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Me and Brett and the Aliens
It happened sometime during the summer of 1997. My recollection of the events is a little bit fuzzy because the memory itself is now old enough to buy a drink, and I never bothered to write it down … besides, who would write something like this down? It might prove embarrassing later.
At any rate, that was the summer between my high school graduation and starting college, and I was working as an intern in the lab at my father’s office. My folks had left for the week on a trip and taken my younger sister with them, so I was watching the house by myself. After I got home that night (again, I can’t recall if it was a Monday … but whatever) I went about my business of sorting out the animals and fixing some food. That’s when I got an unexpected knock on our door.
This was unusual because we lived in the country on a five-acre lot and a person seeking out our door intentionally was no accident. I was surprised to be faced with a clean-shaven, dark-haired stranger when I opened the door. I asked him his business and he explained that his name was Brett and that he was a principal lawyer in the Justice Department doing work for the Ken Starr investigation. I didn’t know who this Brett guy was at the time, but I knew all about the problems the Clinton Administration was having with the President’s zipper.
At any rate, Brett explained that his car was broken down and he needed to use our phone (there were no cell phones of convenient size or economy in those ancient times, you see) so I allowed him to enter the house and showed him the phone. He duly used it along with our phone book to find a towing company and asked if he could await their arrival inside. He left the phone book open to the page with the towing company on the roll-top desk next to the phone.
Glad to have company for a few minutes, I accepted and offered him food (a Schwann’s single-serving, microwaveable pizza; weird how some details are so distinct yet others aren’t!) and he asked me about myself and my plans for life. I explained to him that I planned to attend engineering college that fall and that I was very excited about my prospects there. He nodded gravely and laughed about some of the guys he knew from Yale who had gone down a similar technical path. He seemed nice, and interested in my future.
It was getting dark, and out of the corner of my eye I saw what I thought were the lights of a tow truck coming up the road … and this is where things get … weird. I took it for granted that the tow truck driver was going to come and collect Brett and take him back to his car, but when Brett looked out the window a great change came over him. His eyes bugged out of his head unpleasantly and he began to sweat profusely. He groaned under his breath (I don’t even know if he thought I could hear him) “Oh no … not again.…” His eyes began searching around the kitchen as if to find a place to hide or a place to run.
Something else weird happened then too: it was almost as if time itself began to crystallize around us, with insubstantial moments being stretched and warped into their individual seconds which you could practically marvel at and observe passing; like drops of rain in a slow-motion downpour. The lights outside the house, which I had initially thought were coming down the driveway took on a different character as well, and instead seemed to be coming from everywhere.
Brett was now in a state of great distress but rooted to the spot seemingly against his will. In his face was a sort of animal panic but also a great sadness — “I’m so sorry I got you involved in this,” his eyes seemed to plead with me — he didn’t actually say this, but it was the impression that I got from looking at him. I noticed too that I was seemingly incapable of speech. Brett put his hand over my mouth as if to stifle the upwelling scream of horror which was slowly coming up my throat, but it was already far too late: the light became blinding and the last thing I recall is seeing shadowy figures surrounding us. Shadowy figures with willowy arms and cruel, lidless and black eyes. Those eyes … they fill me with dread every time I contemplate them. Like swirling wells of nightmare ink, they draw you downward into them and into yourself. You see things — things no man should have to see with his waking eyes — and then there was a jarring sensation of movement … as if a hook were fastened somewhere near the base of your breastbone yanking you forward … and more horrifically: Upward.
The things that happened … you know, on the ship … I can’t describe them. They’re too horrible for a family website. They can only be summed up thusly:
Ghastly.
When I came to, it was late. Past ten o’clock by my recollection. I was starving and thirsty and convinced myself that I’d just had some sort of a waking nightmare or other sort of delusion. A grand mal seizure, perhaps? But where was Brett? I raced around the house, searching for evidence of his presence, but found nothing. Then I turned in the kitchen and saw the damning evidence right in front of me: the open phone book on the desk. It wasn’t a dream. I had been abducted by aliens. And it was all Brett Kavanaugh’s fault.
Why is it his fault? Clearly, Brett knew that he was being hunted by aliens. What else could explain his reaction to the bizarre chain of events which happened that night? You might say, “That’s ridiculous, Buell. What business did Brett Kavanaugh have in Franktown, Colorado in 1997?” But that’s precisely the thing: He was there because he was trying to get away from the aliens, and in doing so, led them straight to me. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
It was completely reckless on his part to put himself in a position where he ended up getting me abducted by them as well. I only bring this accusation up now because it’s important that we, alien abductee victims are heard — and more importantly, believed.
It doesn’t matter that I have no corroborating evidence or that I’m wheeling these accusations out long after their sell-by date has expired. I’m a victim of Brett Kavanaugh. Twice, in fact. His forthcoming denial of my claims is nothing more than a re-victimization. How dare he deny my claims with his practiced and lawyerly mien?
We must stop Brett Kavanaugh. The next time aliens are following him, the random door he knocks on might be yours.
Published in General
Good God…
Excellent. About as believable and relevant as the story we’re currently hearing. But, are you sure it was Kavanaugh? Sure it wasn’t Chuck Schumer? Or maybe it was a woman…Nancy Pelosi? Oh, well, whomever… The evidence is all the same.
Like I said… it was a long time ago. Memories are funny things, you know? It might have been Ruth Bader Ginsburg for all I know!
Brilliant! Thanks!
You know,………..I think the same thing happened to me!
Yeah! It did, like totally. How could I have forgotten.
Wow. It is clearly a pattern. This guy is a menace.
I can’t believe so few people have anything to say about this brilliant and trenchant satire of our current political scene… What does a guy have to do to get you people to crack a smile?
Wrong crack, dahlink.
Eh???
If you have to ask…
That’s not what I heard. I was told it was consensual. In fact, I was told that there was alcohol involved, a fine Kardashian rum, the good stuff with the green glow, like fluorescent absinthe without the anise.
I did not consent!
Did too. It was that dreamy look in your eyes. Admit the truth dude!
The Alien Bunga Bunga party was not my doing. I was barely involved…
Whoa! Thanks for trusting us with this…and making me smile. You actually jumpstarted some laughter-yoga, too. Fantastic!
Maybe it was the provocative clothing.
Kardashian? Cardassian?
That’s them!
So sorry for you. Whatever he/she/it did could not have been very enjoyable for you.
On the other hand, might have been the ‘ride of my life.’Did he/she/it happen to give you her phone number?Stop hurting the internet!