UFOs are, in fact, real.


They do not know I exist. They do not know I’ve been present during their zoom meetings. I cannot disclose exactly how I’ve been able to infiltrate their sect lest I be compromised. However, it may involve two paper cups, one placed near the computer of a satirist, the other held over my ear, and between them a long tubing. If you are walking down Skinker, and you see what you first assume is a hose stretching yonder over the horizon—like a nerve in the giant eye of Earth—do not disturb it. I have had a couple miscreants of the most corrupt and juvenile nature interfere with it through acts so morbid that I am forbidden from torturing the reader by delving any further into this matter. This being so, it may have concerned one of these tricky culprits aligning the tube to their rectum.

         I’m sorry, I seem to have digressed. But you, reader, should know that I am in possession of transcripts of these little rendezvous of theirs, in which they say the most blasphemous things. I wonder if any of them have any real stake in what they write, really even care about what they say generally. I wonder whether or not their mouths are but loose portals out of which they allow any secondary aloofness to emerge until—once they have been together long enough—they are but drowning in a sea of their own nonsense. They cannot help themselves, the fools. 


03-02-21  00:43:02:58  WUndermeeting 006

Unidentified satirist 1: “What about an article about someone infiltrating the newspaper? That could be funny.”

Unidentified satirist 2: “No. I don’t think so.”


         They’ve found me out! They’ve got me! They’ve tied me up and so I am dictating this onto my laptop with my fancy earphones and smartphone. If they were real journalists who had ever questioned the risks of their profession and therefore imagined what it would take to censor them, they would have known to check my earholes for this vogue device: the wireless earphones. I have the younger generation to thank for inspiring me to wear them. As I compose this masterwork, I am beginning to feel increasingly ambivalent about their age group. 

I do not know quite where I am, but it is dark. I have no food or good books and the only thing keeping me from delirium is the classic rock playlist I have on shuffle. However, I anticipate that soon enough that playlist will reach its end and then…restart. I am mentally preparing to not-stop belie-vin’, even on its one millionth repeat.