Close Encounters, Part I

My friend Siegfried, one of the four or five friends I've ever had, died on this date six or seven years ago.  Ever since, I've had the feeling I've been living on borrowed time, as Siegfried and I were born on the same day in the same hospital (old Flower Hospital in Toledo, OH), though we didn't meet until many years later.  I have written about Siegfried, or Sig as I called him, in my books Holy Days In The Sun and The Unbearable Ugliness Of Being.  Frankly, I have been hesitant to relate the story I am about type out as it is a bizarre tale, and even in the ugly and weird pages of The Unbearable Ugliness Of Being it would freakishly stand out.  But I am at the age and stage in life where shit don't matter, anymore.  I can say whatever, and nobody will be embarrassed or upset with me.  So here it is, in memoriam and without apology:

Close Encounters

My friend Siegfried and I were scanning the crowd in the reception suite at an Alien Abduction Conference at the Hilton Garden Inn in Troy, Michigan. Outside of Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings, you can’t find a better gathering of promiscuous women.

One caveat: you must be able to discern the *true believer* from the poser. You tend to get a lot of bored housewife-types at these events. . .they look at it as a kind of *role-playing* game. . .a night of EBErotic chat, and then safely back home to their Fantasy Football-playing husbands. . .don’t waste your time on these Target moms, you’ll never get a rectoscope up one of them.

How can a newbie easily spot a poser? Look at the *Hello My Name Is* sticker badge. . .if you see *Mary* or *Sarah* or *Emily* or *Beth* or any other ordinary name, move on. The hardcore true believer will have their new weird name on their sticker badge.

You see, many of the true believers are convinced they are *hybrids,* part-human, part-alien. . .and they will tell you that during one of their close encounters of the fourth kind, the aliens have revealed to them their true genetic nature, as well as their *real* name. So look for a woman with something like *Amalla* or *Channen* or *Rahnana* or *Zionara* on her name tag. As Siegfried pointed out to me once, many of these names are *Jew-sounding,* which supported his theory that most of the true believers were unfortunate victims of a Masonic-Zionist mind control sex slave conspiracy.

My own personal belief is the majority of these troubled souls were raped as children, and their abduction memories are merely the result of psychological displacement. . .but whatever the origin, it would seem that these women have had their vaginas and anuses inflamed to such a degree they can no longer control the fire which burns within.

“See any good ones?” Sig asks.

“No.”

We stand around.

I question myself: preying upon abductees. That’s not very Christian. But, as usual, I content myself with the thought that not much is. If I weren’t committing this sin, I’d be committing some other sin. As somebody once said, a miss is as good as a mile.

“Uh oh.”

“What?” Sig asks.

“There’s this huge beast staring right at you.”

“Where? Where?”

“Over there, by the registration table.”

Sig spots her.

You know, there’s nothing quite as funny as the look that crosses a guy’s face when he notices an ugly woman staring at him. . .that combination of fear and revulsion. . .it’s as if the ugly woman were some dog shit you were just about to step in. . .

“She’s locked in on you, boy.”

“Why is she looking at me like that?” Sig asks. “It’s creepy.”

“I think she’s crying.”

[TO BE CONTINUED.  I gotta take a break.  This is a tough story to tell.  Gonna take a couple days.  And I may not be up to telling it all.]