The Paranoid Alien Looks at Public Health on Earth

The Paranoid Alien Looks at Public Health on Earth

 

Boxing Day, 1994

Hello, out there in Radioland. This is Paranoid Alien Radio, broadcasting on 1519 Killing Hurts.

      What has become of our Victory over the Shadow, which we had believed had been won for all time by the heroes of the 1940's?

      About the same time your sister began developing breasts, she discovered that the Great Abomination was not the Silence of God, but rather, the inability of the weary partisans of the ‘40's to admit that the downfall of the Twisted Cross had been only a provisional victory. The luminescence of 1946 proved to be a False Dawn. We subsequently learned, that until the Powers that rule this world are made accountable to the cries of those who suffer because they have been left behind, these brazen Powers shall attempt to use material technology to reverse the direction of the Wheel of Karma.

      That is why the constellations beneath which children were born in the ‘60's gleamed so brightly, in the canopy of a night which was so dark that nearly every intelligent person contemplated suicide.

      Maybe it’s a miracle that anything survived. Or maybe it’s just that the Creator has a rather perverse sense of humor. 

 

Bulletin on the Public Health of Your Planet

 

(Alien Voice with mechanical Intonation)

• Good morning from Paranoid Alien Radio, broadcasting on 1519 killing hurts, and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. In the interest of public health upon your planet, we must warn you of a plague which is to be taken just as seriously as the White Plague that swept through all of Continental Europe during the 1940's.
• When you study the Holocaust and the Gotterdammerung, you usually leave out the influence of the Anti-man Djinn. Yes, certain stars do have anthropologists who do come around to take pictures of the savages torturing each other. They are tricked when you nibble at each other with lovebites, because their reptile minds can’t understand how it is possible to love and hate at the same time. But so long as you let yourself be ruled by games of serious dominance and submission, you’ll find you are caught in the nets of Cosmic Imperialists, who want to keep you bound in rituals of self-destruction, because they fear the day that your perversities shall become fashionable among their reptile-women.
• That is why you are suffering from this epidemic. We know that the first thing your rulers will do, shall be to try to control the epidemic through rites of human sacrifice. When this doesn’t work they shall try torturing victims, in hopes that the Gods shall smile. Because they live their days in the shadow of enormous pride, they can’t understand why the appetite of the Cruel Gods for human blood seems to escalate like a heroin habit.
• That is why we Paranoid Aliens have had to come down to inspect your military installations. We have had to intervene, because we are the only ones who are being allowed to question the chastity of your heroic soldiers. We may need to carry some of you off; this may be the only way that we can put an end to the gang-rapes that a certain group of us hears about when it tunes in to the voices of the mothers’ prayers.
• It would have been better if you had allowed the soldiers to drag all their harlots in tow. Then, at least, there might have been some honor, and some accountability for how they were spreading their own social diseases among the natives.
• It would be even better if these women were to gang together, to comfort and protect each other, and to demand the proper rites of atonement from men who’ve subjected their loved ones to pain and humiliation. When our Paranoid Alien Public Health Officers are able to observe this sort of response, we shall be able to conclude that your species is developing an immune reaction that is capable of suppressing the disease. Until that time comes, we shall need to continue our inspections, and we may need to carry some of your leaders off for special re-educational sessions.

 

A Place Where Mutually Incompatible Universes Collide

 

Hello there, let me introduce myself. I have come to your Great American Desert. I shall let you call me, “Roswell Man.”

      Some of you shall question, whether I should be called a man at all. The experts on who is a man are supposed to be the Anthropologists – but I’ve found that these Anthropologists are prejudiced against us Flying Saucer People. So prejudiced, that if one of us has a motor vehicle accident in New Mexico, he gets turned over to the Feds for scientific dissection.

      If you want to know, that is the reason why I am a Paranoid Alien. But I’ve been down here long enough to discover that, in the plains that are now staked with oil derricks, almost everyone is just as paranoid as I am..

      The Staked Plain of New Mexico is a place where several mutually incompatible universes are colliding. In most of the towns except Roswell, it’s snake-oil evangelism and Seven-Day Creationism. On the military bases it’s top-secret agendas and random particles from the nuclear physics lab. Out where the money is made, it’s drilling rigs send out by Napoleonic consortiums, as well as the human trafficking in illegal workers. Is it any wonder, with all this crazy-making, that there are Native villages in which a new Jesus gets nailed to a cross every year?

      If shoes are put out on the doorstep the next day, Christ has survived his ordeal.

Given the sort of confusion that your economic system imposes on the conscience, I really don’t think it’s surprising that some people want to believe in me as a God, while some of your leading theologians will insist that I must be the very Devil.

      Since my race is more like yours than I care to admit, it’s possible we may end up becoming your devils. But just for the record, the only reason I was flying around over Roswell the day of my motor vehicle accident, is that I was gathering data for a post-graduate thesis in Anthropology. As an anthropologist myself, I am aware that the cross-cultural excuse for Imperialism is that it is better for a people to be under the occupation of masters who rule by The Book, than to allow them to wallow forever in child-sacrifice and civil wars.

      When I deliver my report to the Starlords, I shall advise all to take solemn warning from the sinful conquests and terrible downgoings of the Conquistador caste in Roswell. I pray to what you call Allah that, in the fearful event that we are mandated by the Star Council to be your protectors, the people of my star shall do better than those of your planet have done in similar situations.

But knowing as I do the terrible similarity between my race and yours, I cannot guarantee it.

5. Reliable informed sources indicate than even though their home planet is many light years away, at warp-speed they can arrive here in 15 minutes.

The Hour of the Neighborhood Frog King

The Hour of the Neighborhood Frog-King

 

Where have all the flowers gone? What happened to all of the poppies?

    The answer is, the Roman soldiers trampled them when they were raising up the cross on which they nailed Adonoi.

    Hello, this is the Frog-King, broadcasting on Paranoid Alien Radio, to ask you now, where have the young girls gone? The answer is, that you are tuned in on a soap opera. There are no perfect lovers, only duets and triangles which demonstrate how thorny a soap-opera pretty rose can really be.

    Do we ask why Isis weeps? Look out on the Aegean Sea, and you shall see reflection of a dreadful moment.

    The Great God Pan is dead.

    Didn’t the same thing happen to the Runner of the Marathon? Was it not with his dying breath that he delivered his victory message to Athens?

    And don’t we all discover in the end, that each one of us has been running a marathon race, which we can only win by crossing over, and leaving this world behind?

    Hello Again. This is your friendly Neighborhood Frog-King from a not so distant star, broadcasting over Paranoid Alien Radio. Do you understand, why we have been brought here?

    I used to have a tail that was so fine it would shine in the darkness. In those days, I used to be a preacher. I’d put the people into a trance, and all the pretty women would lay out their fish-baskets in front of me, and ask me to jump into bed. But then I made a mistake, because I started telling them, that my green and gold tail was much prettier than anything that God had. That’s why the Angel of Judgement came for me. With one whack of Her double axe, she severed my tail from my spine.

    That’s why I became the bandit who rides through the Staked Plain, driven by the pain of his lost tail. I still will be fleeing the men that I’ve killed and searching for my lost Evangeline, even after the real-estate agents have drawn and quartered Santa Fé, and platted the suburbs of Taos.

    “I’ve always known that the Priest and the Satanist hve a dirty secret in common,” Renata declares, with a certain set of her jaw. “That’s why the time has come when both the Patriarchs and their familiars must step aside, so that the Corn- Mother may return in glory from the underworld into which the Myths of the Fathers have cast her.”

    “Then let us be joined, in our commitment to bring about that transmutation,” I declare.

    “I’ve got to keep my distance, because I am still shattered by the pain,” she complains, with hurt emotions. “I’ve got to hide my love for you, because I am afraid to take the risk of having any more accidents.”

    “You speak as though it were a sin to acknowledge the reality of class conflict,” I make my counter-complaint.

    “I’ve reached the limits of what I can do for the struggle,” she demands emphatically.

    The trouble is, not only have I heard these words before – I have been the one who uttered them.