Hot Rodders from Outer Space

It's been a while since anything got posted on here, but a chance post from a mate of mine of Faecebook last night got me thinking, so stand by for a ramble.

He mentioned that he'd been listening to an interview on the radio with two people who claimed they'd been abducted by aliens on their way back from the pub. As excuses for rocking up home plastered at 5am go, that one's pretty tenuous.

But this is what got me thinking. If aliens are coming down to earth to abduct people, surely they're here to learn about humans and what makes them the highest life form on the planet, and top of the food chain. If that's the case, why do they never appear in cities and abduct a world leader, or a brain surgeon or a professor of physics? Why do they always go to rural areas and abduct some bloody hick who has spent the last 12 hours on a scrumpy bender and drunk his own bodyweight in Doctor Liverfucker's Special Reserve? And what the bloody hell's going on with the anal probing? If they want to learn anything about humans, surely they'd learn more by concentrating on the brain or the central nervous system than whatever they might find up someone's barking spider?

Alien 1: "The subject is sedated and under hypnosis, ready for the experiment. Shall we investigate the higher functions of the cerebral cortex?"
Alien 2: "Nah, let's poke something up his catflap. Pass the gloves."

No, I reckon that any alien life form concerned with the advancement of science, interdimensional contact and relations, or even invasion have reached Earth's outer stratosphere, taken a good gander and said, "Sod that. Those dumb shits are still burning fossil fuels for power, for Christ's sake. Let's head back, I'm sure I saw a nice pub just past Neptune."

I reckon that any aliens that have actually made it as far as earth are, in fact, space hot rodders, or galactic rednecks out on some interplanetary cruise or joyride, and their spacecraft is probably the space equivalent of a 1975 Camaro or a Cortina with a jack-up kit on the back. They've all got pissed up on Interstellar Artois and gone out for a burn-up, chucking beer cans at the Mir space station, mooning the moon and taking pictures of each other at the big sign saying "Welcome To Uranus".

They've happened across earth, decided to find some poor bell-end wandering around pissed off his swede, "abducted" him, stuck a daffodil up his dirtbox and taken photos of each other standing next to him with their camera-phones, then dropped the poor twat back where they found him.

Crop circles? Spaceship doughnuts.

Roswell? That happened after the cruise-out from the Celestial Street Rod Nationals, where some dude in a Mercurial Cougar tried to drift it around Venus, overcooked it and crashed into New Mexico. That "meteorite" that fell in Russia a few weeks ago? A rod thrown by come cosmic redneck giving it too much in the burnout in his Ford Millennium Falcon.

The truth is out there. And it should probably stay out there, otherwise we'd have them rocking up to some of our events. Just imagine how you'd feel, proudly telling some alien how you could run the quarter in nine seconds on treads, then him showing you the button on his dash marked "Warp Drive"...

This rambling load of old cock has been brought to you by Cabin Fever, sponsored by the damn snow, which means I can't get down to the garage. Makes me bloody honk...

Eugene