Bob Johnson at 7-Eleven
Have you ever wondered what would happen if a monkey and a cheetah mated? Neither had Bob Johnson, but you’d be surprised at the things that come into your mind when it’s 800 degrees outside. And that’s no exaggeration. Bob Johnson was on Venus, which, due to a greenhouse effect, has a surface temperature hotter than that of Mercury, even though it’s almost twice as far from the Sun. The temperature was no excuse for Bob’s odd query, though. He was resting comfortably inside a climate-controlled 7-Eleven. Bob is just, you might say, “a little off,” and this monkey-cheetah wonder was the latest example of his quirkiness.
And by the way, I know what you’re thinking: “There are no 7-Elevens on Venus.” Of course not. That’s what they want you to believe, anyway. You’ve heard of Roswell? Area 51? Yes, there are aliens, and they did come to earth. They meant no harm, though; they were simply entrepreneurs interested in opening a chain of 7-Elevens across the solar system. And they had done their research. They’re still doing it today, which is why they’ve managed to be so successful in the lands far away. When you go in convenience stores and mutter under your breath, “Looks like a bunch of alien freaks in here,” you’re absolutely right. They’re not freaks, though, and if you call one of them by such a derogatory term to her face, you might as well do the “Macarena” and call it a night.
Back on that fateful night in 1947, Bob Johnson was just a 12-year-old boy picking blueberries in the New Mexico desert. (There are no blueberries in the New Mexico desert, and if Bob had known that, he wouldn’t have still been wandering around so late at night… but Bob Johnson was a determined boogar.) As young Bobby zig-zagged between the cacti and boulders across the hot, arid ground, inventing raps about his ’hood as he went, looking for that ever-evasive blueberry tree, (blueberries don’t grow on trees, which was yet another gaffe by our little buddy), it happened. A ball of light zoomed across the sky before suddenly halting right before his eyes. It was a massive, saucer-shaped vehicle hovering about six feet off the ground with a loud hum. Slowly, it lowered to the surface. Bobby had never seen such a thing. His mouth gaped open, and the blueberries that he hadn’t picked fell to the ground as his hands fell limp at his sides. There was just too much to take it all in. Then the craft settled to a quiet halt.
The seal of the vehicle’s hatch broke open, marked by a crisp whoosh of air. As the door opened further, a strange sound was heard. It was music. And the lyrics were in English. But this was unlike any music Bobby had ever heard. Finally, the volume increased to the level he could hear the vocals loud and clear:
Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother,
You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’,
And we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Bobby watched and listened in awe as a ramp extended from beneath the doorway and lowered to the ground. Smoke billowed out of the craft’s portal, illuminated by a nearly-blinding white light. The floor of the ramp was a mosaic of multi-colored panels of light – red, green, yellow, blue, purple – quickly flashing on and off to the rhythm of the music. And then, he – or it – appeared. Clothed in a white polyester three-piece suit, dark shirt unbuttoned down to his navel, with a luscious head and chest of dark, wavy hair, he was dancin’, dancin’, yeah. This man – or whatever it was – had an appeal that was magnetic to Bobby. “This is the schizzit,” Bobby muttered under his breath. Then in an instant, everything was pitch black.