Making Good on a Promise, or Approaching a Unified Theory...

Well, a couple of days ago, I mentioned, at the end of an entry, that I had some ideas about the current Epidemic of Obesity in Our Country, and how this might be remedied by a Change in Automobile Design.  Then I thought -- nah, too boring -- maybe I shouldn't.  But then someone (you know who you are) said something (you know what it was), and because it's Thursday, about which I have no special associations (well, there is the whole Thor thing...), I think that, possibly...

Approaching a Unified Theory, or How We Can Help Those With Perceived Weight Issues, Redesign Our Automotive Experience, and (if I Don't Run Out of Steam) Eliminate the National Debt.

My Fellow Americans, as so many of us know all too well, more and more of our citizens today are struggling (or not) to maintain what is believed to be a healthy body weight.  This is a serious issue, but I am here to shed some light on the topic, and to propose a solution which will solve not only height/weight ratios, but a number of other problems as well.

First, and most importantly, let me emphasize, for all those out there who may be struggling -- and perhaps failing -- to conform to the media-centric standards of the physical 'ideal':  It's Not Your Fault.
 
Next, let's eliminate a whole host of misconceptions, by revealing, probably for the first time, the true underlying causes for this dire state of affairs.

It started, in fact, in Roswell New Mexico, in 1947.  Many of you will recall the brouhaha surrounding the alleged crash of an alien space craft (with, it seems, another, similar event, at about the same time, in Corona NM, just a few mesas west).  It was, it wasn't; it was this, it was that.  The US Army Air Force was in a tizzy of its own making.   But, without revealing my sources, I am here to tell you that, indeed, there was a crash, of a vehicle of extra-terrestrial origin, and that this accident has led to the very issue we must address.

You see, unlike the fear-drenched cinematic portrayals of space aliens with which we are all so familiar, these 'visitors' were, in fact, just a bunch of what would be, for them, college-aged kids, who'd had just a little too much of the good stuff and were out searching for the galactic equivalent of take-out Chinese.  They got into a drag race with another similarly-occupied craft (some things are truly universal), both drivers lost control at that weird place in the space-time continuum, just west of Phoenix, and 'presto', call the gecko.   

Contrary to popular belief, however, no lives were lost, and the damaged craft were quite readily repaired, at a local Maaco (whose employees would have been sworn to secrecy, had they not been scared incontinent).   The US Military's feeble, seemingly never-ending cover-up attempts (to quote someone who knew, 'That balloon story was a damned lie then, and it's still a lie.') speak for themselves.  And so, one would think, the story ends.

But no.  One of these enterprising visitors -- perhaps an intergalactic cross between our own Mark Zuckerberg and, say, Julia Child -- had an idea, while lounging around the officer's club, waiting for the ride to be fixed.  He/she/it was still having something like the munchies, of course, and it seemed to him/her/it that these Earthlings had some interesting potential, gastronomically speaking.  With perhaps just a little tweaking...

And so it began.  While the final coat of wax was being buffed out on the shiny, practically good-as-new craft, these now sober visitors quickly made a plan.  With admirable speed and efficiency (well, think about it), they quite simply planted, telepathically, a few suggestions, in the sadly unguarded, wide-open and unsuspecting minds of men and women all across the country.  Then, as the engines were warming up, they made note of our planet's coordinates (probably with a ball-point pen, on the palm of a 'hand'), made nice with their hosts, and left in a flash.

But... they'll be back.

Now, don't get alarmed -- there will be no repeat, in real life, of the famous Twilight Zone 'To Serve Man' episode.  That's not how these visitors roll, so to speak.  Not at all.  For all their external similarities to us, physiologically (actually, they're unnaturally good-looking, and photogenic too.  I hate them), their digestive systems work more along the lines of certain insects native to our planet -- specifically, those ants that herd and tend flocks of aphids.

It's true.  Protecting their six-legged charges from any outside threats, these ants encourage the aphids to eat, eat, eat.  Suck those plant juices.  Have a little more.  No, no, that exoskeleton doesn't make you look fat.  And then, of course, just when the aphids have reached the point where, with one more sip, they'll literally explode, the ants begin to stroke and pet their balloon-like charges, patting swollen aphid tummies with tender ant antennae, and harvesting the pre-digested aphid-milk, fresh from.. wherever it comes from on an aphid.  Yum.  

So, you see, getting back to those visitors in 1947, what they implanted, telepathically, in the receptive minds of Americans far and wide, was an unusual degree of creativity -- to be focused mainly in the production and distribution of high-sucrose, low fiber food items, but also on the means of reducing the need for any activities requiring the expenditure of any energy, plus the emergence of forms of entertainment guaranteed to keep audiences seated and, it was to be hoped, eating (Dancing with the Stars?  Get it?).  They also arranged, those devils, for a similar spike in the appetite for Ding Dongs ® and Ho Hos ® and Twinkies ®, whether fried or plain, among the general population.  (We need not  mention ribs, and cheese-flavored food products -- they speak for themselves)   

Slowly, but surely, we grew and grew.  A generation has passed, and we -- most of us at least -- have grown and grown.  (Anorectic teenagers, while surely no joking matter, will serve, I believe, as garnish.  Parsley, as it were)  Grown and grown and grown.

Then, just when there seems to be no more spandex available, to allow us to go out in public, they come back.

Well, of course, given the relativity of time and space, for these guys it could be later the same day, or just after mid-terms.  And of course they'll be just as stoked as the first time, only now they'll have something more... appetizing to look forward to.  Which is... us.

Here's how it will go down, when the time is right (I'm thinking, oh, 2012, 2013...).  (And, by the way, trust me on this -- I've seen highly-classified footage, smuggled in at great personal cost, from other sites where these guys have their keggers.  I'm not making this up)

Picture, if you will, hundreds, if not thousands, of portly Americans, of every age and condition, making their way, as if in a dream, to public arenas, sports facilities, and other large open spaces, all over the country.  Slowly -- so as not to waste any precious preciousness -- they make their collective way to their telepathically assigned places.  They modestly exchange their garments for a kind of polyester, one-size-doesn't-quite-fit-all sling bikini, provided beforehand by our visiting gourmands.  (And if this alone doesn't emphasize the gravity of the situation, I don't know what will.  These alien guys may know their snacks, but they've got terrible taste in garments, and have been know to mix paisley with plaids.  For them, it's all just napkins and tablecloths)

When properly (?) garbed, these, our fellow Americans, will climb laboriously onto the suspension devices -- think of those upside-down anti-gravity thingies Sharper Image ® used to try to sell --  provided for the purpose (don't you love a replicator?), and, when all strapped in, the feeding begins.

Well, really, it looks less like eating, and more like tickling, (the camera focus on this part really could have been better), but there were the visitors, with their feeding palps extended (you'd never know), caressing and petting and patting and...

(As it happens, by the way, the 'aphids' in the video I saw were from another place, and splotchier in color, and had a different configuration of limbs, but the general picture was pretty obvious.  I'm pretty sure that humanoids are new to the menu.  Think: cannolis?)
 
So, to refresh: We Are in Peril Here.  Unless something is done -- and done soon -- it will be our own Fellow Americans -- perhaps I myself (where did that Devil Dog ® come from?) -- writhing in something not quite like ecstasy, being massaged and poked, scraped and wiped, while simultaneously being replenished with a melange of Hostess ® products, administered intravenously.  (Oh, did I mention -- these banquets go on for decades, and the proceedings are both recorded and broadcast, especially to school auditoriums.  Imagine trudging home for a day off, after a week of hanging upside down and being tickled in public, while wearing a plaid monokini, only to confront your sullen, spindly teenager, who has been watching the whole thing.  With everyone else. In public.  Before lunch.  Gross)

But there is a solution, if we act swiftly and decisively.  How, you may ask, can we possibly stop this otherworldly picnic from happening in our own backyard?  Let us examine this surprising, yet gratifying simple set of options... tomorrow.


© 2011   Walter Zimmerman