What are the aliens going to think in 200 years?

Think about it. When the aliens come to our little, dead planet in 200 years (yeah, we're going to destroy it in 200 years), what are they going to think?

Naturally, a family of aliens will be taking a space trip across the galaxy on their way to grandma's for some holiday. And they'll be lost because the dad refused to consult the star map.

"There's a planet over there," the little daughter will point out with one of her six fingers.

The other dad will make the driving dad (aliens will fully embrace same-gender marriages cause they're cool like that) pull over and park on this little, blue orb. And there, they will discover a dead planet. Well, not completely dead; there will be tons of cockroaches.

And within days tons of alien archeologists and researchers will camp out on what used to be Portland, Oregon. Another team will be somewhere in Russia. And a third team will be studying the Pacific ocean.

They'll explore houses and shopping malls. Disassemble cars and airplanes. Discover guns and biology labs.

And they'll dig up the dead.

And they'll notice that most of the corpses buried in the years 2010 and on are freakishly well preserved.

"Specimen 78416, female, aged 76 at expiration," one alien will log, "appears to be very similar to a photograph found in her tomb. In the photo, she is aged 56. How could this specimen have not aged in 20 units? And even more peculiar, how has this specimen managed to decompose as such a slow rate?"

Using carbon dating, they'll notice that bodies buried hundreds of units (they eventually figure out that a year is a revolution around the sun, but not at this point) before have decomposed almost entirely. Yet newer specimens haven't. Their decomposition rate is unnaturally slow.

Back on the home planet, as the aliens dissect humans, they'll discover metal bones, capped teeth and acrylic fingernails. They will discover that these bodies had been modified during their living period. That artificial parts had been inserted. That muscles had been pulled and sewn. And that chemicals had been absorbed into the skin.

And as one alien discovers a breast implant inside of an 80 year old specimen (at time of expiration), he'll step back and look at his colleague.

"What the fuck?"

"That's nothing," the other alien will say. "This specimen, 45 years old at expiration, male, has them in his legs."

The aliens will become intrigued. Why did the human inhabitants of this planet go to such extremes to modify their bodies. In some instances, it was obvious that repairs were made. In others, they couldn't tell why. Some specimens had tight faces and deep scars in their scalps. Others had teensy scars in their abdomens; these humans had less lipid residue in their cavities. Some had genital reconstruction.

After years of research, after exhuming thousand and thousands of humans, after finding many many issues of Cosmo and reality TV shows, the aliens will start to admire these odd little creatures from the blue planet.

And the aliens will attempt to mimic the surgeries on themselves.

They will make their breasts larger and their wastes tinier. They will make their skin smoother and their eyes wider. Their teeth will become brighter as their lips will plump.

And the aliens will be happy. Because dammit, they will all be hot.

Hello, mid-twenty.

I am now twenty-five years old. And this blog is very short. Exactly twenty-five syllables short.

The battery on my laptop is about to die.

Apparently, I have twenty-nine ...

... no, twenty-eight ...

... crap, back to twenty-nine minutes to write this ...

... thirty? What in the hell has changed in the last thirty seconds ...

...thirty-one? My Mac is mocking me. Seriously. How is time being added to my battery life when this computer isn't plugged into the wall?

That was seriously the most bizarre thing I've seen today. Well, except for that over-sized RC Cadillac with the dubs on it. But that's not really too weird. I had to really revisit my day, think about what all I've encountered. And according to my Mac's battery gage, I took two minutes thinking.

Now I've completely forgotten what I was going to write about. The writing muse has not been my ally these last two weeks. Perhaps she's flown south for the winter. I wouldn't blame her. After all, it's as cold as a witch's toes here.

Just for the record, a witch's toes are thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. If you asked me what thirty-eight Fahrenheit was in Celsius or Kelvin, I couldn't tell you to save my life.

Apparently the sixth-grade-math-skills muse is MIA as well. But she was never really around for me.

Stupid muses and their absences. They're probably hanging out in the mystical land of Mac battery life. Perhaps if I vacuumed, they'd return to my apartment.

Too bad the clean-the-apartment muse has also disappeared.

Someone is cutting holes in all of my socks.

Where is this mysterious little imp? The one with the scissors. The one who sneaks into my drawer and snips the tips off of all my socks.

I'm going to catch that little rogue elf. I'm going to snatch his snippers. And then use them to crop off the top of his pointy-toed slippers.

I'm going to set a trap for that little jerk bastard. I'll build a Rube Goldberg machine better than any anti-elf contraption that you've ever seen.

Maybe I need more security. I could fasten the drawer with many locks. After all, that's cheaper than always buying new socks.

...

Yeah, you know what? This is all the blog's getting tonight. I'm about written-out for the day.

Is Jerry Springer still on the air?

Reality TV is a pretty unique beast. Or perhaps it's just humanity in general.

People spend so much time and money trying to be perfect and classy and impressive.

Stick a camera in their face, though, and they turn into loud, obnoxious idiots.

It's like any attention is good attention. Having people know you as a whore is better than them not knowing you at all.

But we're all aware of this. Although we still act surprised when rich, spoiled LA kids act racist on film. Or celebs flash their junk to paparazzi swarms. Or musicians smoke crack while their friends film with their cameras.

How is any of that, though, different from the crap we used to see on Jerry Springer?

It isn't. We enjoyed watching strangers wreck their lives. Now we enjoy watching pseudo-celebs do the same thing.

Everyone loves a train wreck.

I'm over it.

I'm so glad I don't know any celebs. How sad it must be watching a loved one live in the public eye. Watching as their dirty laundry gets aired on talk shows. See their most painful secrets get spilled and then dissected on the internet.

Some people get off on that, though. So to each his own.

I guess.

I'll gladly just live my life from this private little corner. And if any of my friends ask me to join them on the Jerry Springer show, I'll drop them without thinking twice.

Italiancize it!

I'm over itallics.

Bold is boring.

Underlining is dead.

I want a new font treatment. I want Italiancize. I want to hit Cmmd/Ctrl i and see my type covered in hair and gold chains. I want my words to change from my blah, accent-less speech to New Jersey, Mafia boss phonetics.

I want a whole library of stereotypically based font families.

Pigeon Toe would make all of the serifs point inwards.

Introverd would be similar to upping the kerning like crazy. All of the letters would try to be alone.

Hunched would make the the tops of every letter a little, well, slouchy.

One treatment would cause all of the i and j dots to droop. I'd call it [censored for political correctness].

Hey, don't censor my blog you [censored]ing sons of bleeding [censored]ups.

Who is doing that? Stop censoring my blog! This isn't funny. Freedom of speech! Freedom of speech.

Don't make me Hannibize this font! Oh, wait. That wouldn't work. The letters would just start eating one another.

There's too much crap in the mail box.

Shelly rifled through her mail.

Bill. Bill. Coupon packet. Bill. Marketing piece. Marketing piece. Spam. Bill.

Spam?

Shelly held the slimy slice of meaty substance to the light. She squeezed it and smelled it.

It really was Spam. And it had "Pen15 Lift!" burned into it's surface.

Shelly decided to just toss the slice away and pretend that finding it never happened.

The next day, Shelly opened her mailbox only to smell something odd. She held her breath and pulled out a small package (which she had been expecting) and a small cube of Spam wrapped in a bow and tagged.

"How's ur luv life?" the tag read.

Shelly examined the hunk of meat and tossed it into a rubbish bin before retreating into her home.

Two days later, Shelly found a mailbox full of greasy gym coupons and four different pieces of Spam.

One was in a tiny gift bag. A tag read, "Affordable Mortgages 2day!"

Another was cut into a star shape. "Vegas is around the corner," it informed Shelly.

One piece of Spam was badly burnt. It had dollar signs all over it.

And the last piece was a chunk covered in plastic wrap. It told Shelly to stop debt. She wasn't sure that debt was lurking around her corner. So she tossed that chunk into the trash along with the other three pieces.

Shelly received nothing but ordinary mail for the next few days.

Then she just happened to see the postman as he was filling her box.

"What have you got for me today?" she asked with a smile.

"Oh, just the usual," the postman said as he handed her four envelopes. Just as Shelly was going to thank him, he added, "And this," as he handed her a heavy sack.

The postman continued his jaunt down the street as Shelly caught a whiff of the sack's contents. She opened it and discovered Spam, Spam and Spam.

Some of it was cubed. Some was wrapped in newspaper. Some was disguised in cute boxes so it looked friendly. All of it was greasy and gross and putrid and frightening.

"DatingMadeEasy"

"Pain Pump Info"

"Lowest Quote Online"

"gr8 sexy singles"

Each piece of Spam had some odd message that Shelly didn't like. She decided to take action.

That next day, she attached a large sign on her mailbox. "No Spam," it said. And it worked for a while.

Then the Spam got clever. It arrived in thin slices inside of colored envelopes with return addresses that sounded like friends' addresses. So Shelly made lists of the false addresses and added those to the "No Spam" sign.

Then the Spam would multiply if she accidentally opened one. So Shelly had to create another filter.

Eventually, Shelly couldn't even tell what was real mail and what was inconspicuous Spam. She had to get a new mail box.

And that worked.

But not forever.

So she got a new mailbox and used the old one for Spam only. Every once in a while, a piece of the sneaky meat would find its way into her clean mailbox. So every year or so, she'd have to add another mailbox to her lawn and use the latest old one for Spam.

It got annoying for all of Shelly's friends to have to change her mailing address in their records. But luckily for Shelly, they knew what she was going through. For they were being Spammed to death, as well.