aliens are real

This is where I would normally write about the movie I saw this past weekend, but something happened to me that trumps anything that I could say about the movie:

I NOW HAVE PROOF THAT ALIENS EXIST AND THEY ARE PERFORMING SOCIAL EXPERIMENTS ON US.

Let me explain. I went to lunch today with a couple of friends from work, we'll call them Suzi and Steve.

So, Suzi, Steve and I went to get a bite to eat at a local buffet. So far, so good. We get our food and sit down. Pretty normal lunch conversation. Bitching about work, bitching about government, bitching about people that bitch about work and government. The usual.

Now, before I go any further, I need to explain something. In order for my theory to work, you must believe as I do (or just humor me for the sake of this writing). I firmly believe (after today) that aliens exist, and that all of the vast knowledge they have about us came from one source: re-runs of the Jerry Springer Show.

While we were eating, another patron walked in. I glance up and notice he has a pretty standard short hair-cut that one would find on any of a million blue-collar types. A simple short-cropped bowl-cut-esque style, and a prolific mustache straight out of a bad '70s porno, but there was one other thing: it's a mullet of epic proportions! I don't notice right away because it is braided and draped over his shoulder. It reached his waist easily! That is one HELL of a mullet! I am in shock.

I say to Steve, "man, I can't help it, but that guy just screams 'stereotype!' I wouldn't be surprised to see him in some dive bar, beer in hand, dip in mouth, flannel shirt unbuttoned 3 or 4 buttons, asking every chick he sees 'hey hot stuff, want a free mustache ride?!'"

At this point Steve looks over my left shoulder, glances at Mr. Mullet, and nods to me, somehow stifling a laugh. I say "no way! please tell me I'm wrong!" Steve replies with "Nope, you nailed it. Flannel. 3 buttons open. Dip."

Suzi has been following our exchange this whole time, but has managed to keep her laughing to a minimum. But, alas, that wasn't to last.

In walks another hungry group. A pretty little blond-haired, blue-eyed girl, maybe 16, 17 tops. In tow is a toddler. Also with them is the girl's mother. Now we have 3 generations, and I swear not a 30-year old among them. I'm sure you can see where this is going. I notice little details: the too small t-shirt on the teenager that was airbrushed at the mall. The "tramp-stamp" tattoo peeking out from under said t-shirt above bluejeans cut so low it would make an exotic dancer blush. Another tattoo on her neck in gangland script letting all the world know just who the "baby-daddy" is.

I decide to point all of this out to Suzi. I try to be subtle. "Suzi, I'm going to bring my son here on my next day off. 'Look, son, that over there is white trash.' It'll be educational." Suzi promptly chokes on her drink. (timing is everything!)

Now, just when I thought things were going to settle down, in walk the "frat-boys." They had it down to a T. They were meat head types, wearing t-shirts and shorts (in 30 degree weather, mind you) showing off bulging muscles complete with kanji tattoos on the inside of the biceps. Again, the little details stand out. At first glance I think it's a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt from some impossibly exotic locale. Upon closer inspection it is revealed to me to be a Hard On Cafe t-shirt advertising a "gentleman's club" in southern Florida. Steve takes it all in stride, "I've seen worse. Hell, I think I've worn worse to family functions! I've got this one, on it is a squirrel with elephantitis ..." He never gets to finish. Suzi just can't seem to catch a break, and just about chokes on her latest bite of chicken. (Again, timing.)

At this point the meal is over. No more food could be consumed. We are laughing too hard. And a good thing too. In walks the most obese person I have ever seen still walking under her own power. She was one jelly donut away from being a lifetime patron of Bob's Angioplasty Palace. Suzi has just about recovered from her near-death experience, when I turn to her and say "Well, it's a good thing we're done eating. We'll never be able to compete with that." This time it's Steve who almost buys the farm with an egg roll lodged in his throat.

Let me pause here to tell you this: I know that if I share this next part, I will be going straight to Hell. No passing GO, no collecting $200. Hell. A very special Hell. Now that I've cleared that up, and not been struck dead thus far, I'll continue.

Bob's Angioplasty Palace patron is NOT alone. You see, I've taken my eyes off that group just long enough to ascertain if Steve needs a careful application of the Heimlich Maneuver, and when I look back, what I see makes me gasp out loud. All joking aside, I think I peed a little. "Suzi, you know how they say that there's no such thing as an ugly baby? Well ..." Suzi turned around and ALMOST managed to choke back the scream escaping her lips. It was horrific. This is NOT a baby. This is an 80-year-old woman shrunken down to infant size and placed in a high-chair. This is the kind of thing that Barnum and Bailey would have killed for.

At this point everyone in the restaurant is looking at us. We just can't stop laughing. A hasty getaway is a must. We throw down some cash, grab our coats, and get out as fast as we can.

Proof positive aliens are real, and are performing social experiments on us. They just want to know how 3 relatively normal people would react to a roomful of Jerry Springer Show stereotypes. I hope we gave them some good data.