Close encounters with Johnny Scott

closeencounters

Let’s talk about something that, as a society, we collectively ignore on a regular basis. Or, if we’re not ignoring it, we’re ridiculing it.

I want to make this perfectly clear: it is a very real, and very serious issue. One that affects thousands of Canadians, and millions around the globe. Something that has happened to so many of us, yet so few have the courage to step up and talk about. It’s taken me many years, but I’m finally ready to stand tall and tell my story, both to unburden myself of this terrible secret that’s been eating away at me for so long, and, hopefully, to inspire others to come forward with their similar tales. I am talking, of course, about my abduction by aliens.

I know what you’re thinking. I could practically hear your scoff through my Wi-Fi connection. But did you know that 76% of Canadians are abducted at least once in their life? And that a whopping 92% will have some or another sort of extraterrestrial contact? These statistics come from a website that came up when I Googled “alien abductions.” A website made by genuine paranormal researchers, with bright green text, and spooky music that plays when you enter. The problem, these researchers go on to say, is that, even though such a large portion of the population has had these experiences, most people are too embarrassed to admit it to their peers. Well, peers, that all ends today for me. So here it goes.

It happened a few years back, when I was 26. I was walking home late one night from a party. I used to frequent a lot of parties back then. Before the “incident.” I was buzzed, but still pretty aware of my surroundings, having taken it easy that night with only 19 or so beers and 6(?)  Tanq and tonics. At one point, before I made it home, I stopped to take a well-deserved nap, and, when I awoke, there were bright lights shining on me from above. I think it was from above, I was pretty disoriented.

What happened next is still a little hazy for me, but what I can recall is that, amid these bright white and red flashing lights, I was roughly taken aboard their craft by two aliens clad in blue space-jumpsuits. A common misconception about alien abduction is that they “beam” you aboard their spaceship with some sort of “ray”. This couldn’t be more untrue, the aliens were very hands-on. They ran counter to the cliché Hollywood depiction of extraterrestrials being cold, emotionless beings who stand silent and communicate telepathically. No, they were quite animated. They moved about frantically and were constantly shouting back and forth to one and other in some weird alien jargon, of which I could understand little. One thing I did catch was one of them making a crack about how I soiled myself, which, I assure you, was totally not true. Who are you going to believe, me—a human—or some alien trickster?

They looked remarkably human, I noted as they stripped me down and attached all manner of equipment that served who knows what ghastly purpose. Half-conscious and panicky, I was still able to glean their names from their shouted dialogue. Horrible, guttural, alien names that churned the pits of my bowels: Chad and Dustin.

I was helpless to resist their invasive manhandling, lying there on the cold table inside the small interior of their wailing craft, their spindly hands everywhere, their beeping instruments showing no modicum of decency. I hadn’t felt this violated since my younger days as a produce clerk at Safeway, when my manager, Marv, would take me into the cooler to “check the ripeness of the plums.”

The ultimate humiliation came when they forced a long tube down my throat and began pumping out what felt like my entire length of colon. I could feel myself slipping out of consciousness, and with my last moments of clarity I pondered why they could possibly be doing this to me. Were they just toying  with me before they did me in, like a group of interstellar teenagers pulling the legs off so many frogs? Was there some important intelligence that could be gathered from sucking out the contents of my innards? Like knowing how many 7-Eleven monterey jack chicken taquitos one man could fit in his stomach at once, perhaps?

In the end, I don’t think I’ll ever really know what happened that night. I awoke the next day in a hospital bed (on Earth) and the doctors just fed me lines about  “dangerous levels” this and “lucky to be alive” that. It was clear to me then, and is even more clear to me now, that they were part of a much larger conspiracy, or, at the very least, coerced by the government into going along with this cock and bull story. I won’t stop searching for the truth, though. Like a real-life Fox Mulder looking for his sister, I’ll never give up on what happened to the contents of my stomach that night. I still often wonder what became of it. I like to imagine that a great deal of important information was discovered by these beings thanks to me. That I was a specimen that led to a sort of pan-galactic Nobel Prize for a couple of solar-system-trotting field researchers. I think at least they were probably more successful in their species’ quest for
knowledge than the alien I encountered shortly before them that night, in his van, who just made me put my fingers in his butthole.

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