What I'd Say to the Martians Read Online Free PDF

The monkey clambers up on top of his head and picks the fruit, but then eats it himself. The giraffe shakes his head and laughs. (Give giraffe something to induce choking, then dub in laughing sounds.)
    Show the two female explorers returning to the lagoon, looking for the binoculars. They can’t find them, so they just decide to go swimming again.
    Monkey and giraffe gallop off into sunset. Question: Would it be too much to show monkey wearing a little cowboy hat? Cute, but maybe hurts reality of the documentary.

This Is No Game
     
    T his is no game. You might think this is a game, but trust me, this is no game.
    This is not something where rock beats scissors or paper covers rock or rock wraps itself up in paper and gives itself as a present to scissors. Or paper types something on itself and sues scissors. This isn’t anything like that.
    This isn’t something where you yell out “Bingo!” and then it turns out you don’t have a bingo after all and what are the rules again? This isn’t that, my friend.
    This isn’t something where you roll the dice and move your battleship around a board and land on a hotel and act like your battleship is having sex with the hotel.
    This isn’t tiddlywinks, where you flip your tiddly over another player’s tiddly and an old man winks at you because he thought it was a good move. This isn’t that at all.
    This isn’t something where you sink a birdie or hit a badminton birdie or do anything at all with birdies. Look, just forget birdies, okay?
    To you, this is probably all one big party. But sooner or later the party is over, and when you wake up a little kid is poking you with a stick and his mother is telling him to get away from you.
    Maybe you think this is all one big joke, like the farmer with the beautiful but promiscuous daughter. But what they don’t tell you is the farmer became so depressed that eventually he took his own life.
    This is not some honey-flavored, sugar-coated piece of candy that you can brush the ants off of and pop in your mouth.
    This is not something where you can dress your kid up like a hobo and send him out trick-or-treating, because first of all, your kid’s twenty-three, and second, he really is a hobo.
    This is not playtime or make-believe. This is real. It’s as real as a beggar squatting by the side of the road, begging, and then you realize, uh-oh, he’s not begging.
    This is as real as a baby deer calling out for his mother. But his mother won’t be coming home anytime soon, because she is drunk in a bar somewhere.
    It’s as real as a mummy who still thinks he’s inside a pyramid, but he’s actually in a museum in Ohio.
    You go skipping and prancing through life, skipping through a field of dandelions. But what you don’t see is that on each dandelion is a bee, and on each bee is an ant, and the ant is biting the bee and the bee is biting the flower, and if that shocks you then I’m sorry.
    You have never had to struggle to put food on the table, let alone put food on a plate or try to balance it on a spoon until it gets to your mouth.
    You will never know what it’s like to work on a farm until your hands are raw, just so people can have fresh marijuana. Or what it’s like to go to a factory and put in eight long hours and then go home and realize you went to the wrong factory.
    Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against having fun. But it has to be a controlled kind of fun, where those who are having too much fun are asked to leave, and those not having enough fun are beaten.
    You’re probably not even reading this anymore. You’re watching one of your “television shows.” You’re probably laughing at a joke some man is making at his wife’s expense. But trust me, one day you’re going to have to get down on your knees and beg God not to split your head open with an ax, because believe me, He’ll do it.
    I don’t hate you. I pity you. You will never recognize the magnificent beauty of a double rainbow, or the plainness