Congratulations on Getting Your Girlfriend Pregnant!

Remember that scene in Slaughterhouse Five where the main character has sex with some actress while aliens watch and take notes and she ends up theoretically getting preggers? Aliens LOVE that part of the book, and for years now they’ve been trying to figure out how to make it, to loosely paraphrase Disney’s Ariel, a part of their world.

Three days ago they figured it out. If they capture a pair of desperate enough people with low enough self esteem they know that they’ll be able to get those folks to bump uglies out of desperation, and if those people are in a relationship already it’ll be that much more likely to happen. So tomorrow they’ll hover down over the trailer park where you and your girlfriend live together in a single-wide that you rent for around two hundred a month and they’ll snatch the two of you up as you head out into the yard to throw things at people’s dogs before their owners wake up.

Then they’ll freeze you, take you to a small research facility on the surface of Phobos, and lock the two of you in a small metal room while they wait for you to thaw.

The room will be wired with cameras, cameras that will catch everything that’s happening from every angle, allowing aliens to pipe the feed of you and your girlfriend adjusting to your new circumstances into conventional solo-masturbation rooms and larger, more culturally acceptable masturbation stadiums that aliens invented a while back. Then the aliens will sit back, occasionally feed you, and wait for you to fuck.

They’ll only have to wait two days before you get comfortable enough with your surroundings (an all white room that slowly drives you mad) to bone it up. You and your girl will, following a dramatic fight, fuck like rabbits while the aliens watch. You’ll use the lone condom you keep in your wallet to keep the deed clean (your girlfriend refuses to use birth control because she sees it as a form of abortion) and then fall asleep nude in each other’s arms.

The next day you’ll be in the habit and you’ll figure, whatever, fuck it. You’ll bump uglies in the morning and jizz all up inside her, immediately making your girlfriend pregnant. You’ll keep fucking for the next seven months, just in case she wasn’t pregnant enough, before the two of you, due to pregnancy and lack of exercise, are deemed “too gross to watch” by the aliens and sent back to earth without ceremony.

She’ll give birth two months later in an emergency room, where Medicaid will take care of your costs. You’ll later recount the story of how you got your girlfriend pregnant to your friends, but no one will ever believe you because, like most trailer park residents, you spent most of your time before your abduction talking about how aliens are watching us all the time, effectively ruining your credibility in case you ever had call to tell a story about aliens.

Your inability to stop talking about it will make everyone really uncomfortable around you, and render you even less attractive to local employers and potential friends. You will be unemployed and a terrible dad in the decades to come.

Congratulations on Getting Your Girlfriend Pregnant!

Congratulations on Accidentally Setting Your Van on Fire!

Your stepdad Franklin told you this would happen, but you didn’t listen.

Today you’re going to wake up shrouded in flames. The pain will be tremendous. Your mattress will have caught fire, ignited by the embers of the lit cigarette you clutched between your lips as you drifted off to sleep. You’ll want to scream, but the heat will choke off the words. You’ll want to surge forward from your bed and burst out of the doors of your van, into the cool night air outside, but your muscles will refuse your commands – you’ll be paralyzed by fear.

Instead you’ll lay there, skin charring, waiting for something, anything, to happen. The pain will be immense, beyond anything you’ve ever felt before as the nerve endings in your tissues singe and go dead. Your life will begin to flash before your eyes, a cavalcade of kegstands and sweet drum solos that only your stepdad Franklin ever heard. You’ll know, absolutely know, for a moment that you are going to die.

And then the back of your van will burst open and the manager of the Walmart where you were sleeping in the parking lot will appear beyond the flames, a red cylinder in her hand. She’ll spout the contents of the canister towards you at tremendous velocity, coating you in it. The flames will cease immediately, the sensation of heat replaced by the most profound cold you’ll ever have experienced.

She’ll stand there with her jaw hanging open while her co-workers mill behind her, each of them independently calling 9-1-1. She won’t be able to walk towards you she’ll be so shocked by your appearance.

When she tells the story years later to your adopted children, she’ll let them know that she was actually heading out to ask you to buy something or leave in keeping with Walmart’s policy regarding people living in their cars. You’ll want to crack a joke, but your lips will still be sealed shut from the van fire at this point, so you’ll just sign one with your hideously deformed hands instead. It’ll be a hoot, and everyone there will laugh uncontrollably.

Congratulations on Accidentally Setting Your Van on Fire!