Unless you’re a robot, in which case it is to destroy all humans.
Alltop is the kind of robot that wants to entertain all humans. Original photo by Joe Parks on Flickr.
Well, as your own Sung Tzu said, “All war is deception,” so you’d be foolish to believe anything that I told you.
That caveat aside, I will tell you that I’m very impressed with you Earthlings, particularly your creativity; it translates into all kinds of incredible things like religion, art and corporate reward programs (and of course, your vast capability for self-deception). Did you know that Earth has the most sophisticated marketing techniques anywhere in this galactic cluster. I’m not counting the Logo Ascendency or the Branding Federation, naturally.
It’s going to be really wonderful to have all that marketing juju at my disposal once I’ve taken over the planet. I really think I’ve got something with my Über-chimp in Tutus Army, and, of course, the Gorilloids-in-Fezes Brigade. It would be especially grand, I think, for them to have a jingle.
So, you want to conquer Earth for our expertise in advertising?
Of course. You don’t think I want Earth for its water, do you? That’s just stupid.
Next time: My tinfoil helmet doesn’t seem to be blocking out the voices. Any ideas?
Everyone keeps giving me shit about my gift to Jesus the Son of God and the Messiah, King of Kings.
“Isn’t myrrh basically perfume for mummies?” these ass-clowns keep asking me. “Is that an appropriate gift for a BABY?”
Look, first off you have to realize that I planned to bring gold.
But Caspar called dibs on that. Fair enough, I thought, he is the “Keeper of the Treasure” or whatever those freaky Chaldeans call him. I don’t know. Those people have some weird habits. Every heard of doing the Chaldean Donkey? But they have lots of gold, and Caspar is wealthier than Croesus.
So I thought, no problem. I’ll give Him some nice Frankinsense. That stuff rocks. I would wear it every day if it didn’t make me smell like a Babylonian prostitute. But then I found out that bastard Balthazar already had a pearl-encrusted, gilt box filled with the stuff.
“WTF Balthazar? I was going to give The Messiah Frankinsense.” He just flipped me off. That Balthazar is an Indo-Parthian twat, and a show-off to boot. Pearl-encrusted, my ass. We said one gift.
I was happy to represent though. I mean, of the three magi sent from The East, I was the only one who was a real magi. I went to Zoroastrian High, did my undergraduate degree at Azura University and my doctorate at the prestigious Zoroaster School at the University of the Great Whore of Babylon (a party college, but the program is well respected.) Without me those tools, who are kings and members of the high caste, but who never finished their basic studies, wouldn’t have even found Bethlehem. I mean, they couldn’t even identify their own asses, let alone the Star.
Myrrh, for those in the know, is one of the most holy of essential oils, which is why those decadent Egyptians use it for their mummification rituals. And yes, it’s a little bitter, but really, I have to object to the freakin’ hymn:
Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom;
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,
Sealed in the stone cold tomb.
It’s about salvation, not just death and dying. It’s meant to represent that he was going to help us rise above death again. AND it’s got freakin medicinal values. Suck on that gold!
But I must admit, I probably shouldn’t have given it to him in a Lamb’s Bladder. That was taking the symbolism too far.
Billy was up to three packs a day, but it was okay; he was in training for the All-Tar Olympics. His coach said he was a natural, and he had several lucrative endorsements even before he won any medals. He might have been worried about the nagging cough, the chunks of ochre phlegm he horked up after every set of smokes, but Billy was sanguine.
His twin brother, Jimmy, had a perfectly fine set of lungs just waiting to be cut out of his useless chest.