Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬

 

[1] The Crew Cuts “Sh-Boom”

[2] Danny Elfman “Martian Lounge”

[3] The Chordettes “Lollipop (Ursula 1000 Remix)”

[4] Junkie XL “Destroy All Humans”

[5] Danny Elfman “Mars Attacks!”

 

We can’t say we didn’t have it coming. If only we’d heeded the advice of countless fifties sci-fi movies, then we wouldn’t be in the mess that mankind finds itself in currently. Cautionary tales such as It Came From Outer Space, Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, and Them! tried their darndest to offer us heads up of the impending threat to humanity and, while cinemagoers worldwide flocked to nearby movie houses in their droves to investigate further, one cannot help but feel that the sinister subtext was lost on most of them. Harmless popcorn entertainment was it? Splendid fun for all the family was it? A pleasant way to wind down after a hard week down in the mines was it?

Negative, a stark warning was what it was and, like the foolish humans that we are, it all went in one ear and directly out the other. Things were different back then and there were no Morgan Spurlocks bingeing themselves on fast food or Michael Moores sniffing around Charlton Heston’s private weapon cache to prove their points. On the whole, the human race were a naïve strain, blissfully unaware of the trouble they would find themselves in further on down the line. However, it was always inevitable that worlds would collide eventually and it appears that today my dear Grueheads may well be that day.

You see, when I woke up this morning full of the joys that November brings (basic respiratory function, sluggish circulation, faint heartbeat), I had a feeling that it was going to be a day quite unlike any other and my estimations proved to be worryingly bang on the money. Before you go tightening my straps and cramming the sponge between my teeth, I’m not suggesting for a second that I suspected this to be the day that earth stood still or the one where the body snatchers invaded either. But something certainly didn’t feel right and I carried this vague trepidation downstairs to the kitchen as I poured myself the obligatory morning brew. While relieved not to see The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms stirring my tea or the Creature from the Black Lagoon preparing my bowl of muesli, I could almost smell the danger and remained on Def Con 5 as I assumed formation, still thoroughly dazed and confused as is customary.

I’m not altogether sure what enticed my attention away from the condiments and towards the pile of unopened post to my left, but I really wish it hadn’t. Sitting there atop said slag heap of correspondence (precious little of which is ever addressed to me I might add) was an ominously official looking letter. I knew straight away it was to prove a bone of contention and there were two blatant causes for my concern. Firstly, whoever had compiled this communication had seen fit to address it to MASTER RICHARD CHARLES STEVENS, and secondly, the commemorative postage stamp it bore told me everything I needed to (but dared not) know about its sender.

I guess you’d be interested to know of the intelligence within wouldn’t you? Curious aren’t you? Perched on the edge of your seats I’d imagine and cursing not taking that bowel movement before you commenced reading no doubt. Well okay then you twisted my arm, but only because this tale needs to be told. However, I’m damn well paraphrasing as this shit is drier than Gandhi’s left flip-flop and lacking anything resembling baseline creativity or the most rudimentary of artistic flourish.

Huddle close and hold onto each other tight as though your lives depend on such as I believe the town crier has arrived to recite this baleful bulletin in his most aristocratic tongue. In case you were wondering, he has five lickers at his disposal. There’s The Tongue That Time Forgot, The Tongue From Another Planet, The Tongue & The Restless, and Cunnilingus Clyde but we don’t talk about him. Tonight however, and for one night only, I present you fine people KT Tonguestall.

 

To Whom it most certainly concerns,

 

We really are frightfully sorry to bother you Master Stevens and wouldn’t ordinarily dream of contacting you this way; only we’ve recently been glancing through our accounts and something most unsatisfactory flagged up that we simply had to bring to your attention. According to our records, you entered into a legally binding contract with a mobile phone provider in 2013 simply named “The Agreement” and, for reasons that we quite understand (really we do), you failed to honor the terms and conditions of said treaty. Naturally it was put down to a mere oversight on your part and you may recall receiving a couple of gentle reminders to jog your memory about the amount outstanding as we know how fast life can move and thought it the least we could do to clean up this iddy biddy little misunderstanding and all become the very best of bosom buddies once again. Regrettably and by some bizarre stroke of misfortune, your response appears to have gotten lost in the mail, and we’re still waiting for this to be resolved over three earth years later.

 

Tsk tsk Master Stevens, we’re awfully disappointed that you’ve not seen fit to repay your arrears or so much as acknowledge the existence of the debt. As a result, we here at Destroy All Humans Inc. have taken it upon ourselves to force the issue somewhat and you are hereby summoned to explain your inaction in a court of law chosen by the royal we. As the royal we are such a congenial bunch, you have 27 days from the date that this letter was typed to first hang your head in shame over being such a drain on the global economy, and second, prepare to be made an example of as we can’t let a significant amount like £246.71 slip now can we? In case you’re at all confused, the £158.99 arrears of yesteryear has now metamorphosed into this far more attractive figure as administration is administration after all. Should we let you off the hook, then every Tom, Dick, and Harry will attempt likewise and we could be declaring a state of national emergency in weeks. Apologies for the unflavorsome timing of this demand but it made sense to cut postage costs when we were preparing this year’s Christmas cards and figured you’ll likely lose track of all those outgoing expenses around the festive season so what’s another £246.71 between friends? Hmm?

 

Now the next part is by far our least favorite as we despise having to resort to such extreme measures but rules are rules after all as I’m sure you recognize. Failure to comply with our menial demands will result in a fate we wouldn’t wish on any man, not least a loyal customer like yourself Master Stevens. Punishment will begin with both your eyeballs being extracted from their pods by means of supervised slurping. Once that is complete, a small hole will be drilled through the top of your skull and a glow in the dark crazy straw inserted. All cranial fluids will then be siphoned, while every last one of your major arteries will be quaffed upon by our Inhuman Resources department. Finally, once the juice from your upper torso has been sufficiently chugged upon, we shall introduce your Gluteus Maximus to a wonderful piece of new-age gadgetry by the name Rectal Blaster 5000. Alas, it has only recently been patented so there will be an element of mild peril involved to this procedure but think of it as a free enema and don’t feel it necessary to thank us as it’s the least we can do given how accommodating you will have been.

 

Needless to say, we await your reply with bated breath Master Stevens and cannot wait to have this whole unfortunate mess resolved before the New Year dawns. Until next time, have a bloody jolly Christmas and, if you start to worry unduly, then think of all the undigested red meat we’ll soon have out of that colon.

 

Yours Menacingly,

The Humongous Blood-Sucking Leeches from Outer Space

(c/o Northampton)

 

So whaddaya reckon? Time to pack my things and relocate to the Himalayas until this all blows over? Of course not as, last time I checked my wallet, the moths were having a whale of a time. That’s right, I don’t have two brass monkeys in my possession to form a Godley & Creme tribute band and don’t I bleeding know it. You see, there’s a cost entailed in every venture as far as I can discern, and the ever-ballooning subway costs alone make it nigh-on impossible to reach the nearest airport out of this wretched money pit.

Even if I scraped together enough to book a flight, there’s bound to be hidden expenses just to further fleece my meager resources. Meanwhile, if the plane goes down midway across the Atlantic Ocean and I’m fortunate enough to be fished out of the wreckage the sole survivor, I’ll be the only luckless bastard on board without travel insurance and therefore shit out of luck with regards to rightful compensation also. No I believe I must stand my ground firmly and just pray that they don’t call their heavies over during the interim as there’s little gentle about their art of persuasion let me tell you.

Can you imagine the awkwardness when you answer the front door and this is the face that leans in for a kiss? Forget the ample bosom, it’s the eight flailing oral tendrils that concern me, not to mention the fact that Ëtta boasts a rather unorthodox digestive system. After breaking her victims down into mulch, they are then transported to her underarms which form a makeshift gut each side. The above photo was taken around ninety seconds after she assimilated both Olsen twins in quick succession and she gets particularly touchy when you mention her Caesarian scar as she’s terribly self-conscious believe it or not.

If anyone is in dire need of a three-day spa break, then Ëtta’s your girl, as all she really desires in life is to be pampered. Alas, despite accruing over a dozen lieu days over the past twelve months alone, she is seldom afforded the opportunity to take them as the humongous blood-sucking leeches from outer space work her hard and there is no more persuasive bailiff on their books right now. However, for as much as Ëtta is the last mutant on earth you would wish to find darkening your doorway, I’d rather her than this rowdy rabble.

The thing about parasites is that they have a tendency to pull together in a crisis and their sheer wealth in numbers makes them a most fearful adversary to square up to. Right now I am being taken to task over a dishonored mobile contract and they give not a solitary hoot for bleak current financial outlook. While their correspondence is accurate enough, what it fails to mention are the extenuating circumstances behind my failure to cough up the sum in question.

I was signed off of work for acute depression, going through a disciplinary procedure which would ultimately lead to my employer showing me the door, and right in the thick of a particularly distressing marital break up when my handset broke. Naturally, my first port of call was to inform them of my inability to see out the nine month term and apologize for any inconvenience this may cause them. However, instead of trying a little tenderness, they took me to task for my non compliance and have been like cocksure calamari ever since.

The thing is that they’re not prising a single red cent out of my coffer as I’m not in a position to pay up and neither would I consider doing so if I could out of a little something called principle. You see, I’ve had numerous run-ins with suchlike money grabbers and have had a gutful of their penny-pinching antics. Please allow me to pose you this question. Does it ever feel like everyone wants a piece of you? Times have been increasingly challenging of late and I know I’m not alone in stating that cashflow has been a severe bone of contention in recent years.

Global recession certainly hasn’t helped and it’s particularly dire for creative souls such as myself who are desperate to follow their passion to the elusive pot ‘o’ gold reportedly at the end of yonder rainbow. We’re not looking to make a mint, merely do enough to sustain our meager lifestyles, and that’s easier said than done when every opportunist barnacle this side of the distant planet Zörg is attempting to procure themselves that pound of flesh.

There are numerous ways in which they can achieve this from escalating taxes, spiralling gas prices, additional charges concealed within the small print, administration costs, contractual obligations, and various other underhand endeavors all designed with daylight robbery in mind. Given that I’m such a whore for metaphor, the fifties sci-fi movies of old now appear to have been cautionary tales intent on offering mankind the heads-up half a century prior to our asses getting podded. Yet we still didn’t see this invasion coming.

Naturally the primary goal of any predator worth its salt will be to demoralize its opponent before moving swiftly in for the kill and mankind’s Achilles Heel appears to be located in our pockets so it only makes sense to apply the pressure here first. Before we know it, our bones are being ground down into intergalactic popping candy and our beloved planet becomes overrun with all manner of undesirable face felchers hell-bent on turning the whole world upside down on its axle. Suddenly we’re forced to ease off the gas at intersections to give way to mobile ghastlies such as this odious oddball.

Any hopes of a peaceful coexistence will soon depart through the window as humanity and extraterrestrial beings are kept apart for a damn good reason. Perhaps we’ll be fortunate enough to find a more agreeable strain lurking in the back streets and strike up an unexpected friendship. However, even then it is bound to end in tears the very moment this blossoming relationship is taken to the next level.

You see, these outer space sorts have been known to get a little touchy-feely and one similarity between the two species is that we all love a good harmless canoodle once in a while. While that may be all fine and dandy in theory, it’s the practice part that concerns me as antiseptic mouthwash can only go so far in rectifying any lingering oral hygiene issues. A kiss is just a kiss is it Louis Armstrong? Then I presume you won’t mind puckering up for our resident facehugger Halitöri Jüpp, better known here on earth as Harry The Head Crab.

Time to start dousing those candle wicks and hoovering up the trail of rose petals coercing Harry to the boudoir methinks. Why else do you think we remain so sheepish about Cunnilingus Clyde? It’s all fun and games until that first bout of acid reflux and I’m sure there are less astringent manners in which to flush those ovaries ladies. I’m digressing but, don’t you see, the leeches are our very first clue that things are headed to the airlock faster than Keira Knightley on roller skates and we simply have to stop this momentum from gathering any further.

I would therefore advise dusting off those soldering irons and sealing shut your mailboxes post-haste, cutting all phone lines, smashing your routers with a rubber mallet, and engaging in absolutely no form of outward communication as we cannot be certain how far this contagion has already spread. Who am I kidding? Wouldn’t that just be accepting defeat, embracing the fact that we’re the inferior lifeform, and severing our own noses just to provide our faces the ache? Yes it would you’re right, I hadn’t considered that. Cut me a slack slither here, I’m just the poor sap trying to save the fate of mankind for one below peanuts. Jeez, there’s no pleasing you lot is there?

Okay think Keeper think. What would Brian Eno do if his Yamaha CP-80 ever came back from repair? You’re darned in your tooting, he’d play us a tune to rouse the troops and, while I may not possess one hundredth of his synthesizer prowess, I can just about hold a tune if it hasn’t humped a soap dispenser beforehand. What better way to combat this creeping terror than through the ancient art of harmonizing? Yes I understand that now would likely be a good time to call the military but it’s hard to do so when presented with a dead line and those humongous blood-sucking leeches from outer space are already upon us as we speak.

It’s the only way Grueheads, our last-knockings hope of quelling this obnoxious threat and getting back to what we’re best at – fouling up our planet until which time as Mother Nature gets the nark and goes haywire with the weedkiller. A song it is then but remember folks it is much more than just that. This is a call to arms, a spirited battle cry, musical advice at its most sound, and has number 119 on the Billboard 100 written all over it the moment we can stream again in safety. Take it away fellas, no really I’m beginning to grow mildly nauseous.

A Message For Them! (Straight From The Mother Brain)

Alternative Title: It! Feeds, It! Seeds, It! Breeds (and not necessarily in that order)

 

 

On behalf of all mankind, I bid you gladest tidings
and I will do my level best to aid you with your findings
It’s 20,000 million miles to earth, I’ve heard suggested
While sure you’re tired, this simply cannot wait until you’ve rested

 

You think I haven’t noticed that the creature walks among us?
You’ll never keep us sweet, despite the compliments you bung us
We come in peace I hear proclaimed, but it’s no more than chowder
You’ve found your voice, but don’t rejoice as actions speak far louder

 

We give an inch you pinch three more, no wonder you’re gigantic
Truth hurts I see and I don’t wish so be so damn pedantic
but rules are rules, I read that once and hear they can’t be broken
so suck it up you maggot as you’ll sit there til I’ve spoken

 

I hate to be a buzzkill, but this planet is forbidden
and I won’t stop until such time as every threat’s been ridden
Please don’t look all hard done by, I can see it in your faces
but I’ve met your type before and you’re a load of vile disgraces

 

 

Fret not as I won’t waste my time with pointless litigation
to tell the truth, I’m not a great fan of administration
but I cannot stand by idle, watch on as you set your trend
That being instigating the beginning of the end

 

You see while far from perfect, I quite like the human race
and I’ll protect my fellow lings from fiends without a face
That may be contradicting everything the good book teaches
but Moses never had to deal with you blood-sucking leeches

 

Plan 9 already failed and ten is not the magic number
I don’t expect to feel your probe when I lay down to slumber
damn right I’m getting anal and I’m not the only one
if not, then why the hell’s that thing an inch inside my bum?

 

May I remind you, I’m aware that you’re not of this earth
so be a dear and slide it out, I don’t care for your girth
then leave this planet, you’ve got til the 27th day
before I unleash Barberalla and she just loves to play

 

Click here to read Attack of The Drones