Good Greetings (of Doom)

I have a report that I wish to deliver personally unto all of our loyal pods this fine splinter's evening.

I am about to reveal the biggest conspiracy since the people at Kleenex invented masturbation to destroy the handkerchief industry. I'm writing about, as I'm sure you all know, fifty words per minute, as I lack basic digital dexterity. However, in doing so, I am communicating to you all a message about aliens.

Half of the US Senate is extra terrestrials.

There, I said it.

Unlike most claims of conspiracies, this is not theory. I know, because I am in on it. They promised me all the ginger ale I could snort; I'm not a robot.

If you have ever voted, driven a car, or even smelled jumper cables, you have an implant in your brain telling you what to do, and, when everything falls into place, there will be no ginger ale left for any of us. I will kill it with my mouth.

That is all.

No it's not. I also have to tell you why I sold out our species for ginger ale. I *love* ginger ale. - THE EDITOR