See — I’ve only actually “met” two aliens so far; at least two that I KNOW of (other than a coupla fruitcakes I saw on Venice Beach three weeks ago; I don’t know WHAT in the Blue Fuck THEY were, but that there’s a whole ‘nuther Oprah!) — my entry today will be another firsthand, eyewitness account fresh from the Wayback Machine to your eyes, and never recounted in print before today.
Let’s spin that pointer back to sophomore year of high school, 1972/73 — another “Snow Day” (not that ANY of my hoodlum friends or myself needed an actual EXCUSE to lay out from school, doncha know), and actually, THE best kind of snow day — roads start OUT totally impassable; then long about late morning Mr. Soleil shows up and starts puttin’ a serious hurtin’ on the white stuff.
Why is that “the best kind of snow day” you ask? On accounta that melting snow makes for PERFECT snowballs, is why — Taz’ Right! So me and my #1 sidekick (“In the rear with the gear” was his mantra), along with Mr. Mxyzptlk, are headed down a dirt/rock road on foot, with a nice-sized river off to the right; the road followed the river for 5-6 miles.
About 2 miles in, we come to a railroad trestle ~50-75 feet up, that crosses over both the road and the river. We look up at it for a coupla minutes, ’cause that’s what you DO when you come upon a Civil War era railroad trestle — here’s this big “thing” pretty much in the middle of no-fuckin’-where, crossing over a crappy, seldom driven on hardpack dirt/gravel road that is ALSO in the middle of no-fuckin’-where; tell me again why we’re even WALKING down this god-damn road I wanna know?
Anyway, after a coupla minutes of just staring silently up at this railroad trestle (during which time it didn’t move a single inch), Mr. Mxyzptlk says “I’m gonna climb up onto the top o’ that.” My homeboy and me just look at each other, mutually & silently agreeing to “be the bigger pussies” and to stay behind on terra firma, at the same time we are metaphorically scratching our respective heads and ACTUALLY scratching our respective ball-sacks (’cause that’s what men DO), wondering how Mr. Mxyzptlk is going to accomplish the task of scaling up the steep embankment to the TOP of said railroad trestle; he ain’t no mountain goat after all.
But up he went, and I can tell ya’ (or is it “yous”), that would be no small task on a sunny summer’s day; but sure as shite he MADE it, mostly by grabbing at the small saplings and undergrowth that was sticking out from the snow and hoisting himself upwards.
There he stood on top of the trestle, like King Kong at the top of the Empire State Building. After giving him the cursory applause for 15 seconds, we then all “got down to bidness” — said bidness being us throwing snowballs up at him, and him scooping up mounds of snow off of the crossties and throwing them down at us. Needless to say, his snowballs were MUCH more lethal than ours: #1. He was about as strong as King Kong hisownself, and could fire off a snowball about like Sandy Koufax, and #2. He had a distinct “positional advantage”, being 50-75 feet above us.
So our snowballs, by the time they got up to him, were about as dangerous as a balled-up pair of girl’s panties (which, come to think about it, COULD be pretty dangerous, depending on how long they were worn beforehand — let’s just say “as dangerous as a CLEAN balled up pair of girl’s panties, shall we?); HIS snowballs on the other hand, were like the God Mercury’s arrows. He nailed us both with a coupla good ones, but luckily after about 10 minutes of this exchange, he was running out of snow — the snow on the cross-ties had a good start at melting. Me and my buddy are thinking that maybe we were gonna “win” this snowball fight simply by having more readily available ammunition down there “in the shade”.
And then — it happened — Mr. Mxyzptlk leans over and out to try and reach a clump of unmelted snow at the VERY tip of one of the crossties — and keeps on going! Dear God & Baby Jesus — he’s falling RIGHT down towards the dirt/gravel road! Let’s pause for an application of physics here, shall we? 33 feet per second — that’s the velocity of a falling object, thanks to the oft-sinister Mr. Gravity (who has done some nefarious work on my now-sagging 58 year old midriff too doncha know) — so maybe two seconds between the “Oh Shit” split second when Mr. Mxyzptlk leans out a smidge too far (or maybe slips on the wet crosstie) and when we hear the sickening THUMP of him landing chest-first on the hardpack, about 25 feet from us.
Reminder: This happened FORTY TWO years ago, and I STILL get a “fear lump” in my throat replaying this in my head and subsequently putting it to print. My pal & I stand FROZEN, looking at Mr. Mxyzptlk laying face/chest-down on the road, then look at each other, as if to say “Did we really both SEE this?!” We shake it off/break the spell and run over to him — NO mutha-fucka could actually LIVE through that fall! And sure enough, he’s just laying there, face down and prone; not making a SOUND.
Now — we’re 15 years old — WE don’t know no fuckin’ Heimlich, or Heinie-Lick Maneuver; whatever the hell it’s called — we just stand there over him, looking down. And THEN — after what seemed like two minutes, but was prolly only 15 seconds — Mr. Mxyzptlk lets out this “not-of-this-Earth” cough, swivels his head left & right, plants his hands on the dirt/gravel mix, pushes himself back onto his knees, plants his feet, and slowly stands up — to THIS VERY DAY I can NOT believe it! Fuckin’ SUPERMAN couldn’t have lived through that fall!
Mr. Mxyzptlk swipes at the front of his coat to brush off the embedded gravel, looks at us, and says — “Let’s go back home and make some sandwiches, eh Boys?”
I say to you here and now — NO human can do that!