TIME TO WRESTLE ALIENS

The imperative is inescapable, and thus I am unable to comment on much that is currently rushing through my mind, not least of which is whether, in the context of such a conflict, I myself might, in fact, be the alien, since humanity seems fundamentally a state of mind and not an especially amusing one at that. But that, in turn, begs the question -- should I turn out be alien, would I merely be a Metalunan with the elevated forehead or a full-blown Mutant? I fear that Gaius Baltar may turn out to be my hero for 2007, especially since they shot him up with the green acid. I still, of course, have to metastasize a tall invisible blonde with a glowing spine, and, so far, all I have managed is a six-foot alcoholic rabbit. But now I must go and yet again attempt to turn this cerebral dysfunction into a viable commodity. Such is the condition of my condition and the penalty of my profession.

In the meantime, Doug the Bass sent over Reg Kehoe and his Marimba Queens. Keep watching the bass player! Keep watching the bass player!