Back at the bus station, I was playing poker for vending machine sandwiches with this guy who said his name was Eddie. After I cleaned him out by winning two tuna fish and one ham-and-cheese, he told me a really weird story about how aliens came and abducted him and put a microchip in his head. He even showed me his scars. But when he offered to show me other stuff, I hit him in the jaw with a hot sauce bottle and went to catch my bus to San Francisco.

I was really excited to be heading out to the City by the Bay. Not because of Alcatraz or gay, Chinese hippies, but because I had six hours of McLaughlin Group podcasts on my D-Vice™. I just love the way he says “bye bye” at the end of each show. He’s old and wrinkly, but, hell, I’d shack up with him just because he’s so weird. I mean, can you imagine what it would be like if he took you out to dinner? I bet he drives waiters nuts.

Then I got to thinking about what Eddie told me about the aliens. Questions danced through my mind; you know like the watusi or the mashed potato. Were there really such things as aliens? Real aliens, from outer space, not the Mexican ones, which are from Mexico. I figured I would need to make a stop in Roswell, New Mexico. Back in 1947, an alien space ship crash landed there and the government lied about it. It seems that the same type of big-headed gray aliens have been coming to Earth for years to abduct people and stick medical instrument in them, kind of like dentists, but not as scary.

Unfortunately, the bus stop was thirty miles from Roswell. It seems that New Mexico is made of desert, which is like the beach, except that there aren’t any oceans nearby and there definitely aren’t any cute life guards. So, I hitchhiked for a bit. Showing a little leg worked, and I got a ride with this guy named Colonel Stevens, who told me he worked at Groome Lake and said he was in Roswell to visit relatives and not for any official purpose. He had a stupid mustache that kind of made him look gay.

Speaking of gays, I was supposed to be in San Francisco, which seemed like it would be more fun than a bunch of sand. So, I had him drop me off at the airport and I bought a plane ticket with his credit card. Maybe I shouldn’t have had his credit card, but since he totally tried to look down my shirt I stole his brief case and it had his credit card in it. I bought myself some cool stuff from the airport gift shop, too, including a decorative Las Vegas spoon made of melted poker chips.

I looked through his papers on the plane, but it was just a bunch of boring crap about “reverse engineering of alien thruster control nozzles.” Sounds stupid. Why not regular engineering? Well, I didn’t solve the mystery of aliens, but did you know that in the first class section they totally give you these awesome hot towels to put on your face? I took two and then stole all the magazines from the chair in front of me. They also give you a ton of liquor without checking your ID.

I made it to San Francisco okay, but I had to listen to this fat dude bitch about how they charged him for a second seat just because he was fat. I was pretty happy he was sitting across the aisle. It was worth it, though, because the guy sitting next to him ended up clocking him around the second hour. His name was Mark and I got his phone number before we disembarked. I’ll probably meet him at one of those places in San Francisco with a Spanish name in a couple of days.

So Roswell was pretty cool, because had I not gone there I wouldn’t be able to read this great magazine I took. It has an article about turtles and turtles are way better than aliens any day.