You humans don't know the first thing

about pleasing a female.

Why are my spinnerets in a wad? Let me explain. We had a spell of unseasonably cold weather in L.A., and I went into hibernation. So sue me. Perhaps all the recent excitement caught up with me at last; Oprah Above knows I needed a rest.

Anyway, first thing I do after waking up, I check my blog comments. And what do I find?

Anonymous said . . .
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Let me back up a bit. Remember how the Rabbit and I were staying at the Hyatt? (More about my run-in with the Crocodile Hunter some other time.) Well, I woke up not in the Hyatt, but in an absolute dump, some sort of low budget one-bedroom apartment. Next door, a horrid dog would not stop barking. I think that's what woke me up in the first place.

I saw neither hide nor hair of the Rabbit. At least he'd had the decency to leave me a note.

Rump,

I hope you'll understand that I can't haul three hundred pounds of dead weight, not when I'm this close to my goal. I'd hoped to have your help, but I can do this without you.

By the time you wake up, Keanu Reeves will be a dead man, and I, Keanu Reeves, will be a star.

I left a few chickens in the freezer. Call my cell when you wake up, k?

Rabbit

Haul three hundred pounds . . . ooh, he made my blood boil. Right then I couldn't have cared less that nanocyte blood might give me indigestion. If I caught up with him, I'd make a point of finding out.

Oh, well. At least he was thoughtful enough to leave food. But -- ugh. Frozen chicken. I managed to impale one on my fangs and transfer it to the sink, where I began thawing it under the tap. I was sooo hungry, and then, when a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses came knocking at the door, it was sooo tempting. When I opened the door, though, they passed out first thing. You know what? It just didn't seem sporting. Then that dog from next door got loose and couldn't decide whether to sniff their unconscious crotches or bay at me like some sort of quadripedal maniac. It was quite a scene, let me tell you.

Yes, yes, I know I'm supposed to avoid creating an intergalactic incident. But this is Southern California. Charles Manson had a fan club. So does Matt Damon. See? I've done my homework.

I closed the door on those nice unconscious ladies with the pamphlets and fired up my computer. That's when I discovered Mr. Anonymous's enticing email. Sex, that much I understood.

Hmm. What to do while I waited for my chicken to thaw. I could try to transfer the other two frozen birds to the sink, but that first one had given me such a case of brain freeze. And I kept thinking, you know, about S-E-X. And it came to me. WWBWD?

On a planet with no eligible males, what would Bronwyn Webweaver do, indeed? She'd take matters into her own legs, that's what she'd do.

I found a directory near the telephone, and located a list of Adult Sex Shops. I phoned the first one on the list: Acme Adventureware, with a storefront only a few miles away.

"Hellooo?"

"Acme."

"Do you sell Adult Sex Shop Vibrators Vibrators Vibrators? Um, Vibrators?"

"Yeah, we got vibrators."

"Do you deliver?"

Wouldn't you know it -- the very first business I spoke with, and they delivered! The kind man on the other end of the phone read off a list of names and descriptions. I chose the Ron Jeremy Lifelike Intruder.

"COD, Ma'am."

"COD?"

"Cash on delivery. You need batteries?"

"I don't know. I suppose I do."

"Very good, Ma'am. No out of state checks. Is that a problem?"

"No problem at all." Then I thought of something. Human packaging can be quite a trial. "Um . . . I'm, I'm disabled. Yes, that's it. Might your delivery man take the Intruder out of its package and load it with batteries for me? It would be a real help."

"Ma'am, we don't indulge fantasies. We're strictly legit."

"I quite understand! I'm strictly legit, too. I promise you, I have nothing but the most honorable intentions towards your delivery man."

I heard him grumbling something to a colleague. After an extended argument, he came back on the line. "Boss says I need a credit card number."

This was much better. My champion, my love, Lord Valor had provided me with an American Express Card number. I had it memorized, so I recited it to the nice young man on the phone.

While I waited for my Intruder, I checked the chicken. Mostly frozen, still, and I could tell it wouldn't be juicy enough for my liking. Rats. I could hear them in the attic; if I could catch enough of them, I might regain a bit of strength. The main challenge would be that damnable dog. He was barking up such a racket, I wasn't sure I would be able to hear the rats.

Success! I entered the attic through an access panel in the hall closet. Oh, they were crafty opponents, but they were no match for me, barking dog or no.

The doorbell rang. I popped down from the attic and went to the door. Without opening it, I said, "Do you have my Intruder?"

"Yes indeedy," said a young male voice.

"Have you taken it out of its package and loaded it up with batteries?"

"Yes'm. And, might I say, it's a fine, manly product."

"I certainly hope so, young man, given what your employer charged me. Leave it on the step, please."

"Sorry, Ma'am, but you have to sign for it."

Drat! How could I sign for anything? I suppose I could open the door and scare him unconscious, but he seemed so nice.

"Please," I said. "I left my credit card number with your boss. Isn't that good enough?"

"Rules are rules."

"But I'm not presentable. I'm old, and covered in sores, and I'm not wearing a stitch of clothing."

This last was true. I heard him sigh. "How 'bout I slip the form under the door?"

Now it was my turn to sigh. "Fine."

With one fang, I punctured a bit of leftover rat and used the blood to scrawl a big sloppy X. I pushed it back under the door. "Now, please. Leave it on the step."

Before he left, I heard a high-pitched whine (Good, I thought. I don't think I could have managed some teensy weensy switch), but that was followed by renewed baying by my un-neighborly canine neighbor. A prescient shiver ran up my cephalothorax. I opened the door, and the dog bounded in, tail wagging with single-minded fury.





I'd watched enough TV to know what to say.

"Good doggy. Who's my good little boy? Drop the Intruder, boy. There's a good, good, good boy."

As I spoke, I edged closer. I swiped his haunch with my foreleg. He yelped, dropped the Intruder, and bounded out the door.

The Intruder's whine was maddening. I thought: You humans think this is pleasurable? Not that I would have used it. Dog slobber is such a turn-off.

Ooh, this is fun.

1.	My ideal man would probably... be charming and suave think I'm a nut, but love me anyway see the warmth behind my tough-talking exterior help me kill my husband if I asked

I wouldn't need help killing my husband. I'm going to go with A.

2.	My friends consider me to be... a little odd, but quite nice funny and smart, sometimes a little arch competition...and they're right calm, sophisticated and reliable

Ooh. C. It has to be C.

3.	If I have an afternoon engagement, I would dress... to kill, in furs and diamonds I worked hard to get in a lovely ensemble, with matching hat and gloves trim and smart, but still look smashing in my own chic style

I am always dressed to kill.

4.	I have a real soft spot for... smart guys who treat me like an equal someone I can take care of dopes with big hearts who get themselves into jams married men and criminals

You mean I can't choose all of the above? I'll go with A. Skipping ahead,

7.	For my next vacation, I'd like to... travel somewhere expensive, so I can meet someone rich travel cross country by train, with hilarious hijinks ensuing take a world cruise, first class all the way go somewhere interesting and off the beaten track

B. Imagine me in the dining car, sucking dry some socialite's boy toy. Oh, damn, that's right. You value your men.

8.	My best friend was just murdered! I immediately... set about trying to find the killer in my own way faint dead away, and wake up in the arms of a private dick yammer about it with my buddies in the newsroom make sure no one suspects me

D. I've already been staked out for the mugwasps once in my life. I don't care to do that again.

9.	One of my biggest regrets is... letting my tough front get in the way of expressing my feelings standing aside and letting the boring, pretty girl get my guy regrets? I have no regrets a private sorrow, which I will keep locked in my heart forever

A. Really, though, I'm one hell of a softy deep inside.

11.	If I were alone on a desert island, I'd be... a little at a loss, but I'd make do queen of all I survey instantly devising a clever plan to get out of this mess thinking of ways to decorate my new hut

Very hungry, very fast. What, that's not an option?

13.

For a movie to have a truly happy ending, the heroine must... deliver a clever closing line at the side of her leading man help the hero solve the crime, and look smashing as he wraps things up keep true to herself, even if it turns out badly for her get away with murder, even if it's just figuratively

D. But you already knew that.

19.	My favorite foods are... found in the deli section or at the lunch counter a little strange when served together, but I like them that way expensive, but I make it a point never to pay for them whatever I'm served, I'm pretty easy and probably wouldn't complain, anyway

One inappropriate answer after another. My favorite foods squeal when I bite them. Oh, damn; I'll go with B.

As for the rest, I wouldn't want to bore you poor dears. And the Rabbit's getting edgy. He can't stand that I'm futzing on the laptop while trying to drive down the San Bernardino Freeway. "Keep your eyes on the road," he says. Like that would do any good?

Here we go. Press button and wait.

Oh.

Oh, yes.

This is soooo right.

Joan Crawford You scored 45% grit, 23% wit, 19% flair, and 19% class!

You are one tough dame, as tough as they come. You've had to fight long and hard to get where you are, but you always knew you'd do whatever you had to do to get ahead. You aren't above committing crimes (or seducing others to do them for you) to get what you want. You want to be happy and comfortable, but you usually always manage to get the fuzzy end of the lollipop. Even your kids are usually against you. Your leading men include anyone you set your sights on, even married guys that are never seen on-screen. Watch your back. Find out what kind of classic leading man you'd make by taking the Classic Leading Man Test.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 90% on grit You scored higher than 33% on wit You scored higher than 3% on flair You scored higher than 23% on class

Link: The Classic Dames Test written by gidgetgoes on Ok Cupid

Crikey, look at the fangs on this one!

Note from Captain Argh:

Fragmentary transmissions continue to filter in from Tina (Bare Rump to you). I strongly suspect we're meeting with interference from the Los Angeles area's many cell phones, and I've been hard at work developing appropriate filters. I'm beginning to doubt Michael Kirby will ever arrive to give us help.

Today's fragment is remarkably intact. I'm delighted to find that Tina is alive and well, and making quite a splash in Hollywood. Transmission follows.

***

The Rabbit hustled me past Disneyland Security, using his famous face to clear a path. One of the Kingdom Kops tried to put up a body block.

"Hey! Isn't that the spider who --"

"Coming through," said the Rabbit. "Charlotte's Web sequel, special event, coming through!"

He barged past, and a human wave of teenage girls closed behind him, screaming, "KEANU! NEO! BILL! I MEAN TED! I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY!"

At last, we dodged all the Kops. "You told me to stick to insects," I griped.

"Jiminy Cricket is not an insect."

"Then what was she doing hiding in an insect costume? I mean, dressed like prey, what did she expect?"

"She didn't expect a ten-foot-long spider to be tasting her ass, did she? Now come on. I'm getting you back to the hotel."

"But I didn't get to go on The Pirates of the Caribbean!"

Back at the Hyatt, I ordered out. (In LA, you can get anything delivered to your hotel room, no questions asked.) While I ate, the Rabbit stretched out on the bed, drank Old Smuggler, and watched Animal Planet.

"Hah!" he cried. "The Crocodile Hunter himself. I love this guy."

"Oh. My. God," I said. "Change it now. Quickly."

Steve Irwin had a tarantula crawling up his arm. I really didn't want to hear what he had to say about spiders. He and his ilk are a large part of the reason for me being here on Earth. He's one of the worst Disseminators of Disinformation, a fellow who spreads fear under the guise of truth.

But the Rabbit hogged the remote, and I could do nothing but watch.

"Lor! This here's the most dangerous eight-legged critter in South America, the dreaded Goliath King Baboon Bird-eating spider. This Sheila climbs up to the highest level of the canopy, then drops down on a silk parachute to nab the unsuspecting parrots below. Sometimes she lands on the back of some poor Bruce's neck --"

"AAACK!" I screamed. "Make it stop, please make it stop."

The Rabbit hit MUTE. "What is your problem? He's talking about spiders, Rump. Earth spiders. And he's the expert on wildlife here, not you --"

"That's where you're wrong. I've made a careful study of terrestrial arachnids. I intend to teach these Earthlings how little they have to fear from their indigenous eight-legged friends. And he's no expert, he's, he's -- a buffoon! There is no such thing as a Goliath King Baboon Bird-eating spider. There's a Goliath Bird-eater, who doesn't eat birds, and the King Baboon, who also doesn't eat birds, and they are both burrowing spiders. They'd no sooner fall on your neck than --"

The Rabbit let out an exasperated sigh and turned the sound back on.

"Crikey, Mate, look at the fangs, will you? I'll bet you wouldn't want to meet up with her on a dark night. Why, I'd rather wrestle the biggest, meanest crocodile than deal with this wicked little vixen."

"That does it," I said. "I'm going to pay Mr. Irwin a visit and teach him a thing or two about spiders."

He jumped off the bed and knocked between my eyes.

"Helloooo. Miss Ru-ump. He lives in fucking AUSTRALIA."

I knocked him between the eyes and he fell back on the bed. Synthetic he may be, but with a fifth of Old Smuggler in him, he was a pushover.

"Hellooo," I said. "Read Variety."

I opened it up for him and pointed my leg at the story on page six:

CROC BLOKE TO PUT PAW ON WALK OF FAME

"Don't you see, Rabbit? Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe I shouldn't be trying to spread uplifting information about spiders. Maybe all I really need to do is put an end to all the lies people tell."

He rolled his eyes at me. "Will you listen to yourself? That's insane."

"The ceremony is this evening," I said. "I'm going. Are you coming with me, or not?"

"How do you think you'll get there without me?"

With my usual alacrity, I popped over to his trousers and plucked the keys from his pocket.

"You don't know how to drive," he said, but there was a question in his voice.

"Oh, yeah? Watch me."

Tag this.

Captain Argh here. While I wait for the brass to decide what to do about Bare Rump, I have nothing to do but sit on my legs and eat can after can of Shiz Whiz. (Trust me, you wouldn't want to know.) Thus, this 'tagging' exercise of Debi's has come as a pleasant diversion. I won't be passing the tag on to anyone else; I simply don't know enough of your people. But I can at least do a passable job on my end of things. Here goes.

Ten years ago, I was a wriggly critter gnawing away at some fetid bit of road kill or another. Here's a baby picture of me and my brother Brek. I'm the cute one.

Five years ago, I graduated from the Junior Academy magna cum laude and matriculated at Mistress Ehchoo's Institute for Clever Little Buzzers, one of the most respected finishing schools in Achptuii. Little did I know that the only way to get ahead at CLB was to give the Mistress nightly abdominal spit-shines, *shiver*.

One year ago, my days at Nanosquash were numbered, but I didn't know it yet. I had just been named Assistant Project Manager on the Defenestrator 2004, the soon-to-be-released primo-bitchenest Lattice browser on the market. Too bad it ate hard drives for breakfast.

Yesterday I made myself a nice smoothie (I'd give you the recipe, but you humans are so queasy about such things) and reread all of Bare Rump's old posts. Oh, did I cry my eyes out. All 4,096 of them.

Today I gave my pectorals a good workout in the gym. Hard to stay in shape in the Moon's microgravity; you really have to work it. Stella from Dipteran Resources kept giving me the eye. She had heard that Drissi and I were on the outs, and she can't quite accept that I love another, um, lady. You'd think the 8 1/2 by 11 photo of Bare Rump on my desk would be a clue.

Tomorrow is Mom's birthday. Must call.

5 Snacks I enjoy: Shiz Whiz on pork rinds, Sugar Poops, McDonwald's Big Crap and Fries, Sheetos (they go crunch!), Decay's Cadaver Chips (you can't eat just one).

5 Bands I know most of the lyrics to their songs: Snow Patrol, Maroon 5, Keane, Madness, The Pogues. (Yes, Debi, those bands all got their start on Ephys.)

5 things I would do with $100,000,000: Commission Whizzer to make me my own corps of synthetic human servants -- then, Jennifer Lopez could give me nightly abdominal spit shines. Let's see: I would also buy my love, Bare Rump, a sexy hot pink silk nighty. She'd probably be critical of the silk, but she's enough of a sport not to show it. Oh -- five things? Must it be five things? I'd give the rest to my favorite charity, Miss Frumple's Home for Wayward Larvae.

5 Locations I Would Like To Run Away To: the Pleasure Pits of Omma, Sebastian's Joint on Vespa (great barbecue!), sand-skiing on Vora, bluk-bluk racing across the Screaming Plains of Patak V, razzing sand worms on Arrakis.

5 Bad Habits I Have: I have a hard time talking about my feelings. I've never confessed to Bare Rump what I'd really like to do in bed with her. I sometimes crinkle my wings at inappropriate times. I pick my proboscis when I don't think anyone is looking. And I buzz off way more than is healthy.

As Bare Rump's biographer would say: Oy! That's enough.

Good night, all,

Captain Argh

In case you're wondering where I am

Captain Argh here at Moonbase B0nz0. That's at the northeastern end of the Sea of Fecundity, spitting distance from the Benevolent Moonbase Alpha in the Sea of Tranquility. Oh, blast. Here's a map. See for yourself.

We know they're there, but they don't know we're here. Got it? As usual, we're watching the watchers.

Moonbase Alpha is the Benevolent's primary relay for human exports. Everything goes through Alpha: DVDs, books, music, Cuban cigars, abductees, illicit colonoscopy videos. (What did you think those anal probes were all about, anyway? And you thought the British were rectally obsessed.) We Grith Lyssomes keep a close watch on everything that comes and goes. Not that we can prevent it, but it is psychologically helpful to know about the Next Big Thing before it happens. Sometimes it's even financially advantageous.

The Olsen Twins, for example. We knew that would end badly, and when it did, several hundred million Benevolents would suffer reactive depression. Years in advance of Mary Kate's flame-out, we set up thousands of pay-for-ping satellite channels to counsel forlorn Benevolent fans at 10 Pounds Sterling per minute. Ka-ching!

Perhaps you're asking yourself: Not one, but two alien bases on the moon, and we know nothing of it? Or has our government known all along, and kept it secret from us?

As for the first question: It's simple, really. We're underground.

As for your governments? We Grith Lyssomes have a saying that applies to the average Earthling politico: "eight hundred maggots short of a brood." Think about it. If half a dozen Grith Lyssomes crawled onto the floor of the United States Senate and proclaimed, "Klaatu barada nikto," what would happen? Nothing. They'd assume we were a promo for the latest David Cronenberg movie and arrest our fat abdomens for trespassing.

In the words of a famous Earthling, "You can't handle the truth." I mean, think about it. The only way you can put up with this blog is by telling yourself it's fiction -- am I right?

Face it. No human wants to know that his race is a rawhide chew toy worked over by giant flies on the one hand and big-eyed blue aliens on the other. Particularly when those flies use Earth as a limitless source of gourmet fecal matter, and the big-eyed blue aliens have, for the last six years running, given their Top Human Performer Award to Yanni.

Huh? My wife is on line two? The nerve of that, that --

Oh, very well. Put her through.

What we need here is a Special Forces man

Captain Argh here. It has been eleven days since our last transmission from Tina -- erm, Bare Rump to you Earthlings. I never could bring myself to call her Bare Rump. That always struck me as not so much a name as a medical diagnosis, or perhaps a pseudonym for writing smutty literature. But as Tina, she's the spring that makes my heart tick, the twinkle in my compound eyes, the biz behind my buzz.

You may wonder how a silly fat-bottomed fly like me fell for a girl like Tina. We got off to a rocky start, let me tell you. Along with two other Grith Lyssomes, I had been sent to her planet to make first contact. Things did not go well and I nearly ended up as lunch. But Tina saw something in me, something special. Even though we did not yet have a means of communication, I like to believe that, even then, we shared the language of love.

Oh, Tina. I miss you so.

We received a fragmentary transmission from her a few days ago, so I believe -- I have to believe -- she's alive and well:

. . . many handprints, and none of them fit me! I mean to correct this as soon as . . .

We've tracked her down to Hollywood, California, USA. If you see her, please communicate with me via this blog.

In desperation, I thought of the only person I knew whom we could send to Hollywood without risk of causing much disturbance. We'd worked together on Tina's planet. He'd retired soon after that messy affair, but I thought perhaps he might consider a new assignment, particularly if it meant a honeymoon for him and his new wife.

First, however, I would need approval from General Huzzah. I got him on the phone earlier this morning. Half the galaxy away, and I could hear him plain as day. Isn't technology wonderful?

"We need someone who can go in and out cleanly," I said. "A fellow who can blend with the humans every bit as well as the Rabbit. What we need here is a Special Forces man."

"Man?" said General Huzzah. "A Special Forces man?"

"Someone with whom I've worked personally on, ah, Bare Rump's planet. He's an honest fellow with initiative to burn --"

"I knew it! You're talking about Whizzer's synthetics, aren't you? Those Barbies, Corbies --"

"Kirbys, Sir. And I only need one, Michael Kirby. And, um, Sir? To make him particularly inconspicuous on Earth, I thought we could send him in with his wife and child."

Then I did that trick you see in the movies. I crinkled my wings and rubbed my antennae together, making a dreadful noise, and shouted, "SIR! Some interference from a neutrino shower! I'm sending you a recent photo. Let me know soon, Sir! Times are desperate!" And then I terminated the connection.

With half my eyes on the phone, I threaded a recent press photo of Michael into the telefax. Michael, Michael -- had I told the General I needed Michael? For Michael was worth all the other Kirbys rolled into one.

And now I wait anxiously for General Huzzah's permission. I'm his fly in the field -- what else can he do but comply?

Martha and Gallo do not mix.

Ugh. I have such a headache.

This morning, we drove into the Los Angeles basin, the Rabbit's car dipping down into a yellow-grey blanket of smog. I hushed him every time he tried to speak. The ten-pound bag of ice on my head didn't help.

Last night, I remember him returning from the parking lot carrying two bottles of wine. He caught me mid-suck.

He held the bottles up for my inspection. "What do you think -- white or red? I've got a Chardonnay and a Cabernet Sauvignon."

"Don't know, don't care," I said. "I don't drink . . . wine."

"Har-har, very funny. You may not drink wine, but you do drink skank."

"What did you expect?" I hated him right then; he was making me talk with my fangs full. That is so inelegant. "You'd starved me all day, and then you held her out to me on a platter. And now look at me. I came to Earth to make friends with these people, not --"

"Not turn them into an all-you-can eat buffet?"

"At least I didn't have sex with her."

It was the meanest thing I could say, but he shrugged it off. "You had a nibble, I had a nibble. We're even." He unscrewed the wine bottles and emptied both into the ice bucket. Then he up-ended the bucket and took a long swig. "Want some?"

I punctured the side of the styrofoam bucket and drained the rest. He glared at me. "What. A. Pig."

"You offered," I said, and returned to my buffet.

He watched me in silence. This bothered me more than anything else. For all I knew, he could have been wired for audio and visual; the Benevolents might have been broadcasting this to the humans at this very instant. Worse still, perhaps they'd found my home planet, and were planning to blackmail me with this damning evidence. I could become a Benevolent stooge, not unlike the Rabbit.

On second thought, the scenario seemed unlikely. He'd gone renegade, after all. To do that, he had to have control of the flow of information back to the Benevolents. If they suspected the Rabbit of treachery, they'd come after him, just as they had sent him after me.

Ah, what a tangled web we weave, and all that.

"So how is she?" he said at last.

I burped up a few dozen baby summer squash, buds attached. Where had those come from?

"Initially piquant. Later, a delectable balance of cis- and trans-fatty acids, followed by a robust and delicious syrup of digested goo. Now I sense something odd. As if there were something rotten at the core."

"She was ruthless."

"Oh, really? I figured I was tasting you."

"Tsk, tsk. Remember, Rump, we have to get along. We're partners, now."

Groovy: me and the Rabbit, partners. We'll be settling in for the day, and then tomorrow, it's Studio City. Or Burbank. Wherever the big producers are. Oh, I don't know; I'm just along for the ride.