Now that cosmic aliens have become commonplace, and in the main taken for granted, certain serious problems have arisen.
I’m not talking about interplanetary marriages. These of course can create hitherto unthought of problems. A human and an alien falling in love is a bit like being besotted by a pet cat. Nothing wrong with loving ones cat. It’s the procreation bit that makes the mess. There are now all sorts of bylaws and mores to govern transplanetary sex. How does an Earthling, for example, have sex with a creature who has… Oh, doesn’t matter…
But it’s the racism that gets to me. As an alien on Earth from the Planet Spectrifica I can only say I have felt the full force of Earthly bigotry many a time. Earthlings used to discriminate against Asians and Blacks and Europeans and any subdivision they cared to create that was governed by looks or beliefs. These days this full-faced vengeance is aimed at aliens from outer space. They cannot accept the fact that every alien from every planet has features Earthlings posit as being ludicrous. Only the other day I saw two Earthling schoolgirls giggling at a Tronkinish who had three belly buttons on his/her forehead. The various races on Earth are now united by their common hatred and scorn of aliens.
That is why I have founded a group that gives voice to protest against these bigotries. It is called ALARM. For the name I simply took the first letter of every word in the name; which seems to be a practice used by the Earthlings. For example there are UN and BLM and USA and UK and NASA and so on. So I settled on ALARM.
ALARM is become increasingly popular with us aliens. We stand together against the ignorance of Earthlings.
Some Earthling asked (on television would you believe): What do the letters of ALARM stand for? I said that ALARM stands for ALIEN LIVES ARE REALLY IMPORTANT. They said that would be ALARI not ALARM. I simply sighed and thought, There they go again. Earthlings continue to impose their restrictive perceptions on every living creature in the Universe. It seems they will never learn. If scrunchers weren’t illegal on this backward planet I’d get one and scrunch the lot.
Mazie’s daughter was Mayzing. Mazie was outraged. Her friend, Tammy, was also a parent at Mayzing’s school. The Hir-Oh-No Academy of Arts was not only expensive; it was the cat’s pyjamas. Tammy’s daughter, Shammy, was studying pianoforte at the Academy.
“It’s a wonderful skill to have, darling” said Tammy to Mazie. Thus it was that Mazie enrolled Mayzing in pianoforte. But what a shock!
“You have no idea,” declared Mazie. “More than half the pianoforte keys were white. There are only five black notes to every seven white notes. But what does one expect when all the composers, like Mozart and Beethoven and Burt Bacharach, had bigotry bred into them? I told Mayzing’s teacher that I wanted her to learn only the black notes. There must be pieces written for just the black notes.”
These days, Mayzing is confused. The only true Black notes are Blues ones.
Gertrude had spent her adulthood thinking. Since early teens she had been interested in philosophy, and several doctorates later she found a job teaching at a university. She worked her way up the ladder and it didn’t take long before she was queen of the roost.
But did she rule with an iron fist! Many thoughts and philosophical insights were banned from her department. Some things are plain wrong, she said, and will not be tolerated. Socrates to start with; his name is not to be mentioned. And indeed such sinful thoughts were not tolerated. Several lecturers lost their jobs. A number of bright students failed. We’re not here to mollycoddle notions of wrongness, she said. Those who don’t agree cannot be defined as philosophers. Philosophy exists to move the world forward in a very specific way.
The university, at her behest, banned Romeo and Juliet for sexism, Othello and The Merchant of Venice for racism, all opera sung by systemically racist Whites – except of course for Verdi’s Otello and Puccini’s Madame Butterfly if the lead parts were sung by Blacks and Asians. The university’s History Department made an attempt to win her favour. Would she lecture in History? She knew how to create facts more amenable to contemporary thought. Likewise, the School of Medicine wanted her to devise a curriculum that stuck to a Science that advanced social justice.
Anyway, one day, while walking from the staff cafeteria to the staff recreation room, she dropped dead. As Mrs. Smith of 24 Shirley Crescent in the suburbs observed: Is there a God or is there a God?
My name is Margot. I don’t think much of the new neighbours. For starters, they are foreigners and don’t fit well into the area. In fact they lower the tone of the suburb considerably. Not that I’ve anything against foreigners, but when people come to a country that is not theirs they should make some effort to fit in; meld into the surroundings. You’d think they would; that’s what rats do. Peacocks strut around, and when a peacock shows off and spreads its tail you can see its arsehole. These people strut around like they own the place.
The new neighbours, so I heard, are Antoinette and Leon from Beijing or somewhere. China anyway. You can tell these things even though they’ve taken Western names. I thought communists were meant to be not so well off, but you should see their three cars! And the house they live in (I presume they rent and don’t own, though why the landlord thinks it’s okay to rent to communists I have no idea) is one of the most lavish houses in our neighbourhood. And that’s saying something. They’ve got three young children. No wonder the world is overrun.
Here comes the one called Antoinette up my path now. Presumably she’s going to ask for a cup of noodles or something! Chop! Chop!
Ching Chong Chinaman Coming up my path I shall pretend to be foreign Just for a laugh.
“Hello. My name’s Antoinette. I’m the new neighbour. I thought I’d come over and introduce myself.”
“When you come from China?”
“When you come from China to dis place?”
“From China? I didn’t. My family have been here since 1824.”
Almost an entire section of New York was in darkness after an electrical explosion put a stop to trains and traffic lights. What a shemozzle! And the mayor of the city wasn’t even in town. No one could cook their dinner. It was useless going out to eat as the restaurants too were without power. Theatre performances ground to a halt. Nancy Tubman, the rising darling of Broadway, was half way through singing “Somewhere over the…” when the blackout hit. For two and a half hours residents were subjected to darkness. One can only imagine the havoc that will ensue once the Russians gain the power to flick a switch on the entire city. Congresswoman, Eliza Muktha Zaiton, from California said, “This power blackout in parts of a suburb of New York was yet another manifestation of global warming and of the racism that has gripped the country. So step up and shut up.” Hector Tronkwell of the Hollywood Actors’ Union said that “This effing halting of effing Nancy effing Tubman, the effing rising effing darling of effing Broadway, half way through her effing song was yet another effing example of where we are effing at.”
Not the Breaking News:
Mrs. Claudia Jones said she had been living in a tent on the street with her three children for four months now. With winter fast approaching Congresswoman, Eliza Muktha Zaiton, from California, said something needs to be done to fight the cold so she is supporting the removal of all tents from city streets.
The Lovelady family had lived on the street since the street was made. That must have been about fifteen years ago. Families came and went, but it seemed the Lovelady’s were part of the very fabric of the street. I suppose there were about thirty houses altogether. That made thirty families.
The Lovelady’s were very community minded. Mrs Lovelady (let’s call her Frances-Maud because that was her name) always made it her business to visit any new family that came into the street. She would take along a basket of freshly baked goodies, and knock on the door.
“Welcome to the street!” she would say. She wasn’t the slightest bit gossipy, but everyone was grateful for her kindness. She could answer questions too that new house owners always wanted to know; such as what day of the week did the trash collecting vehicle come?
It would be too much to say that Frances-Maud was a bit of an institution. But she was, in a way! And Mr Lovelady, he was equally sociable. Even though he left reasonably early for his work as a heart surgeon and came back reasonably late, he somehow managed to know all the people on the street, and the names of all their kids. On Saturdays he coached the local boys’ football team. Once though, he went to hospital for a hernia operation and was away for three days. All the kids in the street put up a huge banner that said WELCOME HOME, MISTER LOVELADY!
Anyway, a new family had arrived, just before Christmas, at Number 22. Frances-Maud baked a lovely batch of things, decorated a basket with little sprigs of Christmas, and knocked on the door of Number 22.
“Piss off!” came a voice from inside. “We don’t let niggers into the house.”