Are Women Too Chatty For Alien Abductions?

An interview with a misogynistic pig Alien

Images made by ChatGPT

By: Ace Parker 

Trigger Warning: This article might trigger PTSD in men. If you experience flashbacks, please dial 1-800-1800, and while on hold, go to the nearest liquor store.

CASINO BOOGIE (CBE)- Frequent bathroom breaks. Interior decorating critiques. Hogging of blankets. According to my exclusive interview with Bleeblorb Xibergstein of the Gonad Nebula, these are just a few of the grievances aliens have with abducting human women. 

After reading the latest tranche of the Trump administration’s UFO Files, a disturbing trend began to appear: Aliens have been abducting nine men for every one woman in the 21st century. Even though most abductions contain horrifying events such as anal probing, blood extraction, and the music of Steve Aoki, it doesn’t mean women should be excluded. Women are capable of at least two of those.

Personally, when traveling with one of my three goomars (Ms. Friday, Ms. Sunday, and Who Cares), I love having to stop every 45 minutes for a bathroom break, having the heat on in July, and listening to Taylor Swift’s entire discography accompanied by an off-key choir for four straight hours. So you can imagine my utter shock when I learned how misogynistic the most advanced people in the cosmos truly were.

To quell my disbelief, I hopped in a car alone, and made a peaceful, uninterrupted five-hour trip to D.C., and plunged into the underground alien base to see what the beef was. 

I started off the interview soft. But after a few questions, I was rock solid. 

Naturally, I began where any serious journalist would: his mother.

When I asked Dr. Xibergstein what his relationship was like with the woman who brought him into this world, he tilted his massive gray head and stared at me in utter confusion. It was as if I had just explained to him why it takes six women four hours to eat eggs Benedict and drink champagne mixed with orange juice.

“I was born in an incubation pod,” he said. “Me mum was a computer.”

Suddenly, everything began to make sense. Here was a creature who had never known the gentle touch of a mother, the soothing voice of a woman, or the emotional trauma of being asked if he noticed anything different about the living room. He had been raised by cold machinery with nothing but efficiency on his mind. What did he know about watching a primary caretaker weep uncontrollably at a Nicholas Sparks movie? 

When I suggested this might explain his species’ apparent hatred of women, Xibergstein recoiled.

“Genders are indeterminable in my galaxy,” he said. “We all look like Ken dolls south of the equator.”

At which point he pulled down his space suit and revealed a genital region resembling a microwave panel. So it was kind of like auditioning for Harvey Weinstein. But my sexism angle had hit its first snag. 

If it wasn’t outright sexism, what could it be? Why did aliens prefer human male companionship to female? Then I remembered a discrepancy in the data. 

It wasn’t always this way. Back in the early days of alien abduction, from Roswell until around the turn of the century, aliens were plucking as many birds as they were bulls. So what changed? 

“We mean you no harm. We’re an advanced people who created the most idyllic and efficient society the galaxy has ever known. But it just became too much with our female abductees. What with all the workplace gossip, and single-malt soliloquies about Ryan Gosling’s butt. When we abduct someone, we have a job to do. We can’t waste time with idle nonsense.” 

Idle nonsense! Did he just call a woman’s perspective on life–idle nonsense?! He could bend spacetime but couldn’t find any utility in listening to a girlfriend drone on about friends she secretly hates from the salad fork to the ice cream spoon? And then while you clean the dishes. And then during the movie. And then again after you’ve laid your head on the pillow. And again the next day at dinner! What is wrong with these creatures?

“Well, we probably could deal with the frivolity if that was the only obstacle. But the passive-aggressive put-downs really damage team morale. When a woman subliminally tears apart your soul with jabs about where you rank among your peers, or interior decorating critiques, it makes being productive very difficult.” 

That’s when the truth finally revealed itself. Dr. Xibergstein wasn’t some advanced individual. Not some enlightened entity. He was a beta. An incel with small-dick energy radiating from his control-panel pelvis. It wasn’t the fact that women predominantly speak in subtext but still expect you to completely comprehend what they’re saying, or the fact that they leave a tumbleweed of shampoo hair in the drain, or even the fact that they’ll bring something up you said five years ago about Cameron Diaz's body in Charlie’s Angels. No, these gray little cowards couldn’t handle women coming into their power.

So I closed my notebook, stood up from the table, refused to shake his probably masturbatory mitt, and drove home. 

When I arrived home, before I could even flick my shoes off, Ms. Friday (or was it Who Cares?) greeted me with: Who is this Hannah Palmer bitch whose photos you keep liking?

Now who wouldn't want to spend the rest of their lives with someone who greets you like that? Who needs a hello?

Ace Parker

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