When the 'ping' of the alarm sounded Sgt. Gronkowski didn't immediately react; he was supposedly watching the radar monitor for evidence of Soviet ICBMs or other unusual events but he was contemplating a hamburger which had just arrived and was deciding exactly where to take the first bite. Such decisions are not to be hurried. A poor choice and his hand or worse,his pants, would be covered in ketchup. the captain wouldn’t be pleased and he could end up on report. Why, he wondered, hadn't someone devised a doughnut shaped burger so that the sauce could be confined to the centre. Come to that, why hadn't they devised a burger that didn't need the dislocating jaw of an anaconda to take a bite? Why hadn't they devised the beef sandwich?

Having made his decision and taken a bite and the alarm having become more insistent he turned his attention to the screen before him, chewing slowly (Sgt. Gronkowski was a multi-tasker which was why he’d been promoted). What he saw was a 'trace' showing the path of an object detected by the long range radar. Sgt.Gronkowski stopped chewing and stabbed a key on his keyboard. The screen changed to show an extension of the actual trace both backward and forward in time thus showing the estimated origin of the object and its predicted destination. A further keypress produced the statement that the object originated from outside the Earth's atmosphere and could be either a meteorite or a missile launched into Earth orbit. The direction of travel suggested no likely source on the Earth's surface so the probability was that the object was extraterrestrial in origin. For confirmation Gronkowski pressed yet another key to restore the trace. This showed the object rapidly losing altitude with an estimated 'landfall' in mid-Pacific. Gronkowski re-commenced chewing and returned his attention

momentarily to his burger to plan his next assault. When next he glanced at the screen the trace had disappeared and a keypunch showed the object to have landed as predicted. Gronkowski entered a note on the sighting 'Meteorite' and turned to the more urgent problem of his hunger.

In Mexico the same alarm went totally unremarked. It was Siesta!

So it was that the craft escaped notice and drifted across Central America to the Caribbean before turning north towards Europe. Keeping to mid-Atlantic the craft attracted little attention since it thereby avoided territorial airspace. When it began to approach British airspace it was challenged to identify itself. It failed to respond to several such challenges and so an interceptor aircraft was scrambled to investigate. The pilot eventually reported sighting the strange craft but could obtain no response; 'buzzing' had no effect, the craft maintaining a steady course and speed. He requested permission to destroy the craft. The consternation produced by this request resulted in such a delay that when authority was finally granted the craft was touching down at Heathrow airport. In fact, having no undercarriage it ‘came to earth’ rather than ‘touched down’, then skidded along the tarmac in a shower of sparks and finally came to rest close to the perimeter fence.

For the last part of its journey it was pursued by two fire tenders which immediately swamped the craft in a blanket of foam. There being no sign of movement from the craft and lacking signs of fire or explosion the firemen eventually cleared the foam with water hoses.

At this point Security (in an armoured personnel carrier) screeched to a stop alongside the craft and a number of heavily armed men in flak jackets surrounded the craft falling to the ground. assuming menacing attitudes and pointing their weapons toward the craft. Nothing happened!; the men relaxed, lit cigarettes and began to chat amongst themselves. So it was that they didn't notice the appearance of a fine crack in the skin of the craft which presently could be identified as a door. When the door crashed onto the tarmac it caused considerable surprise and alarm but nothing more happened other than the sudden appearance of a small figure dressed in ill-fitting top hat and tails. He held nothing more menacing than a silver-topped cane. The clothes appeared to have been made for a much larger person.

Nevertheless the security men immediately adopted defensive positions - prone on the ground with weapons pointed in the general direction of the door.

'Oh please don't stand on ceremony', said the small figure, 'All this fuss is quite unnecessary. I merely wish to speak to the Prime Minister, I'm afraid I don't have an appointment. Could you organize that for me, please?'

Abashed,the security men scrambled to their feet and one of their number hastily spoke into a two-way radio. Shortly thereafter an immigration official arrived.

'Can I see your passport please? What's the purpose of your visit, business or pleasure, do you have a valid visa?'

When he didn’t receive an acceptable response the official placed the ‘visitor’ under arrest and took him to the terminal building where he was closely confined as an illegal immigrant. No-one thought to ask whence he came, how he

came or how he spoke English, even if with rather antiquated intonation.

The sole information they could extract was that he wished to see the Prime Minister as quickly as possible. Thus it was that the reason for the visit was given and his demand met.

He explained to the PM that his forefather had been assigned the task of investigating the activity of a German naval vessel which had appeared in the North Sea and was suspected of carrying out trials of a submersible. Disguised as a weather ship tasked with meteorological data gathering. they appeared close to the German craft.

The German captain was seated conspicuously in the stern, smoking a meerschaum pipe and apparently fishing. Meanwhile a crewmember lurked about the deck nonchalantly watching what the new arrival was doing and occasionally disappearing from view but using a hand-held periscope keeping them under investigation from behind deck fittings.

To appear to be innocently engaged they released a weather balloon which to their astonishment immediately disappeared! They of course suspected the Germans as being responsible and promptly released a second balloon whilst keeping a close eye on the Germans. This balloon disappeared in like manner and when a third also disappeared they decided they had better report this strange occurrence without delay and so made off at speed for London.

On arrival a hasty conference concluded that they had stumbled upon a hole in the atmosphere and the presence of a German vessel in the area made it imperative that some action should be taken without delay.

Accordingly it was decided to kit out a manned balloon to confirm the presence of this ‘hole’, and so it was that in the greatest secrecy, at the dead of night, a balloon was equipped with a thermos flask of tea, a packet of Rich Tea biscuits and a wheel of Cheddar cheese in case of emergencies. So equipped Sir Peter Skott and his man ,Basil ventured forth. Jettisoning all ballast the balloon rose and rose - and rose, ever accelerating and finally popped through the hole in the atmosphere like a champagne cork escaping its bottle.

Having escaped Earth’s gravitational pull they began to fall and Mars, being at this time below Earth they were eventually captured by Mars's gravitation and so eventually arrived there.

Mars having rather weak gravity they landed with a gentle bump and without damage to the balloon’s wicker basket. Clambering out and gazing around Sir Peter saw a desolate landscape scattered with what seemed to be toy windmills endlessly twirling in the breeze. Unconcerned, Sir Peter reached into the wicker basket of the balloon, extracted a Union Jack flag and pushed it into the ground and proclaimed this territory as being now part of the British Empire!

At this point a nearby rock face hissed aside revealing a small hairy figure dressed in a small pill-box hat and a uniform. Sir Peter was so surprised that he lost his grip on his monocle which floated gently down to his waist.

Ever polite, Sir Peter addressed the ‘dwarf’: “Good evening, my man!”

The dwarf responded:” Going down! Are you coming? It gets chilly up here at this time of day. ” Waving them to join him Sir Peter and Basil did as requested.

Sir Peter said “ I say, my man, could you take me to see your leader?”

“Going down!” responded the dwarf. “Dash it!”, exclaimed Sir Peter, “These Americans seem to get everywhere!”

“I shouldn’t worry, sir” murmured Basil “They’re probably tourists!

To be continued……

Perusing that abyss known as Gmail, I find myself deleting a lot of digital flotsam and jetsam that is about as useful to me as a condom dispenser in a convent. Still, I have to admit, some of these garbage emails make me think. For example:

There is an amazing number of products out there for those who suffer from erectile disfunction. The pills, lotions, drinks, and even gummies (keep out of reach of children) that're advertised are guaranteed to hoist even the limpest of meat main sails. Personally, I don't suffer from the condition, but that's nothing to brag about because a light switch that can stay flipped up for 2 minutes is no big deal. "Delete"

Apparently, there are hundreds of single Asian, Russian, and women over the age of 40 who're eager to date me. Let me be clear on two things. First, I'm happily married. Second, any woman who's eager to date me is probably clinically insane and a possessor and practiced user of the Lorena Bobbitt cutlery set. So, no thank you. "Delete"

An urgent correspondence from a politician is being sent to me because the members of the opposing party are out to ruin America. Of course, said politician wants my help in the form of a donation and my vote to aid them in their quest to save America. Personally, I think all politicians be they donkey or elephant are responsible for the massive lube-free cluster fuck that has become our country. So, expecting a politician to fix our nation's issues is like asking a clan of hyenas to save a wounded gazelle. "Delete"

For a limited time, the Danbury Mint is proudly offering hand-painted collector plates that commemorate Elvis' slow transformation from svelte child sexual predator to the fat. white jumpsuit wearing, mutton chopped, Vegas performing hack he died as for just 3 easy payments of $19.99 per plate. Each month, I will receive a new beautifully painted porcelain plate along with a certificate of authenticity that visually chronicles the physical transformation caused by Elvis' steady diet of Quaaludes and fried peanut butter and nanna samiches. These magnificently created plates will surely increase in value and are so realistic Elvis' cellulite and that famous double chin will slowly appear beneath his greasy mutton-chopped gob with each new addition to my collection. But this offer won't last forever and if I act now I will also receive a replica of the check Elvis signed that bribed his bride, Priscilla's parents into not having him arrested for having an illegal sexual relationship with their 14 year old daughter. "Delete"

I am missing out on securing a mortgage in my area of California at the current 5.2% interest rate. With just such a mortgage, I could finance a desirable1-room shack located near running water on enough land to dig a his and her outhouse for the low-low asking price of $500,000. "Delete"

Amazon is hiring delivery drivers. The pay starts at $20/hour and you will receive medical and dental on the first day while receiving training in how to heave packages marked, "Fragile" like an Olympic shot putter more that 15 yards to land somewhere near the (hopefully correct) customer's front door. "Delete."

Of course, this is just a small sample of the useless drivel that lands in my email. However, I can't complain too much, because after all, a lot of what I write that ends up on the internet probably also deserves a...."Delete"

Trash compiled.Hoarders without borders.Theres a fine line between wants and needs.Please tell me.Do I need to be told what i want or what I need?I need a fix.A fix?What’s broken?The line that separates my wants and needs.I recently deleted my EMAILS and it put ASMILE on my cafe,I mean face.Actually that’s usually when I delete when I’m over caffeinated?.You see I’m not a morning person,I cannot handle too much info at once.Then I have my coffee and my brain dry freezes then it infuses and now I can think.

I need to be stimulated to think.

Some people can wake up to silence.

I can’t ,I need a distraction,six or eight hours is enough!

I’m a morning person,when I control the sights and sounds.

An alarming morning Can be a beep and a blink or no messages.

I know it’s just a phone!

I never realized how much my head goes in a spin when I lose my phone!

True story.

Earlier this year,in the morning.Surprise surprise.

I was looking for my phone.

My neighbor calls me.I tell him I can’t talk to you right now,I’m looking for my phone!

He says,well call me when you find it.

I guess my neighbour isn’t a morning person as well.

I‘m here sitting in my chair waiting for my coffee in incomplete darkness and silence.

I turn of my phone to give my eyes a rest.

Shit! I think the lights are gone!

I turn the flashlight on my phone to find my phone.

Wheres that beeping sound coming from?!Aah the smell Of early early morning coffee.

He was destitute, without hope, and a loser at life. He drove off the only woman who had ever taken an interest in him. But he still knew the world existed, with or without him. because there were those who were trying to contact him. But everything landed in his email's junk folder.

Yet, maybe...just maybe someone cared. Maybe someone was reaching out to him.

But probably not, he sighed. He was still bitter about that Nigerian prince who had what was left of his saving. He would miss his mortgage payment. And what he had learned from over half a million dollars in student debt was that it didn't matter whether he was here or not.

Not.

He contemplated it. Everything pointed to his ending it all. He was at the breaking point. If he were to suffer just one more reason to leave this Earth, be given just one more indication he should do it now, he wouldn't be able to resist. He'd hit critical mass in suicidal ideation. What would be that last thing? he wondered.

He opened his email's trash bin, and the very first one he saw, the most recent one—as if it were a direct response to his question—he read:

Complimentary cremation discount offer.

Of course, it was meant to be marketing an estate-planning strategy. But it made even more sense for him to—as the offer read—take advantage of this smart opportunity because, even better, there was no interest nor any payment due for 12 months.

It was a time-sensitive offer, he realized.

You thought this was your school email? Silly you! It's a device for TurnoutPAC to reach you through. What they're so happy about, no one really knows. They talk politics from a progressive angle, and, in the five months they've been emailing you non-stop, there's been no good news. So enjoy deleting more reminders of the political state of things. You can try to unsubscribe, but they'll continue to email you about random political rambling.

Hello. Welcome to QNN Evening News. I’m Hirrient Tril. Breaking as we come on the air, on this very busy news night:

--Horrific 2-car crash kills 14 and injures dozens of others.

--The NAACP balks at the administration’s recommendation to change its name.

--TikTok goes to half-speed operations while the new deadline approaches for shutdown or sale.

--The recent executive order dismissing all of those working in the Unemployment Office sets a new bar for irony.

--Explosive scandal rocks the National Bridge-on-the-River Choir.

--More worms found in RFK, Jr.’s head.

--Marvel superhero movies blamed for autism spectrum disorder.

Those are the latest understandings, mis-, or not. And now, for the revisions:

A horrible car crash involving only 2 cars has killed 14 people and injured dozens of others. At first, it was suspected that the colliding cars had landed on a group of pedestrians to account for that number of casualties. On the scene is QNN correspondent, Suzy Sucklipz. Suzy?

“Thanks, Hirrient. Yes, it was assumed the two cars had struck an entire crowd of Democrats, but after the facts emerged, the incident was found to have involved at least one clown car, which could easily explain the number of those killed and injured.”

What about the other car? Any details?

“The other car initially was felt to have had no survivors, as it was eerily silent for some time, until first responders identified its occupants as three mimes, still buckled in and gesticulating wildly. Keeping them in the car were imaginary glass barriers they pointed out using the flattened palms of their hands.”

And the clowns who survived?

“Well, with so many casualties, this presented quite the logistics problem in getting them all to hospitals. Currently, we’re still waiting for a clown-ambulance, which has only been used once before, after that Big Top collapse catastrophe 14 years ago.”

I remember that. What a circus!

“You bet, Hirrient. Three rings. Although the clowns crawling out of the carnage were cited with a ‘too-soon’ clown offense when they were seen to have their pants down. As you know, the penalty for such a clown crime calls for mandatory shoe deflation.”

Sad, Suzy. Just sad. Now for politics. The NAACP has rebuked strongly a call to change its name because of many critics who have complained that they considered “colored people” to be derogatory. Its executive committee had especially harsh words for the White House recommendation, the NAAYP, or the “National Association for the Advancement of You People.” Covering our political beat is our own, Notso Fatso. Notso?

“Yes, Hirrient. Were they angry! When the press secretary was asked, as a rhetorical question that went right over her head, “What people,” she only responded, “You know what people. Everyone knows what people, am I right? When asked about the possibility of NAAWP, or the National Association of We People, the dwarves lobby objected.

Notso Fatso, at the White House. Back to you.”

There’s no pleasing some people, Nosto.

“What do you mean, some people, Hirrient? Ha ha.”

Ha Ha. In other news, TikTok is making contingency plans for its postponed demise. As a show of good faith, it has begun operating at half-capacity, offering only the Tik portion of its platform. The German subscribers are particularly upset, bringing their grievances to the EU, saying, “Vee hab vays of makink them Tok.” Some have called for breaking it up, due to it being accused of being a monopoly, into Tik and Tok. But that’s really a little tit for tat. Meanwhile, the clock’s also running on their copyright infringement suit against Tic Tac.

The Department of Irony (DOI) has issued a red-flag sarcasm warning now that all the management positions of the National Unemployment Office have been given notice of their pending dismissals. “Where will we all go now?” asked CEO Tempero Fugit. “I mean, once we’re gone.” We here at QNN answer, “Who cares?”

The Bridge-on-the-River Choir has hit a sour note now that its choir has been rocked by disharmony. While the sheet music is still pending, the choir conductor has been treated for decrescendo. Rising to the position from humble beginnings as a solo castrato, he was quoted as saying, “It’s not really all about the bass,” but only dogs that have been neutered could hear him, which may even top the irony from the Unemployment debacle.

More to come on this very busy news night. Wormipedes were found in RFK, Jr.’s head, this time several feet long and from the 6th dimension. And the American Pediatrics Association has published its findings on how Marvel superhero movies are contributing to the rise in autism spectrum disorder. The Hulk fires back, right after these messages.

Ian slipped on a banana peel, and his bottom hit the ground— HARD. None of the children gave even the slightest snicker. All of them carried on with their daily chores. Sasha came tumbling down the stairs- her newly found method of speedier moving than crawling, or walking. This, too, did not seem to faze the other kids. They continued to carry out their tasks~ but as soon as Ian went to open the front door…a grand burst of laughter proceeded out of the McGregor villa. Ian had had enough, and was ready to storm back in when he was greeted by a little birdie. It cooed, and cooed. Ian tried to shoo it away. Then it began to laugh. This was now all too much for Ian. He ran toward the little birdie and took a dive trying to grab a hold of it. The little birdie flapped its wings, and took off into the beautiful indigo cotton candy like evening sky. Ian had landed in a pile of the McGregor’s cow dung. What a day he was having! He took a deep breath, and tried to calm his nerves. This had been quite an arduous time for him. Not only had he been instructed to watch over the McGregor hyper bunch, but he had to also make sure that even their livestock- including the indoor and outdoor pets- had to be all taken extra care of. Ian stared at his reflection in the front entrance glass door. In his current state, he looked like some kind of manny who just happened to have finished performing a circus act- either being chased by a pack of cackling hyenas, or swimming in a tank full of great white sharks. This was the end of trying to be a serious manny. Maybe he would just have to work on being hired as a birthday clown for children in other parts of the village, or at least further away from the McGregor estate.

https://youtu.be/lvPvBTSr-mc?si=BzCOi0gA1kmXf0YM

Sunday 01.26.2025 #TheManny.

An accidental submarine run in, that's all it took. They happened to be nuclear subs, one American, one Russian. In a split second the world was immersed in nuclear war. The stockpiling began; the naive went for food and toilet paper, those more aware geiger counters or dosometers, and the batteries required to keep the functioning. The devices and batteries stored in every possible location to attempt assurance one would survive if they survived to use them. Most of the immediate deaths happened in the first forty eight hours. Missles were launched at all major cities and nuke stockpiles immediately when war was declared. Most were vaporized before they could clock what was happening, more still died of radiation burns so severe, their flesh was no longer connected to their bones. A small number suffered the slow, agonizing demise of radiation sickness. The length of their suffering diminished but worsened by the lack of medical care. These unlucky souls were caught up in the explosions at stockpile sites because these were the only ones that created substantial fallout.

That was it, the war was over. It ended faster than it started since the countries involved were immediately annihilated after years of stalemate.

What survivors there were sought sanctuary in less affected regions. Rural healthcare infrastructure was easily overwhelmed by survivors in desperate need of care they weren't equipped to provide. The extent of irradiated land is too vast to create monitered exclusion zones, especially since the government and economy are in shambles. Survivors hoard geiger counters to this day and pull them out when trecks to the old cities are undertaken in remembrance of the day forever etched into their minds. Country borders are used as checkpoints crossed only after radiological briefings. Permission is limited to survivors, ever since the decontamination efforts were abandoned. I've heard stories from survivors who have dared to return of the wildlife that thrives in the absence of humans. The former territories of the Russian Federation and the United States of America serve as vast reminders of what happens when countries have nuclear stockpiles.

Before anything else... this has to be said.

Miss Caroline Lenore insists that future scholars the future people who read about these incursions after the fact...

That she-- at fourteen years old-- genuinely had no idea how she ended up among Coven meetings for a Cold guerrilla war that had never been meant to break the oh-so frail veil shielding the unnatural, unexplainable to mortal eyes.

Therein was the first lie then, Caroline Lenore would write.

Incursions of witches against werewolves, moving against the scattered cabals of Vampire lands and drafting prophets across Europe in chains, it'd never been against France as a country.

There was no war-- should not be recorded-- as a war of France against Sweden and small, isolated holdings deep in Italy.

Perhaps there'd been an entirely unseen, unknowing third Party of provoking humans, perhaps they'd been the ones a little too close to the Covens, they'd sold plants that turned out to poison their potions and medical salves unknowing that they'd take lives.

Possibly the Wolves had had no choice but to expand their territories what with four cubs being born to a pair.

No one entirely knows how or if the wailing souls-- Ghosts-- even joined the conflict to begin with.

All Caroline Lenore knew is that she tried to focus on the good that came from befriending Yvette Evers. A witch-in-training from Petit Epee Way.

They claim that American’s have no culture when they’re the ones lacking in culture…

When they come to this country their morals and values are gone. They say it’s because “American women are just giving it away”.

Are they really? Or are the ’Greater Middle Eastern “men”’pretending to be interested to get into a white woman’s pants?

Aren’t they the ones selling the stories? I doubt they’re the ones who approach women by simply and honestly saying, “I just want to fuck” because according to them that’s “distasteful”. But if the women here are whores then why are they so concerned with logistics?

When they go to their country they can’t fuck around because their government and their people would kill them. They don’t do what they want in the mother land because of their culture?

Hypocrisy is when someone cries wolf while wearing sheep’s skin.

My counter arguments always begin and end with the cold and hard facts;

Culture is something that’s engrained into one’s soul; culture is not a jacket you hang up when it’s convenient, culture is something you love and admire, not something you disregard like the shit that comes out of the asshole.

These “greater” men are the worst of cowards, and I’m disgusted that we gift them our love, so they can boast about how much better they are than others.

They respect nothing and no one—they aren’t even worthy of being called pigs. Perhaps this is why they haven’t the stomach to eat the holy swine.

They have no integrity and they have no culture because they disown it when they leave their country.

Then they go back and marry their women—and feed them the leftovers.

And they proudly state that they respect women, but that women in America don’t respect themselves—but lying and cheating to get the prize, doesn’t really make anyone a winner.