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Ow. Pain. Agony.

Fake, but real.

Good question. I don't know. Either Muppets or random music tape, or both, but probably not neither.

Nathan is squeezing the alien head, which I suppose is better than squeezing the Charmin.

I still need a little fuzzy hooded alien doll. This depresses me.

R. Ar. Arg. Aarg. Aaarg. Aaaarg. AAaaarg. AAAaarg. AAAaaarg. AAAaaargh. AAAAaaargh.

Oh, shut up.

Few objects are more frequently mistaken for flying saucers than the planet Venus.

I have a theory. (I can hear you now - "Oh, no! Alloni is about to spout random semicoherent gobbledygook until I fall unconscious to the ground, then program me with subliminal suggestion! Last time this happened I lost 56 hours, and witnesses tell me I was amazingly... ACTIVE during this time. I still get email for "My little pookie-wookie". The rubber turnip is harder to explain. No, I'm not falling into that trap again. I'm just going to read a few words more, until the end of the sentence, then I'm going to hunt gerbils for their fur, and tell passing strangers about my intestines, and hold my nose while singing "Tiptoe Through The Tulips". All proceeds go to the American Foundation to Give Alloni Money (AFGAM). Fnord.) The theory explains many things. I'm not going to tell you that theory. Instead I will tell you this one.

You know how people from the San Jose Mercury News come to your door trying to get you to order their newspaper by giving you free issues and free three month subscriptions and generally overwhelming you with freedom? They aren't newspaperpeople at all. They work for the <insert name of conspiracy here>. Their job is to knock at doors to find out if anyone is home. If someone is, they make their spiel. If not, they make a note, and leave a camera pointed at the door. That way They'll know if anyone is at home, from a known baseline of 0. Then, later, when only you are there, they can shoot you with drugged darts / hypnotise you through your TV / flood the place with gas / send in SWAT teams and kidnap and program you. The solution? Never answer the door when newspaperpeople arrive. That way they'll think there is no one home, their baseline will be inaccurate, and eventually the computer will think there is less than no one in the house and explode. With luck some MIB equivalent will check the data, see that there is -1 (or less) people in the house, and their heads will explode. With a lot of luck you'll win the lottery and not have to worry about paranoid ramblings. You will be owned by Them, but you'll be happy to be owned by Them. After all, wealth = happiness, right? And if you didn't think that, you wouldn't be playing the lottery. (If you don't play the lottery, and you win it anyway, someone is trying to buy you. Give in. The money and power are worth it in the long run. You may not be happy, but you can at least crush other people's lives.)

Wicked keen hubcap you got there, dude.