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Dear Z
It now appears almost certain I was impregnated by aliens during my blackout at the Independence Day Meet-the-Candidates pancake breakfast. Intuitively, I know something is growing, tapeworm-like, inside of me: I feel gassy, swollen and emotional; when I close my eyes at night, I feel the leathery wings of angels beating around my head. As you know, Z, considering my age and my vasectomy, this may be my last chance to have a baby of my own outside a South Korean Petrie dish.
Sadly, my darling Jeannine is not taking the news well. Frankly, she's always had mixed feelings about the perpetuation of my genes, which is why (along with the filmed-and-posted-to-the-internet, hot-tub three-way with her little sister and Lumpy from apartment 4) she performed the surgeon-with-a-rusty-knife vasectomy on me in the first place. In her pain and insecurity, she's said some very hurtful things: that I wasn't really a genetic parent, just a convenient receptacle, moist and warm, for the visitors' eggs; that she'd sell my "space platypus" to the formaldehyde aquarium in Roswell to buy a new hat; that she's never liked my special-recipe Monday-Night-Football "buffalo-style" frogs' legs. And then, of course, there are the cats: if it hops, flies, slithers or skitters, PeeWee & Tweeter are going to want to play with it, eat it and throw it up on the bed pillows. I remember you faced similar problems when you dated Midge, so I'd appreciate any advice you might have on how to keep peace in the homestead.
I do have some concerns about the delivery process: my threshold for pain is low, I've always been an easy screamer, and, according to the instructional DVD, "It's Alive!", it's not impossible baby may simply burst out through my stomach lining and crow in bestial exultation. Or, alternatively, it may get wedged in sideways and hang on by its claws, in which case somebody'll have to reach in, stun it and pull it out -- like Billy Crystal did with the baby heifer in "City Slickers." Therefore, might I suggest you bring along some rubber gloves, a ball-peen hammer, a plastic lobster apron from Long John Silver's, and a sturdy set of barbeque tongs. And if you find anything else of value while you're rootling around in there, such as that balloon of opium that went missing in '84 after the flight back from Rangoon, then we'll split it 60/40. In any case, the baby books all agree it's imperative that it not be allowed to hollow me out and feed off me on an extended basis (remember what Cheney and Rumsfeld did to Powell during the first W administration). So, please remind me -- "No means no!"
Last but not least, the semi-extraterrestial newborn must not be allowed to get into the heating ducts or between the wall studs. That could cost me my apartment security deposit and increase the odds of postpartum depression.
Now that I think of it, it might be wise to stockpile a half-dozen hits of Ecstasy beforehand, because whatever grotesque abomination pops out -- say a three-foot Praying Mantis or termite -- I want to be mellow enough to say "That's cool! I still love you, thingumabob!"
Perhaps most excitingly, Z, my love puppy of interplanetary miscegenation might bridge the yawning gap between human and alien, man and iguana, Democrat and Republican, just like the little girl in the TV miniseries "V," who averted nuclear catastrophe by holding onto both ends of the electric lamp cord hanging out of the spaceship dashboard. Gosh, that scene just blew me away. She looked like any sweet, blonde, well-mannered, TV girl-child ... until, that is, she unhinged her jaw to eat a squirming, squeaking guinea pig whole. (That made me a bit queasy until I remembered that the Andean Native Americans, descendants of the noble Inca, also enjoy a nice, plump guinea pig, usually roasted on a stick.) I sometimes wonder about the prejudice that halfbreed lizard child must have faced. Whether she stayed on earth as a rightwing radio talk-show host or returned to the amphibian planet to watch her earth-mother be eaten by the in-laws -- either way, that's a tough row to hoe for a kid.
Anyway, in the meantime, I find myself spending long, rapt hours in the fresh Snake, Croc n' Toad aisle at the Chinese Market, wearing a loopy grin and crooning soft lullabies amid the jostling lunch-time shoppers. Oh, Z, I feel so fulfilled, so mysterious, so holy: I am the handmaiden of the Lord!
By Henry E. Panky
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