Death is out there. Not truth. Death

Step away from your computer. Walk to the nearest window. Watch the sky.

You see that? That endless blue, swept with soft folds of clouds? That perfect void filled with the distant twinkles of a billion, billion stars, stretching out beyond infinity?

It’s filled with Aliens.

Hyper-evolved Aliens, with vastly superior technology, who have long since mastered beyond-light-speed interstellar travel. Billions of races. Billions of civilizations. And every single one of them is champing at the bit for their turn to get down to Earth, fry us with their death-rays and fuck our mothers in the ass. In the ASS, people, you think you’re safe? Huh? With your chainsaws and your axes and your KI-AAAH-HAI? You think you’re safe?

Just look up. You’re not safe. You’re doomed. You’re all fucking doomed.

You’ll notice I said “you”. Not “we”.

“WHY, YES, ALEX, I HAD NOTICED YOUR ODDLY DELIBERATE TURN OF PHRASE, WHATEVER CAN YOU MEAN?”

As always. I know how to defeat the Aliens. Any of them. All of them. And with my help, so will you. And in this manner, Earth shall be spared. And I shall be your King, and you will give me all your stuff. Not just any stuff, mind you, the GOOD stuff. All that stuff you keep locked away and only bring out on special occasions? Mine. Give it to me, for I am your King. And now, the women shall come forth and dance for me, while dwarves lay offerings of golden tacos and shimmering weed at my feet, and there shall be music and dancing, and much oral sex. So let it be written. So let it be done.

“STOP. PLEASE. YOU’RE SCARING MY DOG.”

So now, you’re placing the anal sanctity of your own mother above the needs of your PET? What kind of a cold-hearted bastard ARE you? Jesus, I think you need to take a step back right the fuck now and re-prioritize the living shit out of your life, pally, because the ones you got now? Not so great.

I really shouldn’t even tell you.

I should really just let you die.

See this? See this? Look like a happy future? Huh? Huh? NO! LOOKS SAD, MOTHERFUCKER, LIKEONE SORROWFUL-ASS FUTURE!

“OH, FOR THE… ‘NO, NO, ALEX, PLEASE TELL ME WHAT TO DO.’ … FUCKIN’… MANIAC…”

I heard that.

I’m a good man. You’re lucky I’m a good man. If I was half the disgusting fucker that you are, I’d just the Aliens land their monstrous, metal killing machines right on top of your house and put that death ray so far up your ass, it vaporizes your brain. But I’m not. I’m a hero.

Look grateful.

The first thing you need to know about the Aliens is that no matter what form they come in, from machine-flesh fusion to shapeshifting anamorphous blobs with serious attitude problems to little green men with gigantic guns, they are functionally invincible. Repeat those words out-loud. “Functionally Invincible.” They’re not very pleasant words, are they? Well, not when they’re being applied to a race of trigger-happy cosmic freaks who have nothing better to do than come all the out here just to blow up France and steal all our water. Hell of a phrase.

It means that no matter the caliber of the bullet or the payload of the rocket, nothing we throw at them will make one speck of difference. Toss an ICBM, they’ll shrug it off. Water off a duck, nuke off an Alien.

The reason is simple.

Our puny human weapons are no match for their vastly superior technology.

“BUT ALEX!”

No buts. We simply can’t compete. I mean, we think we’ve got some special shit with our big-screen TVs and microwave ovens and illegal file sharing programs? These intergalactic Vikings perfected Napster while we were still sucking termites off a branch, you piddling fuck! The universe is vast, and as experience has shown us time and time again, every other race out there is a billion times more advanced. We are the cosmic short bus, ladies and gentlemen, the “Special Class.” We are Remedial Evolution and they are fucking Honors Club. I blame the Republicans, myself.

No matter where the blame falls, however, we all have to pick it up, because that’s why the Aliens are after us. There are four Cosmic Elements out there in the galaxy, and they are what every Alien wants; water, air, metals and women. Earth has all four. And, as has been said, our puny human weapons are no match for their vastly superior technology.

WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, MR. INVADING BASTARD FUCK? HUH? WHO'S LAUGHING NOW

It’s like they’re bullies in Jr. High School, pushing down smaller kids and stealing their lunch money. Only they’re disintegrating us with death rays instead of pushing us down. And instead of taking a few bucks, they’re raping the uranium out of the earth, sucking up all the air and water and making time with our girlfriends. And when they left, we wouldn’t just have a little wetness in the pants, we’d be piles of ash and bloated, decaying corpses. But aside from that, the comparison does stand.

“SO OUR WEAPONS ARE USELESS.”

And therein lies the key. That right there, that’s the secret to surviving through this. Our guns won’t work, so to fuck with the guns. Bombs? Missiles? Won’t leave a mark. Leave ‘em. Don’t even bother with the nukes, you’ll just make life difficult for those of us planning on actually surviving this extraterrestrial clusterfuck.

Aliens have a weakness. All of them have a weakness. It’s the same weakness. They all have it. With this weakness, we will break the back of this horrible plight that has befallen and shall again befall our people and our planet, and leave it drooling in a wheelchair in some intergalactic Gimp facility. And then, BAM. I’m King. Finally.

“ALEX? THE WEAKNESS?”

Irony, motherfucker! It’s the one thing we have managed to develop that they have never got the hang of, dramatic irony! Irony will obliterate the Alien legions of horror and death time and time and time again! It never fails!

Pay careful attention to the them. Watch what they do, and how they do it. Take notes if you have to, because you’re going to need to pay careful attention to every single bright blue flash of their death-ray cannons and every streaming cloud of radioactive exhaust from their retrorockets. Watch them.

Are they encased in horrifying machines that bristle with weaponry, shrieking for blood and carnage? Do you never actually see the Aliens themselves? Bacteria. Throw used Kleenex at them. Sneeze and don’t cover your mouth. Lick EVERYTHING.

That's what's gonna be smiling down at you when they probe your ass. Heed my fucking words, purile mortal.

Highly-developed communications systems and insanely powerful weapons and shielding, and the Aliens themselves are coming down to join the fun? Well, then, as the heroic actions of Jeffrey Goldblum have proven, the entire universe is Macintosh-compatible. Go to the nearest Elementary school and grab the first 12-year-old kid with glasses that you see. Chances are, he’ll already have a binary virus powerful enough to rip through the Pentagon’s encoding in a millisecond that he was planning on unleashing on his big sister’s computer. Minutes later, the Aliens will be unable to open their browsers without fifteen million pop-ups that scream that their Alien cocks are far too small. After the Aliens have given their life savings to some guy in Nigeria, they’ll have no choice but to flee.

Sometimes, it’ll be something right under your nose. Something to do with you. You could very well be the hub of this Invasion, me fair bonny lad, all of this could be hinging on you. Think back. As far back as you can remember.

Think of every single person you have ever known who has ever died. Think hard and remember every single thing that each of those people have ever said to you during the entire time that you knew them. If you can’t think of anything a human has said to you, think about everything everyone living has ever said to you. And then every single thing you have ever heard on television, radio, eavesdropping in a bar, on the motherfucking toilet. Think really hard. At that moment, the entire world will be resting squarely on your shoulders, dude. You let us down, we will be verily fucking displeased. Somewhere in that swamplike jumble you call a mind, there is a single phrase that carries with it the secret of defeating the Alien invaders and keeping Humania for Humans. Think back.

That one time, when your wife, dying of cancer, whispered, “It’s… in the… dryer…” Get your ass to the dryer, now, pilgrim. “Hey, kid,” says your uncle Joe, four days before the cow gutted him, “Remember to count your blessings.” Do it. Do it now. “Oh, by the way,” you recall your mother telling you one evening after dinner, “In the case of interstellar pirate attack, turn on the stove, defenestrate a marble cake and fuck a chicken in the ass.” Get your ass to the barn, bucko.

Or we are all fucked.

And if all else fails, throw Randy Quaid up their exhaust pipe.

They HATE that.