October is proving to be a big month in outer space. Researchers have hypothesized the existence of an alien megastructure in deep space, and tickets for “Star Wars” went on sale.
Have you read the stories about KIC 8462852? Apparently, scientists can’t understand why a star is behaving irrationally. I guess they never worked with Lindsay Lohan.
Scientists theorized that a large megastructure around a distant star could be created by aliens. Built by aliens! We could be on the verge of discovering the first object made by hands that could have six fingers (three on each hand or six on one, it’s up to your interpretation).
It’s either a creation of an advanced civilization, or it could just be some mysterious phenomena that we haven’t discovered yet. It’s most likely NOT an actual alien megastructure but one of those run-of-the-mill reasonable explanations like a really big asteroid in an unusual orbit or something, kinda like those click-bait articles where they promise to tell you something new and exciting, but it’s really just something you’ve heard before. One of those “You won’t believe which sexy actress is a lesbian!” And you find yourself reading about Portia de Rossi. Ho hum.
If KIC 8462852 has actual man-made (um … alien-made) objects floating around it, we would learn we are not alone in the universe. The object, possibly a Dyson Sphere, would be huge. It would be bigger than the Death Star.
Side note: I bet you thought I wasn’t going to get back to “Star Wars,” but I like to tie everything together.
A friend said, “It’s fun to imagine the existence of aliens. It’d be cool if we could all hang out in a bar like in that first Star Wars movie.”
P.S. He meant the first movie, not Episode One (don’t get me started).
I reminded him that not everyone got along in that bar on Tatooine. Whether he shot first or not, Greedo was blasted by Han’s ray gun. Shot dead and no one cared. That’s a pretty scary bar. It’s scarier than Jack’s on the Southside.
I live a dichotomous life. I love Halloween, but I hate to be frightened.
It goes back to my childhood. Picture it: I was a little boy playing hide-and-seek. I’d crouch behind the couch, hiding. I would get so nervous that when the seeker entered the room, I’d jump up and say, “I’m over here!”
It was not my best game.
It’s a good thing I never went to war.
I’d be in the bunker jumping up and down and the sergeant would be all, “What are you doing?” I would answer, “I want them to know where we are. Once they find us, maybe they’ll go off and attack someone else.”
Sadly, war doesn’t work like hide-and-seek.
I’m not good with scary movies.
I do like watching suspenseful ones, except I remember not breathing for the last 30 minutes of “Argo.” I was like, “Get on the plane. Get on the plane. Take off. Take off. Oh my God! Get in the air! Get in the air!” Instead of popcorn, that movie should have come with an oxygen tank.
Oddly enough, during the movie “Gravity” I was all, “Get on the ground. Get on the ground. Oh my God, she landed in the ocean!”
P.S. It’s been around. I don’t have to call spoilers.
It’s hard loving Halloween and hating the scary part. Not everyone can dress up as fairies, princesses and superheroes. Some people have to be monsters, murderers and creatures of the night.
Side note: It’s hilarious to me there is a scantily clad version of EVERYTHING. I saw a Darth Vader costume for women that came with a black miniskirt and cape. I’m surprised there wasn’t a caption on the sales tag that read: “For the nerdy girl who doesn’t want to be a cheerleader or Playboy Bunny, but still wants to be mistaken for a streetwalker on the South Side: Darth Floozy.”
But I digress, like I do. I still play along with my friends. I go to the ScareHouse and get the bejesus scared out of me.
I’m surprised I made it through the summer. I’ve had a series of minor accidents of a klutzy nature the last couple of months.
Rising from a beach towel and breaking my toe was the epitome of stupid. I have endured a wide range of injuries from impossibly dumb situations.
All things considered, when my friends went parasailing on vacation, I’m glad I stayed in the boat.
Who knows what sort of hijinks could have ensued while I was floating above the Currituck Sound?
When you’re this klutzy, it’s best to know your weaknesses and stay away from black cats, ladders and perilous heights.
Last week, I was roasting vegetables.
That sounds simple enough. I cut up eggplant, zucchini, carrots, onion and garlic, threw some grape tomatoes on top, for color. Then, I drizzled olive oil and balsamic vinegar on the veggies and popped them in the oven. Simple.
An hour later, I checked on my vegetable medley. They were getting a nice char, but they weren’t blackened. I sampled a piece of zucchini. It was hot but at the perfect consistency, juicy but solid, a decent crunch. I was proud of my roasting technique. I ventured forth and popped a grape tomato in my mouth. That was my big mistake.
The outside of the tomato seemed harmless, but the inside was deadly. Imagine a red balloon the size of your thumbnail filled with lava. When I bit it, it went off in my mouth like napalm.
The gooshy insides were scalding me. It burned my esophagus.
For a week, I drank water and ate yogurt. Everything else hurt too much. I couldn’t have hot beverages or eat anything salty.
By the way, it turns out I only like foods that are either hot or salty.
The day after the burn, skin from the roof of my mouth peeled like Saran Wrap left out in the rain.
I didn’t know I could nearly die from a tiny tomato.
I was at a party the other night, and I deftly pulled off a maneuver I always wanted to try. I mastered the Irish Goodbye. If you’re not familiar, the Irish Goodbye is when you leave a party without announcing your exit.
You can call it ghosting, the French Exit or just leaving unannounced, but I’m Irish and I’m going with it. I’m calling it the “Erin Go Bye.”
For a long time, I’ve been using the Italian Goodbye. That’s when you hug, kiss and shake hands with everyone as you leave. Somehow you end up circling back to where you started and someone says, “I thought you left 20 minutes ago?”
I’m Irish and Italian, and I can get away with stereotyping my peeps.
I’m a “So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodbye, I leave and heave a sigh and say goodbye” kind of person.
One night, I said goodbye so many times that everyone left before me.
There’s a definite exit strategy to a party.
You want to get there late enough that it’s all revved up, and bug out before it’s time to clean up. I have found myself in the kitchen washing dishes at the tail end of many parties.
I decided to call this the Amish goodbye; you just can’t leave when there’s work to be done. If they’re willing to raise barns for each other, I’m pretty sure they wash a few dishes before going home. I can pretty much guarantee they’re not loading or unloading the dishwasher.
After years of my patterned behavior, it was hard to just disappear, but I found the Irish Goodbye works nicely. Unless you’re the host.
It may be too early to tell. I have only used the maneuver once, but I’m very pleased with it. There was a certain satisfaction. In the past, I’ve announced my departure, only to have someone give me a halfhearted wave and nod. I always prefer a grander gesture like, “You can’t leave! We were just about to play Parcheesi!” For the rest of the article, click here.
Mike Buzzelli is a stand up comedian and a sit down author. His book, "Below Average Genius," a collection of humor columns culled from the Observer-Reporter, can be purchased here!