The Alien Agenda is to Shove Hot Pokers up your Bum
Anal Probes Were Just the Foreplay
Let’s rip the tinfoil hat off right now: if the alien agenda exists, it’s not peace, love, and anal probes. It’s chaos, indifference, or a galactic sense of humor far too advanced for our small-brained species. And yes, possibly hot pokers. Straight up Uranus. Oh and… spoiler: No lube.
Just an FYI, this post was originally written in 2017, right before I went fully around the bend. The kind of spiral that ends in a memoir, a few confused therapists (not mine), and a mild obsession with identifying narcissists in the wild. But don’t worry, I’ve since come full circle and now pass as moderately functional. These days, I write about gloriously unhinged topics like the dark tetrad (hint: not a broken Rubik’s Cube), emotional war crimes committed by men wearing fake charm and stolen underwear, and the strange spiritual overlap between glory holes and priest confessionals. You’re welcome.
The Alien Agenda: Total Indifference or Cosmic Comedy?
There are three kinds of people on Earth:
- The ones who believe aliens are coming to save us.
- The ones who think they’re here to destroy us.
- The rest of us, who think we’re probably too boring for either.
Let’s get this straight. If there is an alien agenda, they’re not sending diplomats. They’re either observing us like a cosmic car crash or ignoring us like ants on a sidewalk. Which, honestly, is generous.
Most of us can’t even spell Zeta Reticuli without autocorrect.
What If We’re Just a Galactic Punchline?
Picture it: a smoky alien boardroom, somewhere deep in the Horsehead Nebula. One of them says, “Let’s drop a bunch of barely functioning mammals on a volatile planet, give them nukes, and see what happens.”
Another alien, laughing through its three thoraxes: “And let’s make sure one of them invents Facebook.”
Cue applause. And somewhere in that smoke-filled room, the hot poker bum plan is born.
Alien Agenda or Interstellar Drunk Text?
Maybe the alien agenda wasn’t planned. Maybe we were a cosmic mistake. Like a drunk ex dropping their emotional baggage on your lawn and ghosting you forever. Maybe Earth is the alien equivalent of, “Oops, wrong planet.”
We keep looking to the skies like they owe us something.
Meanwhile, they’re busy terraforming some other poor rock, while occasionally cruising by to flash their headlights and abduct a cow for old times’ sake.
If They Did Care, They’d Have Stopped Us by Now
Let’s be real. If the alien agenda involved helping humanity, they would’ve stepped in somewhere between the invention of leaded gasoline and whatever the fuck X (formerly Twitter) is now. But no. They’re just up there, watching us melt glaciers, elect sociopaths with TikTok filters, and build sex robots modeled after Elon Musk. Because apparently nothing screams “desirable” like the facial expression of a man explaining crypto to a hostage.
And let’s not pretend that’s the worst of it. We’re printing digital monkey art, drinking mushroom coffee, and calling it enlightenment while billionaires play Barbie Dreamhouse with the moon. If aliens were hoping to make contact, they’ve definitely ghosted us by now. Probably swiped left on the whole damn species.
This is not a species you intervene to save. This is a species you place bets on from a safe distance.
They Came, They Saw, They Shoved Things
Nothing. Everything. Possibly just to poke fun at us. Or poke us with fun. Probably both. Sometimes makes you wonder who named it Uranus to begin with.
Maybe the alien agenda is just cosmic background noise, the distant laughter of a species who once visited Earth, watched us eat Tide Pods, and noped the hell out.
But if you want the truth?
The alien agenda is to watch us unravel. And occasionally, just for kicks, shove hot pokers up our metaphorical (and possibly literal) bums. They’ve got Milky Way popcorn and front row seats.
If this made you laugh, spiral, or scream into your cereal, you might be ready for Circle in the Sand, my intergalactic meltdown disguised as a sci-fi novel. Available on amazon. And if you’ve ever had dreams of grey men with pokers, you probably qualify for a loyalty card.