Man And Woman Eat Space Cookies!

Man And Woman Eat Space Cookies!

“Hey, you wanna… you know…” Her question was as vague as that other thing from before.

“Not tonight. I have a headache.” He shut her down faster than the Giants defense, or, you know, internet porn.

“That’s not what I meant.” She was as indignant as a homeless person in shorts, if you didn’t know what ‘indignant’ meant and thought it meant poor.

“Well what did you mean, then? Huh? What?” He was as inquisitive as a flock of owls at night that said ‘what’ instead of ‘who’.

“I meant the thing that we talked about earlier.” She was as vaguely repetitive as the thing from before, if you did that thing from before one more time without realizing it and no one said anything because they were doing something else from some other time.

“We talked about a lot of things earlier. Which thing did you mean?” He got at the heart of the matter faster than that stuff in that Star Trek reboot movie – you know, the red stuff that could destroy anything but that container it was in?

“Okay, look. We need to build the software program that leads to self-replicating transparent aluminum-ceramic carbon plexi-alloy metallurgy so we can create the spaceship based on the design of the seventh ship in the painting Barriers by Fervin Dooderonomee hanging on the wall over the mantel in the grand ballroom of the Various Parties Convention Center And Cheese Factory.” She was as specific as a specific ocean – specifically, the Atlantic.

“Right. That thing.” He was as understated as an undertaker in his underwear in an underpass under the underground buying underwire bras from Underdog.

“Oh yeah, that thing. That thing is the key to all our fortunes. Or both of them. Or mine, because what the hell are you doing? You can barely tie your shoes, you oaf.” She was as mean as the sum of a number of things divided by that same number of things to arrive at a figure.

“I can’t help that I am missing one lobe of my brain!” He said, absentmindedly.

“That’s right. I’m sorry I snapped at you.” She was as sorry as a Sorry game when you draw a Sorry card and knock off someone on a triangle, sending them back to start, and then knock off two more people as you slide down to the circle, apologizing all the way, and then you accidentally destroy the earth somehow.

“That’s okay. I’ve already forgotten about-” He was interrupted like a couple in bed when their kid comes in to see why Daddy is making Mommy scream in pain and agony, wink wink.

“Doog huns frassassan!” I don’t know what the fuck that meant, and neither did they. We were all as confused as a fudge tree at a Thanksgiving Day parade in February in Madagascar underpants.

“What? Who are you?” The couple questioned the aliens as carefully as a mover tossing a box full of original plates from the Franklin Mint down the stairs to another mover who was on the phone and drunk and looking the other way and in another house.

“Greetings, earthlings, or Frassassan, as we call you. We’ve come for your designs!” The aliens were undoubtedly like something from their home world, but I don’t know what because I’ve never been there, you moron.

“Wait! Fervin Dooderonomee is an alien? From the planet… whatever your planet is?” He made a glorious leap so intuitive and smart that Einstein would cry and throw a huge tantrum, ripping his shirt and kicking a mailbox, and then TP Robert Oppenheimer’s house, light a flaming bag of poo and ring the doorbell and run away, and then piss on Henry Ford’s roses in the dark when he was drunk on Irish Car Bombs and Old Milwaukee Light, if that existed back when he was alive, and he would also use more hair care products and dress in all black and listen to Swing Emo.

“That’s right! It’s a lost recipe that had been lost for as long as loss could have been in the state of not being found for things such as recipes, or anything really, because anything could be lost.” He was as… the alien… yeah, that stuff he just said.

“A recipe? But… it’s a painting. How could a painting of ships and planets and stuff be a recipe? I mean, where’s the cups and spoons and stuff?” The point she made was as good and sharp as bacon is good and my 21-year-old radio is Sharp, except the Sharp isn’t so sharp anymore because for a radio it’s pretty old, but it still works, mostly, so… okay, if bacon were formed into a point and baked in the oven that way, then her point would be as good and sharp as pointy oven-baked bacon, except it would also be smart, and I’m not saying bacon isn’t smart, because it so is, but you know, that’s more in the eating of it, not the bacon itself.

“Yes. A recipe. We are a visual race. The “planets” are the ingredients. The “ships” are the measurements. And the ship you just described is what the cookie looks like.” That seems reasonable. Right? “Of course it does.” Okay, then.

“Well, then you can totally take this painting! I have dozens of photos of it. All I ask is one thing – that we can make a batch of these cookies before you go. Oh, and one more thing – they aren’t, you know, made of metallic ingredients, right?” She was as skeptical as someone who didn’t believe anything at an unbeliever’s convention, which was unbelievable, believe it or not.

“Yes.” The answer was as simple as fucking Jenny McCarthy, who is indeed quite simple, as well as stupid, ridiculous, and an attention whore. “That’s true. We even hate her on other planets.” I’m not surprised, uh, Mr. Alien. “Trellex.” Oh, well, glad to meet you, Trellex. “And I’m Susan.” Susan? “Well, it’s short for Susanoxovntomineotron.” Ah, I see. Well, I’m Edward. “Whoa! Not Edward Hotspur, the universally famous blogger, writer and all-around cool guy!” Yes, that’s me. “Oh, great. I’m in one of your bits. I can’t wait to tell the grandchildren.” I’m no stranger to sarcasm, even alien sarcasm. “Whatevs.”

“So first, you take bleen and grue, and seven abhoos of stingyr, and….blah blah blah, mix mix mix, bake bake bake, bam, cookies.” The aliens cooked the cookies faster than the man had an orgasm during sex. “HEY!” “He’s right, Speedy.” “HEY!” “Actually, our sensors have detected-” “HEYYYYY!!!!!!”

They all ate the cookies, which immediately gave the man and woman superpowers. The woman gained the powers of healing, teleportation and flight. The man gained the power of super speed – surprise, surprise.  “HEY! SHUT UP!” And the aliens moved into the apartment downstairs, using their ability to cook any edible food from any substance to open a Green Restaurant, also conveniently covering their green skins. “No, this is just paint. We’re really pretty much just like humans, only better.” Better how? “Heh heh.”

Oh.

Edward Hotspur

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