Space
David Vincent, alien hunter and Architect of Action, once again entertained BM, DM and I last night with another tale of ‘The Invaders’. Because we're lame and we're jonesing real, real bad for the MST3K DVDs I bought off eBay yesterday, we did our usual sub-par Mike-and-the-robots routine (in italics).
Vincent is in New Mexico (or some similar place with a lot of surly, treacherous brown people) and with his unerring ability to sniff out alien spaceships, he manages to find yet another one. It looks like a porkpie hat wrapped in tinfoil, but what the hey, it’s still a spaceship. He races back into town to tell a sympathetic newspaperman.
Vincent: I saw something out there in the desert… some sort of disabled vehicle.
Me: I could tell because it was parked in a handicapped space.
The newspaperman introduces him to Vikki, the world’s most modest stripper, who recounts how she too saw a craft while lost in the desert. Vincent persuades her to take him out and show him the place.
Vincent: I’ll make it worth your while.
Me: I’m an architect, you know. I’ll draft up some plans for a rec room extension that’ll knock your socks off, baby.
She agrees, and shows up the next day in capri pants and a saucy headscarf, with a picnic basket for the trip.
BM: Here, I brought you a little snack.
Me: I hope you like otter!
BM: Don’t worry about me, I’ll be feasting on your brains later.
But on the long ride out into the desert, she seems strangely withdrawn, then grows increasingly agitated.
Vikki: Do you have to drive so fast?
Me: Whoa, did they get married during the commercial break?
It turns out that our Vikki is an alien too! Vincent sure can pick ‘em. But she’s a mutant, one of a rare alien strain who feel emotion, who care about others, and who wear false eyelashes that could double as locomotive cow catchers. She’s been turned by Vincent’s gentle manner and tight trousers, and she betrays her own kind by helping him escape from the trap into which she’d been leading him. Soon they’re being chased through a ravine by gun-toting, boilersuit-wearing aliens.
Me: You see, this is what happens when paintball gets out of hand.
Vincent leaves her at a little farmstead while he borrows a farmer’s car to drive to the nearest phone and call for help. But before he goes, he and Vikki have a bit of an argument, and she retaliates by calling her alien pals on her small, white, ovoid communicator to come and get him.
Me: Um, Vikki? That’s a boiled egg.
BM: It is? I was wondering why my egg sandwiches were so crunchy this morning!
But she’s a capricious little thing, and just as Vincent returns she runs out to warn him and gets vaporised for her trouble. Gunplay ensues and Vincent kills them all before the authorities turn up. Of course, the aliens and their technology disintegrate upon death, so there’s nothing left to show a sceptical world. Inheritance must be a bitch on their planet...
Alien lawyer: Your great aunt left you her house, her Mercedes, and $50,000. It’s all here in this vacuum cleaner bag. Enjoy!
Vincent is in New Mexico (or some similar place with a lot of surly, treacherous brown people) and with his unerring ability to sniff out alien spaceships, he manages to find yet another one. It looks like a porkpie hat wrapped in tinfoil, but what the hey, it’s still a spaceship. He races back into town to tell a sympathetic newspaperman.
Vincent: I saw something out there in the desert… some sort of disabled vehicle.
Me: I could tell because it was parked in a handicapped space.
The newspaperman introduces him to Vikki, the world’s most modest stripper, who recounts how she too saw a craft while lost in the desert. Vincent persuades her to take him out and show him the place.
Vincent: I’ll make it worth your while.
Me: I’m an architect, you know. I’ll draft up some plans for a rec room extension that’ll knock your socks off, baby.
She agrees, and shows up the next day in capri pants and a saucy headscarf, with a picnic basket for the trip.
BM: Here, I brought you a little snack.
Me: I hope you like otter!
BM: Don’t worry about me, I’ll be feasting on your brains later.
But on the long ride out into the desert, she seems strangely withdrawn, then grows increasingly agitated.
Vikki: Do you have to drive so fast?
Me: Whoa, did they get married during the commercial break?
It turns out that our Vikki is an alien too! Vincent sure can pick ‘em. But she’s a mutant, one of a rare alien strain who feel emotion, who care about others, and who wear false eyelashes that could double as locomotive cow catchers. She’s been turned by Vincent’s gentle manner and tight trousers, and she betrays her own kind by helping him escape from the trap into which she’d been leading him. Soon they’re being chased through a ravine by gun-toting, boilersuit-wearing aliens.
Me: You see, this is what happens when paintball gets out of hand.
Vincent leaves her at a little farmstead while he borrows a farmer’s car to drive to the nearest phone and call for help. But before he goes, he and Vikki have a bit of an argument, and she retaliates by calling her alien pals on her small, white, ovoid communicator to come and get him.
Me: Um, Vikki? That’s a boiled egg.
BM: It is? I was wondering why my egg sandwiches were so crunchy this morning!
But she’s a capricious little thing, and just as Vincent returns she runs out to warn him and gets vaporised for her trouble. Gunplay ensues and Vincent kills them all before the authorities turn up. Of course, the aliens and their technology disintegrate upon death, so there’s nothing left to show a sceptical world. Inheritance must be a bitch on their planet...
Alien lawyer: Your great aunt left you her house, her Mercedes, and $50,000. It’s all here in this vacuum cleaner bag. Enjoy!
posted by Blandwagon at 6:00 PM
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