“Coming right up. Pull up a stool and tell me about your Memorial Day weekend.”

“I’d rather stand, thank you. You see, it, er_ It happened again.”

“Really? You don’t say. Where? When?”

“Down on old Independent Promoter road late Friday night.”

“Nobody ever goes out there anymore.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why it’s a good short cut.”


“It was like they were waiting for me. I had just passed the SFX turnout when my engine died. I looked up and there it was.”

“The flying saucer?”

“Uh, uh. It was landing on the road right in front of me. Then two aliens emerged from the ship, about five-feet, five, and as bald as Moby.”

“Then what?”

“It was just like last time. I was paralyzed. They walked up and told me to get out of the car. Then they took me into their ship.”

“Wow. What was it like?”

“The inside was covered with posters. There was The Cult, REO Speedwagon, even Ozzfest.”

“That’s amazing. What happened next?”

“Oh, the usual. They put me on the examination table where they poked and prodded me. Then they sold me concert tickets for all the summer tours, like Green Day, Dwight Yoakam and Wotapalava featuring Pet Shop Boys, Sinead O’Connor and Rufus Wainwright.”

“Good seats?”

“The best.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. Say, are you sure you don’t want a bar stool to sit on?”

“I’m sure. You see, right after they sold me all those concert tickets, including Tim McGraw and Madonna, while I was still on that examination table…”


“They gave me the service charge probe.”

“Oooh, that must have stung.”

“Tell me about it. I won’t be able to sit down for a week.”