Aliens never pay their parking tickets anyway

For the past month or so, I’ve been receiving weird phone messages from an obviously computerized voice telling me to call a number about “an important situation”. Early on, the voice said they were looking for “Myte Buglyybtlre” and that he should call them as soon as possible. Since my name in no way could be misinterpreted as that, I assumed that I was receiving calls from outer space, and that they were looking for one of their alien brethren who had somehow become misplaced somewhere between Endor and that left at Albuquerque that always confused Bugs Bunny. I paid the calls no mind, erased them from my machine, and went on with my life.

But I recently started thinking about poor little Myte. Trapped on this crappy planet with no flibbertigbies to speak of, a severe shortage of flumixxtiewhitzits, and a dangerously high proportion of gutwumltigxxshivews in his immediate neighborhood. I started wondering if perhaps his friends back on the mother ship had been in orbit for so long that they had intercepted and viewed “E.T.” on one of the premium satellite channels. Were I an alien, I’d imagine my opinion of humanity would be somewhat skewed by the obvious evidence that all friendly visitors from outer space were chased through the streets by men with flashlights and large key-rings, only to be tortured and thrown in refrigerators.

If I were an alien dad, I’d be concerned that my little Myte had tried to phone home on multiple occasions but we had been on the phone ordering Thai food (studies have shown aliens don’t have voice mail or call waiting). In that case I’d just start calling every available phone number in the book to see if anyone knew what had happened to Myte. And I’d use 1800-COLLECT because Carrot Top is revered as a god in alien culture (aside: Now, don’t judge - look how some humans down here view Dr. Phil).

Given these realizations, I knew what I had to do. I had to call the number and let the aliens know that Myte was doing fine, and in fact he had become an artist specializing in salt stains where his recent work “
Still Life with Female Human Genitalia” had proven very popular under a local freeway overpass.

So I called the number this morning. It turns out they were actually looking for a guy named Mike Little who had an unpaid parking ticket in Chicago and the computer voice just couldn’t figure out how to pronounce it. Needless to say, I was really disappointed.


Anonymous said…
Alright,'s been 5 minutes since i finished reading this, and I'm STILL laughing about the Blessed Virgin--um, I mean Our Lady of the Miraculous Concrete Vag. Hilarious, for sure!

Spice said…
God, I'd never realized why a particular Palo Alto eatery was called "Left at Albuquerque" until just now. Thanks for clearing that up!
grrrbear said…
For those of you following along at home, Ms. Schwabs is the funnest prom date *ever*! Hi sweetie!

Glad I could help provide closure in your restaurant naming conundrum, Spice. Always happy to help the team!