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How to Dupe, Swindle, Hoodwink and Bamboozle Beings, Creatures, Aliens, and Hideous Monsters Living Throughout the Inhabited and Uninhabited Planets, Planetoids and Asteroids of the Known and Unknown Universe at Large, Medium, and Small

This stupendous book needs no introduction! I've vehemently protested against it! Everybody already knows about this bestseller-to-be -- or they should by now. But since my publisher is paying me (mere peanuts!) to scribble down an idiotic introduction, here it goes -- in blatant reluctance!

Well . . . . between the time I just wrote that line and now, I’ve learned there are actually dimwitted people who have no idea what the fricking heck this book is all about. Neither do I! I just blithely sat down at my computer one day and began hitting random keys like a mentally deranged chimpanzee and –voila! –

it all came right off the top of my head, but something close to a vague facsimile of some unintelligible gibberish that seemed to give the appearance of making sense began to spew forth! Not much sense, mind you, but just a little bit, enough to still totally confuse you, if not bamboozle your usual reasoning capacity. By the way, that’s what this book is suppose to be all about, bamboozlement, hoodwinkery, hornswogglism, and dupamania, and other such scandalous crapola people and aliens from other worlds do to unsuspecting, gullibly, naïve morons that still loiter around the planet Earth and the rest of the unsuspecting planets of the whole wide universe at large -- or small. So what you have here in your grubby little hands is a manual of manure explaining vast amounts of information, knowledge, and wisdom, pertaining to various and sundry subjects, topics, agendas, issues, branches of study, fields of learning, areas of interest, old and new business, and other fabricated crapola based on actual factual facts and ultimate truths with ulterior motives, that has something-or-other to do with whatever the heck is out there in this big old universe. So I don't hitch a ride anywhere out there and of the wild dark blue yonders of outermost spaciousness, because all you need is this manual of malarkey, this book a bunk, this hideous handbook of hoodwinkery! And keep in mind this clever adage I thought up myself: Hornswoggle others first before they get a chance to hornswoggle you!

Alright, let me be blatantly blunt. This unquestionably unique volume in no way, shape, form, fit, or function, or scope of arrogance, has anything remotely to do with another best-selling book about galactic hitchhikers that clueless critics have claimed that I am cleverly parodying, which is a total conspiratorial lie, fabricated by jealous, troublemaking hoodlums. In fact, I had the idea first. You see, unbeknownst to various and sundry people, which is everyone on the face of the planet -- until now! -- that my spectacular book was conceived many, many, many years ago, whereas that other author coughed up his merely many, many, many years ago -- a pretty big difference. He just got a jump in publishing his first, because I was busy in the middle of a drunken stupor, sloshing down martinis on a remote beach in Tahiti, surrounded by well-tanned nubile buxom babes, while I was celebrating my previously published mega-bestseller, The Fast Food Joint at the Other End of the Cosmos, for which I was accused of plagiarism, copyright-infringement, pathetic parodying, and other calamitous crap that isn’t true, which I managed to weasel out of, by escaping to that remote island paradise I was blathering on about. And I'm still there, fleshing forth yet another flamboyant work of fart.

So if you think this particular work is a flagrant blatant spastic spoof, you're horribly mistaken, because I'm vehemently in denial of that fact! With that clarification cleared up, let's move on.

Contrary to unpopular disbelief, I've also been accused of making all this crap up. Especially my anally-retentive publisher, namely, that wretched Stark character. But I swear I didn't. I'll even swear on my dead mother’s grave, right after I sprinkled her ashes out to sea like she wished, which I remember clearly, because she stood right beside me bawling her eyes out and getting my shirt sleeve all slobbery wet.

Anyway, I carefully retrieved this priceless wealth of information from a guy who had a friend who knew a fellow that had a cousin that lived next door to a distinguished scientist that got fired from his cushy university job when they discovered he had forged his Ph.D. But this debunked scientist has nothing to do with anything. The vital information actually came from his crack-whore stepdaughter who ran away from home and hung out with an illegitimate inbred hillbilly-hippie wino who claimed he once was abducted by cross-dressing morphidite aliens from Borneo. Or something like that. Nevertheless, my sources are secure and wrought-ironclad, inevitably based on the ambiguous portent of a vague semblance of the truth -- and the truth, in whatever convoluted form it takes, is still the truth. Right? Right!

So prepare for the worst which is yet to come! And here’s a blatant warning! Simply by reading this here slippery slop, you may be irreparably duped, tricked, and even hoodwinked! So, anxiously gullible readers and anarchical book-burners alike, BE WARY and BEWARE!

Final Note: If anything, by reading this putrid spiel, you’ll learn to be skeptical, cynical, and closed-minded, uh, at least to the crap most hornswoggling hooligans out there try shoveling down your ear hole. Especially slick authors like myself!

All that said and done, I hope you come close to considering the remote idea that you just might happen to not so thoroughly enjoyed this piece of sludge! Especially when it dawns on you that you have a pretty good chance of attaining the realization that you might someday have a vague notion that you've been HORNSWOGGLED!

The universe is a big place -- I mean, a really big place! It's filled with a lot of space, allowing for plenty of elbow room, which means there's a lot of crap in that space. And beyond that space is what many scientists call outer space, the kind of scientists called astronomers, because they like to fabricate astrology charts and hoodwink people into thinking their lives are irreparably predestined for total misery, in order to make money off the gullible wretches. Some conspiracy theory nuts believe these astronomers are actually aliens, because aliens, by nature, are out to hornswoggle us humans. That's what this bodacious book is all about. And that's why we are frantically endeavoring to make a really big book to contain all of this information, or so we are vainly attempting to accomplish some remote future day. We weren't sure if 1000 sections would do the trick, or 999, or even 1001, which would imply that we would have to call this book 1001 Ways to Hornswoggle Everyone in the Universe, which was our original title, but our publisher said that title was too stupid and that we would have to change it to something less stupid -- especially since he only hand-picked a mere handful of my spectacular articles out of the full one-thousand and one of them. (Fine! I'll just fabricate a series of sequels! That’ll show him!) So you're stuck with the current title; and if we have to restate that to you again, you must be really stupid, but we won't so hastily insult your lack of intelligence, if you have any, so we'll boldly trudge along here with this redundant second introduction, which is just as idiotic and insufferable as the first one. We're not sure what we should even discuss in this second intro, but we’ll think of something . . .

Ah, I've got it! I mean, we’ve got it. You may ask us, why the heck are we referring to ourselves as "we" and "us" and such first-person forms? In answer to that idiotic question -- isn't it fricking obvious? Somewhere below the heading “Second Introduction,” didn't you notice three names? Probably not. You get me, the amazing Eli Zanzibar, then you get my two deadbeat lackluster lackeys who do all the groveling grunt work, scouring around the known and unknown universe on fruitless fact-finding errands, and fetching me doughnuts and coffee while I pound vigorously on the keyboard creating this great masterpiece of perfection which now lies before your gawking eyes. I guarantee it’s definitely a page-turner -- I didn't say page-burner, so get rid of that fricking lighter!

Alright, folks, get on board the intergalactic cruise ship of my mind, because you’re in for the cosmic ride of your fricking lives!

-- Eli Beelzebub Xavier Zanzibar: Explorer, Investigator, Adventurer, Researcher Extraordinaire!

Publisher's note: When I first received this pile of manure from Mr. Eli Zanzibar, I immediately tossed it in the trash. Later that week, when I was stark raging bored to death, I pulled it out of the putrid debris and skimmed through it and reluctantly decided to salvage the smelly manure-script. I decided it was worth a shot, so I had to practically rewrite the whole stinking thing, because his spelling, grammar, sentence structures, punctuation, idiotic adjectives, and general content was not just horrifically atrocious, but it was pretty much like raw sewage raining down from the sky and upon my bare naked body. He had sickeningly redundant adjectives, monstrous modifiers, adverse adverbs, dangling dipthongs, elongated grappledongs, overly extended exzarbaters, and even nonsensical invented verbiage I've never seen or heard of before.

After I finished editing, proofreading, correcting, and tweaking the reeking manuscript every which way, it’s still pretty much the same -- except now I have an umbrella to keep the slimy slop from splashing on me. Also, instead of bailing the brainless author out from his own pathetic quagmire, I allowed the wretched fool to come off sounding like a total moron, which he set himself up for anyway, considering he quite often puts his foot in his mouth, and sometimes his other foot and two hands along with them, not realizing what he's got is a mouthful of crap, and we have to sit and listen to it.

Yes, Mr. Zanzibar is irreparably and idiotically naïve and he believes in his own wretched delusions. Gripped within the deranged delusion that he knows it all, it's clear that he actually knows absolutely nothing. And he has too many vain opinions of himself, so it's obvious he is a legend in his own deluded mind. I can only assume that the sources of his information are just as reliable as a snickering snake-oil swindler -- especially one who fails to show up to sell his wretched goods.

Much of his bizarre accounts are highly questionable as to authenticity – actually, ALL of it is! If there are a lot of ridiculously gullible people out there, then he's definitely the hornswoggler in this scenario -- except, with this new and unimproved rewrite, I've just hornswoggled him right back! He could sue me for defamation of his crappy character, but I can live with that. All I did was let him be his own idiotic self. I’ve simply allowed him to hang himself in his own noose.

So now this demented discourse has a chance of coming off as remotely having a smidgen of a possibility to somewhat appear vaguely halfway decent, or the ambiguous facsimile thereof, with some of my witty charm thrown in for laughs, to the point where I might as well put my own name on it, but since Mr. Zanzibar beat me to it, I decided not to infringe upon his right of copy, as some professionals may refer to this as “copyright.” Unfortunately, for him that his, Mr. Zanzibar was found missing recently, and some rumors sprung up that he has been “whacked” by alien gangsters who didn't like his insufferable spiel. So, now I claim the copyright! Ha! Eli Zanzibar, eat your liver out!

-- R. R. Stark, co-publisher of Bamblebrush Press and Rare Universe Press

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Section 1

Aliens in an Alien Universe

By virtue of their sheer alieness, all aliens are virtually not of this world; therefore they are literally alien to us. Plus, they are ugly monsters; hence stupid. Why, you ask? Because they are hideous monstrosities that should be shot on sight, plus they look nothing like us, human beings, or any other ordinary creatures found on Earth, although the octopus, after swallowing an activated hand-grenade, comes remotely close.

This conclusion is not at all erroneous, since the author (who wishes to remain a seemingly anonymous third-person referenced individual during his current ramblings of his spectacular volume) has thoroughly and painstakingly researched his findings and personal opinions on the subject at hand. Furthermore, I – I mean, he claims that he is not in the least bit racist, primarily because “aliens” do not qualify as a race, but a totally different abominably disgusting creature altogether, because they are a totally different species from other worlds other than our own! Or to be more precise, from many, many, many other worlds, all of which are not Earth. So there is no argument. Hence, the case is closed.

Therefore, in order to successfully hornswoggle such an otherworldly creature, just remember that it (not he nor she, for they have no sex, or sexes, although they have something remotely like it) is a dumb brutish beast from hell, without any native intelligence whatsoever. So they can easily be duped. Let us give you a simple example: If you were to hold up your hand and ask the alien idiot, “How many fingers am I holding up?” by sheer virtue of ignorance it will be totally baffled and befuddled beyond belief, for it has no conception of “how many,” nor “fingers,” nor “holding up,” and not even “holding,” let alone “up.” For rudimentary math equations or any other kind of serious math skills are simply not within such an alien’s internal logical system of functioning, nor within its simple grasp, that is, the pathetic creature can’t wrap its grey matter around it – or green matter or whatever kind of gooey matter or lack thereof it has up there -- or down there, where its cranial cavity lies -- if it even possesses a cranium. However, what we refer to as its “grey matter” is much closer to mud, or even green goo.

Now, there are a few smart aliens running around out there – real smart alecks, I should say. But they are wretched tricksters, so be wary, they may hornswoggle you right back. They often appear to be almost human, since they actually are not smart enough to really pass off as looking like a real ordinary human schmuck. The closest they may come is to an anorexic dwarf on steroids with huge heads and big bug eyes. Stay away from those types! They are NOT to be trusted! Actually, you can’t trust any aliens whatsoever, they'll ruthlessly hoodwink you, bamboozle you, and commit atrocious hornswogglery on your gullible hindquarters -- not just behind your back, but right in front of your fricking face! Yes, right in plain sight where you'll least suspect them! And that, my friends, is what this humongous incomprehensible compendium of gathered facts, figures, and nonfiction is all about!

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Section 2

The Colossal Job of Classifying all those Pesky Aliens

There are only three classes of aliens, so far as we have decided, due to haphazard investigations and guesstimations, but each one branches off into at least a gazillion other species and multiple subspecies as well. So down at the Internal Office of Alien Affairs, our alienologists do get rather befuddled, if not irreparably confused, but usually this is because they drink to much vodka on the job, which they shouldn=t do while on the job or any place else, hence their paperwork is a mess, laying about all over the floor, leaving desktops clean, except for the usual puke messes caused by excessive alcoholic intake.

At any rate, each sheet of paper, cranked out hot off the printer, represents one species; hence, a typical alienologist, or alienographer, or whatever he is, should have scads and scads of multiple gazillions of such papers laying around helter-skelter, hither and yon, all pleading to be bound in a neat little binder, preferably the three-hole punch kind. Then the alien species and subspecies and micro-subspecies would be painstaking alphabetized. That way, when an interested party, say a client, or some homeless fellow seeking idle conversation if not a hot meal, wishes to find out about a particular alien subspecies, lets say the ASpring-tailed, Anvil-necked, Seven Monkey-footed Screek from the planet Screekavichagon (which was recently blown up by sinister alien invaders from Gakvonkia), then the alienologist could easily look it up in one of his countless binders, methodically located in an appropriate place in one of the many file cabinet, all of which he hasn't bothered to organize yet, partly because he has no organizational skills, which is enhanced by excessive boozing it up. But considering the condition of his little hole in the wall he calls an office, due to his highly inebriated stupor, it would be nearly impossible for him to find exactly that particular subspecies, if not requiring a few years to wade through his miles of piles of files of a huge hideous mess, and whether or not that specific species had even been discovered and then listed yet (before its pathetic planet had been blown to smithereens), so that it could be properly catalogued at a future date (now that it would be totally obsolete to do so), whenever the poor drunk got out to buy a binder or three in which to systematize all his alien findings, based on the vast amount of research he should have done, but probably didn't do. So -- that day may never come. Hence, this is the reason the Internal Office of Alien Affairs was closed down just recently -- assuming aliens have affairs. Which they don't. Many of them have no sex, if you recall. Whether that means gender classification or something more extracurricular, uh, we're not sure.

Hence, we commoners of the universe may never know diddly-squat about such sophistication-challenged, illegitimately inbred, reprobate aliens. Sad but irreparably true. But, then perhaps we don=t really want to know anything about such aliens, or any other kind of aliens. What we don=t know, wont kill us -- right?

Every star-traveler, space-explore, and intergalactic tourist must realize that this freaking universe is a pretty big place. So if you thought your own neighborhood galaxy was huge, you’re sadly mistaken.

Now, there are numerous scads of mischievous aliens out their loitering around, usually hiding behind some gassy nebula or some large asteroid, ready to pounce on unsuspecting naive human tourists or explorers or travelers in general, very much like yourself, and the scoundrel will quite often pull a fast one. Commonly they will pose as some poor pathetic wretch in need of either food, drink (hick!), shelter, small change, or even ship-loads of money. Usually the latter is the most popular item these slop-shoveling shysters are desperately in need of. Therefore, if you don’t hand it over immediately, after they have begged and groveled enough, especially if you stubbornly refuse, the poor pathetic wretch will become quite irritable, then after that, very hostile, hence they will cease the begging antics, and proceed to maliciously mug you. If the alien jerk only succeeds at taking your clothes, worldly possessions, and your money, you’re very fortunate. But if he takes your life, because you put up a fuss, then you’ve learned a valuable lesson. So the next time this same circumstance has occasion to ambush you, you will wisely give the hideous harasser the money, hence, saving your miserable life. However, since you’ll be quite dead from the first encounter, a second chance won’t be granted. Unless you happen to believe in reincarnation. But chances are you’ll return as a slithering worm that some poor pathetic wretch will maliciously step on and squish.

So, to prepare for alien beggars, muggers, looters, tricksters, etc, carry a can of intergalactic pepper spray, which will hideously melt certain alien’s eyes into jelly. Yet some species of aliens are immune to pepper spray, in which case bring a container of iodized salt for those slimy slug-like aliens. But if you have good hard soles on your shoes, some aliens can merely be stepped on, like the small slithering worm-type variety.

Actually, you will want to bring with you at least ten thousand different types of alien defense devices, or other lethal chemicals and weapons of hideous destructiveness, for you=ll never know which of the ten-million to nine-megazillion or so variety of alien species, subspecies, and micro-subspecies you=ll encounter out their in the deep dark corners of the treacherous universe, especially while you attempt to enjoy your intergalactic vacation, or business venture, or criminal scheme, or whatever.

On many of the dismal backwater planets across the countless galaxies, beware of traveling alien vendors, especially the kind with their makeshift snack-wagons. Or more commonly known as “roach coaches” only because they used to serve cockroaches disguised as food to unsuspecting schmucks. Until these swindling vendors got smart and came up with other creative ideas. Because the food they serve (and for a very high price) is not real food. The crap is usually something on the lines of pasteboard, wood chips, shredded plastic, alien insect larva and embryo, animal feces, sewage waste, and yes, cockroaches, or anything else just as repulsive they wish to throw into the mix -- even crap, quite literally. What seems to be good eatin= winds up turning into bad barfing B if you=re lucky. Otherwise, the crud remains in your system, hence, clogging you up, inducing severe constipation which will send you to the emergency facility at your nearest intergalactic hospital, which could be thousands of light years away, hence you will probably die first before you even get a chance to sue those pesky bamboozlers back at whatever backwater world where you ate that horrible slop. I'd rather eat greasy grimy gopher guts than what they serve up. At least it’s earthbound crap.

Yes indeed, those otherworldly, nasty alien hornswogglers are often vicious vendors and pretentious peddlers, because they’re the most sinister shysters you=ll ever meet, right next to those bombastic Bambakkian Bamboo Bamboozlers, or those Chowpoccian Chopstick Twiddlers, or the Horwangian High-jinx Hoodwinkers.

Certain alien subspecies, such as the Alfuukian space monkeys are known for extreme mischief, taunting, pranks, theft, and insane maniacal laughter that distracts you irreparably whilst they cleverly inflict pick-pocketing maneuvers on you.

Then you have your slick and slippery snake-oilers, or medicinal shystering salesmen of snaky oils, grease, salves, balms, ointments, liniments, lubricants, and cure-alls for all ails -- especially the sneaky Sarfoilsneekians, who throw together anything and everything, such as mud, sludge, grime, sewage, slime mold, toxic waste, nuclear spillage, then reconstituted it, colorize it, flavor it, bottle it, label it, and sell it to simpleminded suckers that are born every second! Don't be one of these! Instead, buy their crystal-clear bottled water, because at least it doesn't look putridly gross, although it still might get you violently ill, if not kill you on the spot.

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Section 5

Alien Addictions: or, Alien Ailments as a Way of Life

Fellow universal travelers, has it ever occurred to you that we humans are not alone? No, that’s not what we mean. Yes, we’ve long since covered this point, so obviously they’re out there, the particular “they” being the aliens. They’re everywhere out there, ransacking and ravaging the whole freaking universe for their selfish enjoyment, hence, stealing ours away from us. Yes, it's true, our sadness is their gladness. They treat the universe like a big sack of crap because they have addictions, just like you and me and that filthy slob next door.

So, like we said, we humans are not alone in this despicable category. Those disgusting aliens have countless types of addictions . . . weird ones, in fact. For instance, they’re sickeningly addicted to themselves; because they narcissistically love and adore themselves so much they hate themselves. Let’s see, does that mean they love to hate themselves, or hate to love themselves, or do they hate to hate themselves, or love to love themselves? Hmmm, how confusing. Nevertheless, they attempt to cover up their love of self-hatred by loving to hate all others and ruining their lives in the process.

As disgustingly demented, maniacal reprobates they go around littering, trashing and burning the whole freaking universe, scribbling hideous graffiti all over other people’s planets, moons, asteroids, pet rocks, etc, and sometime vandalizing them ruthlessly. Then they bad-mouth judgmentally glaring passers-by. Next, they quickly leave the scene of their ghastly crimes before the Universal Police show up. Worst of all, they’re sniveling, immature cowards. They are extraterrestrial terrorists of the worst kind. But usually they’re just toe-jam-sucking infantile punk kids whose parents abandoned them because they too had mind-draining addictions of their own. Sad scenario, huh? But it startlingly reflects the crap that goes on right here at home, namely Earth.

Therefore, we decided these totally screwed up alien monsters need our help. Massive amounts of it. (Uh, even though we need help too, but not as bad as they do.) And they need shrinks. And we mean the kind that will literally shrink these infuriating pesky pests down to size, so we can chase the scurrying little buggers about and step on them and squish them like slimy bugs. But since that is against the law (a very stupid universal law established by the Universal Government Office of Universal Bad Manners and Uncouth Customs, sponsored by the Universal Police Dept.), we can’t initiate it. So we have to settle for the next best thing, a lethally harmless system experts call A.A.; that is, Alien Addictions, where they enforce a nice little 112 Step Program down there unsuspecting gullets. No, not a simplistic system of twelve steps like the one you’ve been avoiding. It takes most brain-fried aliens a hundred extra steps to vaguely reach a level of understanding where they can almost come close to beginning to barely fathom the startling idea of considering the usual 12 Step Program. But expecting these irreparably sick aliens to eventually begin to ponder the idea that they should commit to applying them in their lives is a whole other set of steps we won’t go into at this tedious juncture – let alone any other juncture. In fact, they have to get to the point of even waking up in the morning so they can at least start thinking about such complicated ideas, if not agreeing with them, or even understand them at all – considering these steps are written in the English language. So they have to go to Earth School and learn our language first. This involves at least several thousand steps alone. Obviously they’ll refuse to even go that far. So these babbling baffled baboons are irreparably hopeless from the start.

Essentially, all addicted aliens are stubborn, immature brats living in total denial. They just don’t respect the successful tool of the old 12 Step Program we Earth-bound humans love to dread so dearly – unless we’re hardcore alcoholics who clearly love and religiously enjoy the simple pleasure of a good drink now and then – if not zealously adhere to our compulsive disorders in spite of all the people’s lives we’ve ruined who got in our way. Ahem! I’m not saying I’m one of them. So we won’t go there.

Nevertheless, all aliens have bizarre addictions (that require curbing or even snuffing out entirely, which is ultimately hopeless) that go far beyond what we humans know as normal addictions – if you can call addictions normal at all. For instance, there is Physio-Schizophrenia, where circumstances or beings the alien imagines become real. Yes, they fully manifest right into this physical existence! So the demented things the poor schmuck is hallucinating gets right in your face, and they’re as real as they think it is! Scary, eh? Imagine an alien with a multiple split-personality disorder. All of this creature’s separate personalities split up into several of himself –er, itself, so the alien has several little selves running around, mindlessly wreaking havoc. Hence, the littering, trashing, burning, graffiti-scribbling, vandalizing, and bad-mouthing is committed multifold. Imagine if that happened on Earth! Yikes! No! Don’t imagine that! We aren’t that prepared to be doomed!

Another noted addiction is the Compulsive Devouring Syndrome, whereby the alien will get all excited in some heated debate with someone, or even a benign conversation, and the alien will suddenly devour the other poor unsuspecting schlep. Mind you, it’s not a willful desire, but a ghastly uncontrollable urge, usually an unconscious reflex, much like when we humans uncontrollably eat food for no apparent reason other than out of mindless habit, or because there’s a gaping hole in our face we feel we have to stuff, or usually because some panel of experts say we have to. As if we’re born to eat! Screw them! A little starvation might do us some good now and then.

Yes, alien addictions are very much like our human mental diseases, except these alien ailments are on a much grander scale of hopelessness. For example, some aliens (with delusions of being mad scientists) have freaky compulsions to snatch some unsuspecting creature or creatures, and mix and match their body parts, often merging two or more of the helpless victims together into a weird freaky hodge-podge horrible Frankensteinish monster that suddenly decides it doesn’t want to live anymore – not in its current hideous fractured state, anyway. However, the addicted alien creator, who thoroughly disbelieves in suicide, with great compassion, forces the new creature it created to live the rest of its pathetic days happily ever after in maniacal misery. In spite of its delusions of sudden grandeur that it is creating beautiful works of living art, the twisted addicted alien is extremely sick, but at least it remains noble in not wishing death upon its beloved creation. So the near-saint goes up a few notches on our cool-o-meter.

There are other mind-exploding addictive syndromes, but we don’t want to depress the holy heck out of you. For that, read my lovely, heartwarming book called, Aliens Are Eating My Brains Out! Somebody Help Me! And then there's its companion piece, When Aliens Suck My Brains out through My Nose. Both are uplifting books for your coffee table, and excellent conversation-starters for guests!

Countless A.A. workshops and programs exist on worlds throughout the universe, costing exorbitantly horrible amounts of money, but so far not one addicted alien has attended them. Why? It has little to do with not having enough money, even though these poor aliens don’t have any -- in fact, they’ve never even heard of the concept. However, it’s because, these brainless aliens (yes, they literally lack that primary organ) simply do not have the concept, nor bear the capacity to ever have such a concept, that they are actually addicted to anything, hence they don’t even have a clue that they’re in denial about it. So, the 112 Step De-Programming attempts don’t seem to phase them in the least, especially when psychotherapists tell them what denial is and that they’re in it, that said alien is living proof of this fact. At first the alien just bursts out laughing in the shrinks face. But in the end, the frustrated, angered alien just compulsively devours the poor unsuspecting fool, like a late-afternoon snack before dinner time, then dizzily wonders where the kind shrink got off to. Whereby the ailing alien’s friends insist he ate the little bugger, hence, he denies it, then they accuse him of being in denial, then he eats them too, and quickly forgets all about it. Wondering where all his friends went, he assumes they abandoned him, so he wanders off, foraging for more food.

Remember, the pathetic alien can’t help itself; it suffers from a terrible addiction that needs treatment, which it denies that it needs, hence it devours everyone in sight. So beware of friendly aliens who ask you over for dinner! Remember, what you don’t know WILL hurt you! In cases like these, the old saying ain’t so: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. We say they are one and the same creature. So, get a fricking clue!

To sum it all up, we deduce that these living moveable fixtures which slide across the whole space continuum like sliding doors, closing in on us at every turn, will indeed hurt you, so don’t let them run over your toes as you cross the threshold of their bizarre reality.

So concerning aliens with their alien addictions like these, who needs obnoxious friends?

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If you think religions on Earth are weird, take a gander at some of the alien cults, sects, creeds and persuasions of other worlds out there B I mean WA-A-A-AY out there!

For instance, since we=re on the subject, the inhabitants of the Antares system, particularly Antares V, believe that self-cannibalization is the way to deification, or attaining galactic divinity, or some such tomfoolery. AGain yourself by losing yourself,@ is their creapy motto. The idea is to lose your mortal coil, literally in their case, bit by bit, as your slithering long length uncoils, hence, gaining your immortal soul. Alright, the predominant Antareans of Antares V are massive snake-like creatures, so if you=ve ever seen one with its tail in its mouth, shoved severely down its throat, well, you=ll realize they are enacting their particular religion, attaining Nirvana, or something remotely like it. Lets hope they don=t choke to death first. Chomp, chomp, chomp, gulp . . . yum. So, if you ever get brainwashed (or fried) into this totally whacked out cult, you=ve been severely hornswoggled way up the yin yang!

The Varrisuveerians have their own bonkers philosophy that suicide by wormhole is the way to paradise. The devoted seekers just don=t know which one is the right one. A seeker has to try each and every wormhole throughout their galaxy, if not the whole freaking universe, and if he=s very lucky, at the end of his noteworthy quest, he=ll find the One True Wormhole that leads to eternal blissfulness, because all the others are fakes. The real problem is, usually the first wormhole the new seeker naively jettisons himself through is his last one. Suicide is no virtue, but martyrdom is if you decide you=re dying for a holy cause, the wormhole cause, in this case, and the right one, too. So if there=s only one true wormhole to heaven, and if all others lead you to hell, what=s the freaking point? Is it really worth the risk? How and why this crackpot religion still continues is a mystery, since its numbers end up dying all the time down the hoary throat of any old wormhole laying about. Or does its trusting aspirants reincarnate back to do it all over again, hence, getting more chances?

Way out there a trillion gadzillion light years, beyond all the unsuspecting galaxies, there are hideous barbaric creatures called Gwokmalgrokians, whose religious practice involves eating galaxies -- whole. Yes, that=s right. These huge, monstrous characters with wide gaping mouths and long jagged teeth can gobble down those little spiraling wisps of stars we call galaxies. The idea is, the more galaxies they gulp down, the closer to heaven they get. If you’re one of these ginormous mouth-monsters, just don=t think about the massive karmic debt you=ll be piling onto yourself by annihilating mega-gazillions of thriving inhabitants of those numerous galactic homes, since you=ll be interfering with their religious rights and worthless dogmas, some of which insist that Aif you heap hot coals on our heads, you heap hot coals on your own heads a millionfold,@ or some such ridiculous malarkey. So if you=re a rather big alien, or human, don=t let this bizarre cult bamboozle you into believing its perfectly alright to gobble down helpless galaxies like midnight snacks. Somebody in one of those galaxies might get a little peeved about it. I wonder if that's anything like inhaling air or eating food with buzzillions of microbes in them? After all, they're living creatures too, so are we incurring karma by gobbling them down? Hmmmm. You’d better where one of those paper filter masks at all times!

Oh, there is another religion B thanks be to the Higher Power! B whose mission in life is to seek and destroy those holier-than-thou wretched galaxy-gobblers. If you join the universal Holy Avengers Cult (anyone can join!), they declare that the more you zap them out of existence in your lifetime, the greater are your chances of getting into heaven. However, you=re heinous act of preventing those overgrown gluttonous clods from gaining more brownie points to get into heaven by cutting their lives short, blatantly mean you will accrue massive karmic debts too. Yikes! Oh well, that=s how the cosmos crumbles!

And finally, sex clubs. Sorry, there’s none of those sleazy outfits found in religion, unless you're part of the Suckfluvian Nymphomaniacs Naked Neurotics Club, which is nonreligious by the way, but it’s so anally-retentively exclusive you can't get in anyway no matter how tight you are.