What a fine day, ladies and, perhaps, gentlemen of the Earth. A superlative day for a story, I’ll be bound. No, fear not, it’s not a binding sort of story. Uncover your eyes. There now; brace up. I meant it only as a declarative colloquialism. There’s a brave little corn flake.
It’s the sort of crisp radish sort of day that reminds one of adventure scintillating ‘round every teacup, setting the cream atremble if only one has the brazen temerity to grasp life between the thumb and forefinger, I dare say. The clouds crackle sporting, heels click along the gutters and were I to skip, the sheer joviality of my left trochanter might generate a shower of sparks, setting lovely fire to the local shrubbery, whereupon diminutive orphan children might warm their stubby gloved digits where the wool’s run thin, singing sea chanteys and winking. Cheers, guvnuh, they may imply. Thence, having spread thermal mirth mongst the neighborhood rascalry, I’d spring-step my way, chipper as clean lettuce, to grander climes.
Where, however, is a man of the very highest jinks to find a spot of caprice in a town otherwise made of plastic chirurgeons and palm-so-called-trees? Milords and m’lattoes, adventure’s where you hazard it, say I. Seek it out, route it like a cat o’danger might a danger mouse, sniff it in the very odors of cupcake shops and post offices, the dim corners of libraries whose sensual dust tickles the very mucus membranes of Dame Fortune, imploring her, “Sneeze, you harlot!” And then, chance’s nasal expulsions should cause so mighty a zephyr as to catapult one to the Hebrides, whereupon, through judicious use of coat-tails, one manipulates the aeronautic pressures such that one lands flawless among the savage coconuts to be lauded by the islandic folk as a fellow of poise quite without precedent.
It was this selfsame adquest for venture that led me to this planet in the beginning. Allow me now to spackle your cortex with the reasoning behind how I arrived at this planet so-called Earth, and have fit “something like in” with this human’s race, insofar as few people on a given day suspect more than a hint of the celestial about me.
So, gather round, my fine minty conclave, gather, shall we say, round. Are you beginning comfortably? Then we’ll sit. Gaze over your shoulder and, with the aid of the Hubblescope, peer well into the yonder, past out and away, slightly more distant than far, and you’ll suspect a hinting of a speck of what may just be halfway to my home planet, Earse.
Earse is a sphere much like this one upon which we at present, present. A few distinctions remain of note. We did not, on planet Earse, ever have anything approximating Shaun Cassidy. His featherlight blonde smile and easy corduroy never so much as ticked us in the cathodes.
We had, instead, The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries staring Pamela Sue Martin, Parker Stevens and Leif Garrett. Due to the wholesome problems solving nature of the program, our Garrett never became a heroin addict but instead became the head of INTERPOL. The intrepid Secretary-General Garrett is credited for bringing Osama Bin Laden (a terrorist best know for his 1977 number one hit “Da Doo Ron Ron”) to justice.
I first engendered, in the smartest cockles of my man-bosom, a desire to leave Earse long about the time Heroes season two smeared its detritus on screen, despoiling the corpse of what had once been a true entertainment. Not long after, Pushing Daisies was cancelled. I looked to the heavens and thought, perhaps, maybe, just mayhaps or perbe, I might find a planet of enlightened, powerful intellectual beings who properly respect Brian Fuller.
And so—I’ll not burden your eyelids with the tedious details—I built a fully functioning faster-than-light craft and came to Earth, where, to bitter disappointment, I came to know that television remained, here as well, so many lightyears from the darkened minds of my people, as relevant and artistic as a barrel cactus stuffed with alligator kidneys.
And so, dear pigeons, leave us not sit idle as toast, mossgathering. Detriment and grief await those whose backsides backslide! Otherhandedly, the charm and bristle of voyagery come only to those who ram coarsely the diaphanous balustrades of fate with the unanimous-fingered fist of stalwart enterprise.
For more creative grumblings of Jason Henninger, check out the I Speak Fluent Giraffe Index page.