DAYDREAM BELIEVER

I’ve never been a believer. Those weren’t aliens; someone just slipped Sigourney Weaver hallucinogenic drugs. Any life on Mars must merely be something like that paramecium we all had to squint at and sketch through a rudimentary microscope in high school Biology. Not enthralling, not scary. (My assigned lab partner, tobacco-spitting, Bible-toting running back Ted Fields? Now that was scary. Never got my name right. Only knew me as Faggot. Again, minimally evolved Neanderthal, not an alien.)

But as I reflect on recent dating dead-ends, I have had an epiphany. Aliens exist. And, yes, they are despicable. We should all be wary. I am all for upping the NASA budget, not for sending on some squeaky buggy to roam Neptune (until it hits a pebble and flips on its side to forever spin its wheels in place), but to create and implement a strategy to fend off the aliens.

If the aliens are messing with me, surely there are other poor saps being victimized as well. How else can I explain the string of lovely coffee conversations—first dates, if you will—with seemingly decent men who subsequently vanish from Earth?

Abducted, of course.

Yes, it’s the only sensible explanation.

These aliens are cunning. They’re making off with only the best single gay men. (That explains why I’m still here. And Boy George.)

Maybe I’ve always known this, at least on a subconscious level. I’ve never found any of the All-Star aliens to be endearing. Never liked Marvin the Martian, that Looney Tunes nemesis. Wile E. Coyote, Sylvester the Cat and Elmer Fudd were harmless foes, but the Martian dude with the creepy voice had sinister plans in his helmet-clad head.

And ALF? A lame knockoff love child of Muppets Fozzie Bear and Animal.

I also never bought into the adorability of E.T. In fact, I suspect E.T. is the kingpin in abducting my dates. He lures the gays. Gets them lulled into that “on our side” mentality by looking like a walking penis and doing drag. I can’t prove it, but E.T. has me under surveillance. That beast is on a special mission to take me down. Follows me to the café, then calls my dates over when they can’t think clearly due to the coffee buzz. “Touch my finger.” Spaceship lands and swoops the studs away.

I’d be married by now if it weren’t for Steven Spielberg.

I’ve tried to explain all this to the local police. They’ve been smugly dismissive ever since I called 911 when there was no parking at Starbucks. (Yeah. That was me.)

This alien thing is serious, people! Good men are vanishing! If they are sabotaging my dating life, surely others are being victimized. (See? I’m not paranoid. This is way bigger than me!)

Without any intervention from NASA or the police, there is little I can do. Still, I shall warn my next date about the aliens. It’s my only chance at a second date. If he avoids contact with E.T., we have a real chance at a relationship. I keep talking until he completely gets it. I am sure he’ll be eternally grateful.

I may not save the world, but I can at least restore my dating life.