Last week, to about as little fanfare as imaginable, the Mexican government revealed a supposed alien corpse, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Steven Spielberg’s most famous extra terrestrial.
Let’s give these guys the benefit of the doubt. I’m feeling charitable on this rainy Monday. However, my problem is the same one that I have with dinosaurs. Interestingly, another source of fascination by Mr. Spielberg.
I am not into bones. I want walking, talking dinosaurs. You show me a skeleton and I roll my eyes. I am not interested in the next big Halloween costume. To me an alien in a box is just that. What I want from an alien isn’t much. Besides a mastery of social graces, the English language, and enough fecundity to engage in wide-ranging conversations about our place in the universe. So what am I supposed to do with the tiny mummy south of the border?
I can’t take him out for coffee. I can’t teach him the ins and outs of bocce ball. And I can’t get over the fact that in this day and age, extra terrestrials are far from “extra.” That means buying useless accessories, yammering on about celebrity culture, and living out their dreams on social media. Is that too much to ask? Not in this universe, it isn’t.
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