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Aliens and the anuses of cows

I worry about a lot of things.

Like aliens, for instance. I wonder if they exist. If they do, I hope they know how to ring the doorbell. I’d hate for one to simply materialize in my room, especially if I’m trying to fall asleep. As it is, I have to take a 3mg. melatonin with a glass of warm milk every night just to doze off. If an alien appeared out of the blue using some new-fangled laser-beaming technology, I’d need something a little stronger than warm milk to fall asleep. I might have to resort to Unisom.

“A word of advice, partner: Don’t drop the soap in the spaceship. Those cattle-thieving aliens have a troubling fascination with cow butts — and that’s no bull.”

But if aliens exist, they seem too preoccupied with cattle to care about me. Which is a comforting thought as I lie here trying to fall asleep. I’m sure it’s not so comforting for the cattle. Especially the ones that have their eyeballs plucked and their anal cavities cored.

Maybe the aliens think cattle are Earth’s dominant species. And maybe they’re right. It would be easy to draw that conclusion, especially if the aliens have watched Meet the Press. Perhaps a lot can be learned about human intelligence by studying the anuses of cows.

But if aliens think that cows are the dominant species, then there’s a good chance they know nothing of doorbells. Which is an alarming thought as I’m trying to fall asleep. I probably need another melatonin. If they don’t understand doorbells, then maybe they’ll knock. The aliens, I mean. The cows have a key to the back door.

Well, if you want to get technical, the cows don’t actually have the key in their possession. That wouldn’t make any sense. After all, cows don’t have pockets to carry keys in. I shouldn’t have to explain that point, but I want to be thorough in this dissertation.

No, what I meant to say is, they know where the key to the back door is hidden. It’s in the anal cavity of the plastic cow ornament I keep on the lawn.

Funny thing, that ornament. I won it at a dairy convention. During Christmas, I run strands of lights along its back and put a big red bulb on the center of its nose, so it looks like a reindeer cow. No — a Rudolph cow, leading Santa’s herd through the midnight sky! Which would make an interesting premise for a Christmas special. Like one of those Rankin-Bass stop-motion ones they used to do in the ’60s and ’70s.

But I digress.

I don’t want my anus cored. Man, what a thought. Now I’ll never get to sleep. I would pour some warm milk, but I’m out. I guess I should call the cows home.

Good golly! Who’s that ringing the doorbell at this hour? It can’t be the cows — they have a key to the back. I mean, they know where the key to the back door is hidden. They wouldn’t ring the bell; they’d just let themselves in like they normally do to watch The Late Show. (Or The Tonight Show, depending on which one gets the remote.)

Oh, no. Looking out the peephole, I’ve just confirmed my worst suspicion. It’s those bastards I’ve been fretting about:

No, not the aliens — the census workers! They’re here five years earlier than I expected.

If given the choice, I’d rather have my anus cored.

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