What I'd Say to the Martians (3 page)

P
eople of Mars, you say we are brutes and savages. But let me tell you one thing: if I could get loose from this cage you have me in, I would tear you guys a new Martian asshole.

You say we are violent and barbaric, but has any one of you come up to my cage and extended his hand? Because, if he did, I would jerk it off and eat it right in front of him. “Mmm, that’s good Martian,” I would say.

You say your civilization is more advanced than ours. But who is really the more “civilized” one: you, standing there watching this cage, or me, with my pants down, trying to urinate on you?

You criticize our Earth religions, saying they have no relevance to the way we actually live. But think about this: if I could get my hands on that god of yours, I would grab his skinny neck and choke him until his big green head exploded.

We are a warlike species, you claim, and you show me films of Earth battles to prove it. But I have seen all the films about twenty times. Get some new films, or so help me, if I ever get out of here I will empty my laser pistol on everyone I see, even pets.

Speaking of films, I could show you some films, films that show a different, gentler side of Earth. And while you’re watching the films I sort of slip away, because guess what? The projector is actually a thing that shoots out spinning blades! And you fell for it!

You point to your long tradition of living peacefully with Earth. But you know what I point to? Your stupid heads.

You say that there is much your civilization could teach ours. But perhaps there is something that I could teach you—namely, how to scream like a parrot when I put your big Martian head in a vise.

You claim there are other intelligent beings in the galaxy besides Earthlings and Martians. Good, then we can attack them together. And after we’re through attacking them, we’ll attack you.

I came here in peace, seeking gold and slaves. But you have treated me like an intruder. Maybe it is not me who is the intruder, but you. No, not me—you, stupid.

You keep my body imprisoned in this cage. But I am able to transport my mind to a place far away, a happier place, where I use Martian heads for batting practice.

I admit that sometimes I think we are not so different after all. When you see one of your old ones trip and fall down, do you not point and laugh, just as we do? And I think we can agree that nothing is more admired by the people of Earth and Mars alike than a fine, high-quality cigarette. For fun, we humans like to ski down mountains covered with snow; you like to “milk” bacteria off of scum hills and pack them into your gill slits. So are we so different? Of course we are, and you will be even more different if I ever finish my homemade flame thrower.

You may kill me, either on purpose or by not making sure that all the surfaces in my cage are safe to lick. But you can’t kill an idea. And that idea is: me chasing you with a big wooden mallet.

You say you will release me only if I sign a statement saying I will not attack you. And I have agreed, the only condition being that I can sign with a long sharp pen. And yet you still keep me locked up.

True, you have allowed me reading material—not the “human reproduction” magazines I requested, but the works of your greatest philosopher, Zandor or Zanax or whatever his name is. I would like to discuss his ideas with him—just me, him, and one of his big, heavy books.

If you will not free me, at least deliver a message to Earth. Send my love to my wife, and also to my girlfriend. And also to my children, if I have any anyplace. Ask my wife to please send me a bazooka, which is a flower we have on Earth. If my so-called friend Don asks you where the money I owe him is, please anally probe him. Do that anyway.

If you keep me imprisoned long enough, eventually I will die. Because one thing you Martians do not understand is, we humans cannot live without our freedom. So if you see me lying lifeless in my cage, come on in, because I’m dead. Really.

Maybe one day we will not be the enemies you make us out to be. Perhaps one day a little Earth child will sit down to play with a little Martian child, or larva, or whatever they are. But after a while, guess what happens: the little Martian tries to eat the Earth child. But guess what the Earth child has: a gun. You weren’t expecting that, were you? And now the Martian child is running away, as fast as he can. Run, little Martian baby, run!

I would like to thank everyone for coming to my cage to hear my speech. Donations are gratefully accepted. (No Mars money, please.)

A
s you may have heard, I have very high standards. When people see me do something, they often shake their heads in disbelief. That’s how high my standards are.

But lately I’ve been wondering if maybe they’re not
too
high. Am I pushing myself too hard? Do I always have to be the one everybody looks up to? Are my high standards hurting my happiness and things like that?

Why, for instance, do I always have to be the first one to show up at a party and the last one to leave? And while I’m at the party is it really so important that I tell the dirtiest joke? A lot of times, I’m the only one telling a dirty joke, so it’s not even that big an accomplishment. And if someone else does tell a dirty joke, why do I feel compelled to tell one that is even dirtier and more graphic? Just so I can be number one?

Why do I sometimes feel like I should get “a job” or do some kind of “work”? Does thinking about maybe getting a job make me better than other people? Am I worried that if I quit borrowing money from my friends they’ll think I’m stuck-up?

Why do I have to be the honest one? Do people really want you to be that honest about how old they look or how big their breasts are?

When I catch my foot and stumble on the sidewalk, why do I have to pretend to keep stumbling, all the way down the street? To avoid embarrassment?

At every get-together, why do I have to do my funny cowboy dance? Why not do a dance that isn’t so demanding, like my funny robot dance or just funny prancing?

Is it really my responsibility that half-empty glasses of beer not be wasted?

Whenever there’s a scary sound at night, why do I have to do all the screaming? Maybe somebody else can scream and cry and beg for mercy, for a change.

Would the world really fall apart if I didn’t point out to people which are the regular goldfish and which are the bug-eyed ones? Let them figure it out on their own.

Why does it have to be me who ends up asking how much someone paid for something?
Everyone
is curious.

Could a sock really be a parachute for a mouse? Maybe not, but does that mean I have to stand up in the middle of the movie theater and start booing?

Why do I always have to be the one who sums up what was just said, or explains to the children what Hell is, or calls the meeting to order?

These are all questions I would never even have asked myself until that incident with Don. Every day my friend Don and I would see who could trip each other the most times. But then one day I tripped him and he fell and broke his jaw. He looked up and, with slurred speech, said, “I guess you win.” But what did I win? I didn’t win anything, and you know why? Because I forgot to make a bet with him. But something else was wrong, and I knew it. Why did I want to trip Don in the first place? To show how clever I was, or how brave, or how successful? Yes, all of those things. So I guess that answers that.

Still, something about it bothered me. I decided to drive up to a cabin in the mountains. For a week, all I did was sit and think and watch a lot of television. How, I agonized during the commercial breaks, did I get such high standards? Was it something from my childhood, or my fraternity-hood? Was it from another lifetime, when I was in another fraternity? I wondered if my high standards were leading me to a heart attack. Then I thought, Yes, but it’ll be the biggest heart attack anyone’s ever had. I wondered if it was even possible for a person like me to lower his standards. Then I wondered if they still make Bosco. I became so confused and frustrated I began smashing things in the cabin. I wound up running headlong into the woods in panic when the people who owned the cabin suddenly showed up.

As I drove back to civilization (as you squares call it), I had already made a momentous decision: I would keep thinking about the possibility of lowering my standards. Maybe, just maybe, I don’t always have to do things so perfectly. Maybe when I ask someone a question I don’t always have to begin it with the words “Pray tell.” Perhaps I don’t have to wear the fanciest fanny pack that money can buy. And when I’m at a dinner party, maybe I don’t need to sniff every piece of food before I eat it. In short, perhaps I should worry less about doing the right thing and more about doing the right
thang,
whatever that means.

People may worry, “Isn’t there a danger that if you start lowering your standards they’ll go too low?” As far as I’m concerned, they can’t go low enough.

T
he first thing you want to do, after catching a wild rabbit, is to calm the rabbit down. A panicked rabbit does not make for a pleasurable dining experience. It taints it. Pet the rabbit. Maybe say something soothing, like “Easy, Brownie, easy” (if the rabbit is brown) or “Easy, Gray Boy, easy” (if the rabbit is gray). You might just say, “Easy, little bunny.” (But really, can’t you come up with some kind of name besides “bunny”?)

Feel the belly. It should be plump and fuzzy. But skinny is fine too. Feel the ears. They should be soft and pink. Man, I love the ears.

If you like your rabbit spicy, try rubbing him with wild sage or wild mint.

Place the rabbit on a rock with good drainage. Next, take out a long, sharp butcher knife. Try not to let the rabbit see the knife. You may not want to look at the knife yourself, as some of them are kind of scary-looking.

Hold the rabbit down firmly with one hand. With the other hand, take a carrot out of your backpack. Still holding the rabbit, place the carrot on the rock and slice it with the butcher knife. Then feed the carrot pieces to the rabbit. If the rabbit doesn’t eat all the pieces, feel free to eat the leftovers.

Let the rabbit go. For fun, throw the knife at a tree trunk, to see if you can make it stick, like Jim Bowie or something.

(P.S. The reason you want a rock with good drainage is in case he pees.)

I
f you ever fall off the Sears Tower, just go real limp, because maybe you’ll look like a dummy and people will try to catch you because, hey, free dummy.

When I found the skull in the woods, the first thing I did was call the police. But then I got curious about it. I picked it up, and started wondering who this person was, and why he had deer horns.

It’s easy to sit there and say you’d like to have more money. And I guess that’s what I like about it. It’s easy. Just sitting there, rocking back and forth, wanting that money.

It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.

To me, it’s a good idea to always carry two sacks of something when you walk around. That way, if anybody says, “Hey, can you give me a hand?” you can say, “Sorry, got these sacks.”

Consider the daffodil. And while you’re doing that, I’ll be over here, looking through your stuff.

To me, clowns aren’t funny. In fact, they’re kind of scary. I’ve wondered where this started, and I think it goes back to the time I went to the circus and a clown killed my dad.

I believe in making the world safe for our children, but not our children’s children, because I don’t think children should be having sex.

To me, boxing is like a ballet, except there is no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.

If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let ’em go, because, man, they’re gone.

One thing kids like is to be tricked. For instance, I was going to take my little nephew to Disneyland, but instead I drove him to an old burned-out warehouse. “Oh, no,” I said, “Disneyland burned down.” He cried and cried, but I think that deep down, he thought it was a pretty good joke. I started to drive over to the real Disneyland, but it was getting pretty late.

Anytime I see something screech across a room and latch onto someone’s neck, and the guy screams and tries to get it off, I have to laugh, because what is that thing?!

E
instein was riding high. He had already made Newton look like a fool and was playing FDR for a sucker. Capone was a wily gangster who had figured how to turn booze and prostitution into things people wanted. Friends kept telling each of them, “You’ve got to meet Einstein,” “You’ve got to meet Capone.” So finally they did meet, at a costume party.

“Listen, Einstein,” said Capone, who came as a hobo, “I think we should join forces. With your brains and my muscle we’ll be unstoppable.”

Einstein, who was dressed as Tarzan, replied, “But what about my muscles?” There was an awkward moment of silence where Capone and his henchmen stared down at the floor. One of the henchmen cleared his throat but didn’t say anything.

At first Einstein and Capone didn’t get along. Einstein found Capone too “brusque,” and Capone was always pulling out his gun and making Einstein “dance.” But eventually they formed a bond so strong that people think I am making it up.

Their favorite joke was to have someone ask them which one was Capone and which one was Einstein, and they would both point at each other. They were like a couple of slaphappy kids, going around slapping people. If you got slapped by Capone, there wasn’t much you could do about it. And if Einstein slapped you, you’d go, “Wow, slapped by Einstein.”

But then, things deteriorated. There was the time the two of them tried to move an upright piano up a long flight of steps, resulting in a series of setbacks and false starts. And in the end it turned out to be the wrong address. Capone grabbed Einstein by the lapels and told him never to tell anyone.

Einstein started wondering if people really believed his theories or they were just afraid of getting beat up by Capone. Capone thought Einstein lived in a dream world while he, Capone, had to put on a suit each day and go out and try to make a living.

So Einstein and Capone reluctantly agreed to part company. No one really knows what they said to each other that day as they walked through the park. But onlookers would have noticed that they took a wrong turn down a path and wound up at a dead end kind of a thing where they tried to cut through and got stuck in the branches of some shrubs. There was some cursing and a few cries for help, but then both of them finally emerged into a sort of gully area before climbing up a steep embankment to get back on the path.

Years later, when Einstein heard Capone was dying of syphilis, he cried. When Capone heard about Einstein’s hair, how wild and frizzy it had gotten, he laughed. Little did either one of them know that watching them that day in the park, with a pair of binoculars, was the man who would be responsible for both their deaths: Nixon.