Gladys, making weird, low-pitched growling sounds. Penelope instantly sensed Gladys' concern.
"Oh Gladys, are you fretting over Crazy Ga-Ga again?"
Diverting her worried gaze to Penelope, Gladys warned, "Penelope, you've been a good friend, but I swear, someday that monkey's going to cause a lot of trouble for you!"
"Oh, nonsense. And don't call him a monkey. You'll hurt his feelings. He's a chimpanzee, he helps around the house and. . ." Penelope's eyes quickly glanced away from Gladys, expressively harboring an overwhelming aura of guilt, or at least a sense of some nameless guilty pleasure.
"Oh my God!" shrieked Gladys. "You've been sleeping with it! Haven't you!? Penelope! Don't deny it! "
"Well," Penelope responded with just a touch of embarrassment, "Crazy Ga-Ga does satisfy some of my personal needs."
"I knew it! All these years, I just knew it!" shouted Gladys, standing as she prepared to leave. "I should have known something was going on when your husband mysteriously disappeared the very week you brought this creature into the house!"
"Crazy Ga-Ga and I developed a very close relationship, that's all there was to it!" Penelope insisted, also on her feet now, retrieving empty cups and saucers and heading for the kitchen in something of a huff..
Alone in the room with the chimp, Gladys shook her fist at the caged beast. "You monster!" she screamed, "what horrors, what terrible things have you brought into this house?!" She approached the cage with confidence and rage, yelling threats and expletives with every angry step -- failing to realize the cage wasn't locked on this sunny morning, when Crazy Ga-Ga had the run of the house, at his discretion. "I don't care anymore! I'm calling the police! And animal control! And a veterinarian who'll give you the needle. For all I care, they can make a rug out of you, and furthermore. . ."
All of this excitement and screaming took its toll on Crazy Ga-Ga, who had never experienced such treatment since the night Penelope's husband inexplicably disappeared, um, with his help, and he felt something inside, in his heart, pushing his animal instincts to do what they must.
". . .and forget a lucky rabbit's foot! When I finish with you, I'll wear one of your feet on a key ring! You hideous creature, I'll see to it that. . ."
Gladys continued her rant, oblivious to the cage door swinging slowly, ever so slowly, open. ". . .and I'll make sure this house never reeks with your filthy body odor again, you. . .you. . .?"
Suddenly, Crazy Ga-Ga and Gladys stood eye-to-eye, no longer separated by the safety of metal bars. Effortlessly, Crazy Ga-Ga grabbed Gladys by the neck and shook her like a rag doll. "Arghhhh! Let go! Help! Penelope! Help!" the overpowered woman screamed. But Crazy Ga-Ga had the upper hand and chomped down on her neck until blood spurts replaced words. Then he turned his frenzied attention to her face, which he began biting, ripping off chunks of flesh and muscle like a giant termite on speed.
"Crazy Ga-Ga!" shouted Penelope, horrified at the sight before her as she came running from the kitchen. "Stop! Baby -- stop! Where are your manners?! Stop biting right this instant or I'll take away your bathroom privileges!"
But the frantic woman's pleas were of no use, as Crazy Ga-Ga really got into his work.
Reluctantly, Penelope threw open the living room door and ran into the streets. "Help! Police! Help! I have a. . .a situation! Domestic abuse! Call the police!"
Within minutes, a swat team arrived, its members rushing into the troubled house. And within seconds, the entire team came running back out, chased by a highly upset chimpanzee. Quickly, they dropped to their knees, aimed their weapons and blew multiple holes of assured death into the out-of-control Crazy Ga-Ga. After a couple of minutes, there could be no doubt. Crazy Ga-Ga was dead.
Inside Penelope's house, the scene mimicked a horror movie. Splashes of blood decorated the living room walls, floor and even the ceiling. Gladys, beaten and bitten to a bloody pulp, sported a ghastly appearance, her face having been violently torn away and eaten during Crazy Ga-Ga's furious rampage. By the time paramedics arrived, loading her mangled body into the ambulance, Gladys was in shock, but even with a bloody, ripped larynx the whispered words overheard by a police officer were clear: "She slept with her monkey. . .she slept with her monkey. . ."
**********
Three months later, following a lengthy and exhausting jury trial, Penelope was found guilty of sending naked photos of herself to Congressman Weiner, thus sullying the esteemed reputation of a public servant, and secondarily she was convicted of sleeping with a monkey. Charged also with depraved indifference in the mutilation of her friend Gladys, charges were dropped because the victim's testimony was prejudicial to the case, and alleged perpetrator Crazy Ga-Ga was dead and unable to provide any words or actions in his own defense. Still, Penelope would be lucky ever to see the light of day again, considering the years she was likely to spend at a newly-dedicated maximum security prison named, strangely enough, The Congressman Anthony Weiner Correctional Facility for Women Gone Wild.
Gladys, on the other hand, had survived, but now endured the crushing pain and patience required during extensive rehabilitation and surgery. But, on the bright side, modern times dictated that Gladys could have a face transplant to restore something of a normal appearance. From her very first week in the hospital's intensive care unit a specialist, Dr. Voodooman from Zulu, had taken on her case with enthusiasm.
Dr. Voodooman and his team of experimental surgeons from Zulu were anxious to provide Gladys with a new look, and they toiled day and night as they bandaged and unbandaged the mutilated anatomy formerly recognizable as a face.
**********
Six months later, the occasion Gladys had prayed for every day and night since regaining consciousness and meeting the consistently upbeat Dr. Voodooman arrived -- the unmasking of her new face, concealed by dressings and bandages until this dramatic moment.
National media representatives crowded into the small hospital room as Dr. Voodooman began unwrapping Gladys' new countenance, perched breathlessly as they watched history in the making. Even Gladys' husband who, truth be told, spent more hours burying his attention in televised sports events than his wife's care, attended the affair.
Long swaths of bandage dropped to the floor until, finally, only an all-encompassing facial mask was visible. "Ladies and gentleman of the press," announced Dr. Voodooman slowly and deliberately, with a voice almost zombie-like in its flow, "we present to you a successful facial transplant to demonstrate, once and for all, that medical science of the future is here now, and our work can only become greater."
Skillfully, Dr. Voodooman peeled away the last barrier hiding the new face of Gladys. The media members gasped and then screamed in horror. Gladys, puzzled and confused, looked around the room and then to Dr. Voodooman. "What is it? Dr. Voodooman? What's wrong?!"
As every member of the press except a photographer from The National Enquirer scurried from the room, Dr. Voodooman merely smiled and handed a mirror to Gladys, as her husband stiffened and fell into a chair, speechless. "I'll check back with you later," reassured Dr. Voodooman, fleeing the room.
Gladys steadied the mirror and positioned it to have a gander at her new mug, then screamed loud enough to disturb the bedbugs inhabiting every bed on the hospital ward. Her husband leaped out of his chair and mumbled, "I just remembered, there's a hockey game on TV, gotta go. . ." as he quickly exited.
"Lady," asked the Enquirer photographer, "how about some pictures now?" Instead, Gladys, still frantic and crying, pitched her mirror toward the remaining figure, as he snapped a picture and departed the room.
But there remained another mirror, on the wall directly facing the foot of Gladys' bed, and that one couldn't be thrown out of the way. No, Gladys, even in her panic and shock, couldn't avoid gazing upon her new face -- the face of the only donor available after her tragedy months before -- the face collected carefully by the scalpel of the enigmatic Dr. Voodooman, when nobody asked questions regarding its origin or appearance after he secured it in a refrigerated container placed solely in his care. A familiar face instantly recognized by Gladys, who would forever be committed to a mental institution, long after Dr. Voodooman escaped from the country and her husband became even more infatuated with TV sports.
Yes, it was the face of Crazy Ga-Ga., forever joined with Gladys, and even though Gladys herself would never smile willingly again, Crazy Ga-Ga's long dead, but remarkably rejuvenated lips now took on an evil, mocking grin, impervious to and sardonically appreciative for the utter spasms of horror squirming endlessly, deep within Gladys' throttled brain. . .
. . .zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Uh? Whew. . .I guess, was, I think that was a dream? More like a nightmare. Jeez, this computer makes me doze funny. Enough of this for today. . .
