The real Little Green Man from Mars is alive and well and living in Appalachia.

The Truth Is a Lone Assassin by Jonco Bugos

Friday, July 2, 2010


One of the biggest differences between my former life on the planet Mars and my current life on Earth is the noise factor. Even when the vaporized Martian seas were being sucked into outer space by the powerful gravitational pull of Nibiru (Planet X) thousands of years ago there was less noise on Mars then than on any given day on Earth nowadays. Contemporary Americans alone are noisier than the combined earthquakes that struck Mars in the aftermath of Nibiru. It appears that Earthlings — and especially Americans — are addicted to noise even more than they're addicted to speed.

Take the current Fourth of July weekend in the USA. In addition to the many, splendid displays of professional fireworks that will be set off by professional pyrotechnicians, there will be a hundred times that amount set off in back yards and alleyways and thrown from speeding vehicles all across the land. Babies will be rocked in their cradles at one in the morning by the M-80s and quarter sticks of dynamite that unimaginably replaced the firecrackers and cherry bombs of yesteryear. After all, nobody believes that bigger is better more than an American in the flyover with plenty of disposable income.

Americans who are addicted to speed and noise at the same time will mount their noisy ATVs and their Harley Davidson motorcycles and tear through villages and towns all across America while the babies and kids and seniors try to rest up for another day of celebrating their independence from Great Britain 234 years ago. When approached about the horrific thundering, burping noises emanating from their Harley Hogs, a Harley rider will almost invariably say, "Hell, I don't hear a thing." Thinking and hoping that you will be so dumb as to accept that as any kind of answer. On the other hand, an ATV rider in America the Beautiful is as unapproachable as the Queen of England. While the British are still in awe over a royal family that plays and never works, Americans are hopelessly bedazzled by noisy, bad-boy youths who don't care about anything.

When Americans run out of the bombs that replaced the traditional firecrackers and sparklers and they've used up their motorcycle and ATV gas money for the week, they'll forget about their speed addiction for a moment and make noise with the only means left to them. Whooping and hollering for no reason or for any reason or all reasons seems to be America's newest national pastime. As the smell of black powder drifts over them and the engines of their Harley Hogs and four-wheelers slowly cool with that tick-ticking sound, overfed moms and dads and kids will cheer for their favorite NASCAR drivers and WWE wrestlers and baseball teams and insult-comic sitcoms like sailors on a three-day drunk.

In the summertime I'm always reminded of why Mars banned noisemakers of any kind several millennia ago and why extraterrestrial sentinels from beyond Earth banned Astronauts from the moon in 1972. They knew far in advance that golf ball litter was only the beginning and that a species so addicted to speed and noise would eventually be addicted to power as well .

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