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Gettin' Probed by Aliens Ain't No Laughing Matter

A guest Probeatorial by
Dale Masterson

Yeah, I got probed back in, oh, I guess about 1998. I remember 'cause it was March, and I was sick of the news full of that chubby chaser Clinton, so I told Maude that I was goin' outside for a smoke, or maybe a chaw. She don't like it when I chew in the house. She says I stain up the furniture. I tell her, I say, "I work 10 hours a day at the plant to pay for it, I'll stain it if I want to!" but she won't have none of it.

So, I'm out on the porch, gettin' a nice big scoop of Red Man ready to chew. I remember, I was thinking that the glory days of Ronald Reagan were long over. All of a sudden, faster than a greased whore, I sees this bright light streak across the sky. Now, we live out in the country, so there's no streetlights farkin' up the view, so I see shootin' stars all the time. Maude tries to tell me they're meteorites or something, but she's a damn fool. If they was actually meteorites they'd crash into the Earth an' all hell would break loose, just like in that movie Agamemnon.

Funny thing about this shootin' star though is that it looked to be comin' right at me. I rubbed my eyes and checked again and sure as shit, there it was, barreling at me like a bull with its nuts in a squeeze. Now, lookin' back I shoulda just run. I mean, considering what happened and all. But I figured this would finally be the chance to prove Maude wrong about that meteorite bullshit. Anything to make her shut up for more than five minutes is usually worth the risk.

Well, before you could say "Grand Ole Opry," I was in this big, white-and-silver-looking room. I looked around and all I could see were these funny looking machines and doo-dads, kinda like a Jiffy Lube on Mars or something. And surrounding me on all sides were these funny-looking little green fellers. The best I can describe them is that they looked like Maude does when she puts on that green face crap some nights, only not really that scary. Almost cute, in an ET sorta way.

Now, down South we're known for our hospitality, and whether they was from around here or not, I wasn't gonna let that stand in the way of bein' a genteel host. So, I hoist up my buckle and put my hand out, and I says, "Welcome to Campbell Creek, Georgia. My name is Dale Masterson. Pleased as hell to meetcha."

That's when they probed me.

No "Hi," no "How are you?" not even a "Thanks kindly, there, Dale old buddy!" they just yanked off my Wranglers and started probing away. I mean, they at least could have asked. "Hi there, Dale! Mind if we give your corn-chute a good old fashioned probing?" And then I could have politely declined and said, "No thanks, good buddies, no probing for me, thanks all the same." But they just went right ahead like my back passage had some sort of sign on it that said "Probe here."

Now, for those of you who've never been probed by an alien before, there's no real way to describe it. It feels like somebody is inserting a cold metal device into your most private of cavities. Actually, that's pretty much what they did. I've never been very good at describing stuff.

So that's pretty much it about getting probed. Ain't pretty, and ain't nice. After they were done rooting around my hoop, the next thing I knew I was face down in the dirt in front of my house, Wranglers around my ankles, whimpering like a dog that knows he's on his way to get fixed. I musta laid there for a good hour before hoisting up my pants and going inside. Not a "thank you" or nothing.

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