In a sparsely attended news conference in Cape Canaveral, Florida, NASA today revealed that there is a kicking new club on Mars, complete with chilled shooters, next-gen lighting, bathrooms with heated toilet seats and full-length mirrors, and an 18-armed DJ from Pluto who takes requests.
“Interesting,” said one of three reporters to attend the press briefing, and the only one who brought a pen. “Has the president issued a statement? Perhaps a strongly worded tweet? Have you found Melania?”
The spokesperson, a Dr. La Forge, seemed taken aback by the line of questioning.
“The…well…huh. I mean didn’t they find Melania? Did you hear me sir? There isn’t just life on Mars, there are DJ’s, and two turntables. And a microphone. It’s literally where its at.”
As rabid old guys, who should be cursing water hazards rather than blighting our political landscape, continue to succeed in their campaigns to suck all of the air out of every conceivable conversation like some sort of human-interaction white hole, creating its own endless event horizon, many important discoveries are going unnoticed.
“Its quite the phenomenon,” said noted archaeologist, Indiana Jones, who last week made a fairly significant find when he successfully retrieved an old mug he calls The Holy Grail. “I only made it to page 23 of The New York Times. In the Home And Garden section. It’s hard to get any press these days, even with my jawline.”
He isn’t alone. A reanimated Stephen Hawking wrote a full-page op-ed last weekend about the difficulties he’s had getting anyone to notice he’s back. Sandwiched between stories about the outfit Kim Kardashian wore to visit the White House, and the outfit she wore to purchase the outfit she wore to think about what she would wear to the White House, the great physicist’s unprecedented story of coming back from the dead received just 17 link clicks – 16 of which were later attributed to various cats walking on assorted keyboards.
Back in the NASA conference room, a bemused Dr. La Forge has departed his lectern and is making his way out, when the reporter who asked the only question looks up from his phone, his story sense starting to tingle.
“Dr. La Forge?”
The doctor pauses in his exit, and turns slowly, not daring to hope that the world might actually care that we are not alone, and the others can mix.
“This DJ. He’s an alien?”
“Correct. As I said, he lives on Mars. And has 18 arms. He is not from Earth. That makes him an alien.”
“But he DJs?”
“Is he any good?”
Dr. La Forge quietly repeats the question to himself while suppressing a deep, guttural scream.
“He plays for drinks, which we believe to be a step up from last year, when he had to talk the manager into letting him spin. But remember. Mars. Key part right there. All these things I’m describing? They happened extra-terrestrially. That makes them a big deal.”
“Sure. Yeah. Life on Mars. We get it. Just checking if we’re in danger of this guy coming to earth, taking jobs from hard-working earthlings, maybe bypassing immigration proceedings. Those are the things that get headline news these days. This? Probably page six or seven. But I’m not promising.”