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

of a regular rainbow. You will never understand the joy of teaching a young boy how to swing a bat, then watching him go all over the place, swinging away.
    I used to be like you. I would put my napkin on my lap, instead of forming a little tent over my plate, like I do now, with a door for the fork to go in.
    I would go to parties and laugh—laugh and laugh, every time somebody said something, in case it was supposed to be funny. I would walk in someplace and slap down a five-dollar bill and say, “Give me all you got!” and not even know what they had there. And whenever I found two of anything, I would hold them up to my head like antlers, and then pretend one “antler” fell off.
    I went waltzing along, not even caring where I stepped or if the other person even wanted to waltz.
    Food even seemed to taste better back then. Potatoes were more “potatoey,” and turnips less “turnippy.”
    But then something happened, something that would make me understand that this is no game. One day I was walking past a building and I saw a man standing high up on a ledge. “Jump! Jump!” I started yelling. What happened next would haunt me for the rest of my days. That man walked down off that building and beat the living daylights out of me. Ever since then I’ve realized this is no game.
    Maybe one day it will be a game again. Maybe one day we’ll be able to run up and kick a pumpkin without people asking why you did that and are you going to pay for it.
    Perhaps one day the Indian will put down his tomahawk and the white man will put down his gun, and the white man will pick up his gun again because haha, sucker.
    One day we’ll just sit by the fire, chew some chewing tobacky, toast some marshmackies, and maybe strum a tune on the ol’ guitacky.
    And maybe one day we’ll tip our hats to the mockingbird, not out of fear, but out of friendliness.
    If there’s one single idea I’d like you to take away from this, it’s this: This is no game. The other thing I’d like you to think about is, could I borrow five hundred dollars?
    (AUTHOR’S NOTE: Since finishing this article, I have been informed that this is, in fact, a game. I would like to apologize for everything I said before. But please think about the five hundred dollars.)

The Legend of Me
     
    T hey say that when the October moon is full, and the swamps and meadows are covered with an eerie mist, I will put down my beer and go walking through the streets.
    According to legend, my hair will stick out wildly, from lying on the couch all day. I will walk with an awkward stagger, my arms held forward. No one knows why I walk this way. Some say it is to be ready in case I trip. Others say it is to make sure I don’t go face-first through a spiderweb.
    When I am abroad in the land, many of the frightened townspeople report hearing a ghastly, bloodcurdling howl. This is the part of the legend that hurts my feelings the most, because I think they’re talking about my singing.
    Some stories claim that if you confront me during my midnight walks and chant, “Jack Handey, Jack Handey, give me some candy,” that I will give you some candy. Man, forget it. I need that candy.
    I am said to prey upon young lovers, and that if I look into a bedroom window and see them having sex, I will stand there and watch with my red, flaming eyes. But I am not looking for young lovers; I am usually looking for something else, like, I don’t know, my lost treasure or something. If I happen to see two people having sex, I will stay and look, for I am curious about your human ways.
    They say I can turn into a bat. I can, but not very well. What I am probably best at is wandering into a party and transforming myself into someone who looks like he might have been invited. And woe to him who fingers me as an impostor, for he will be greeted by a hideous hissing sound coming from the tires of his car.
    It is whispered that I can suck the blood out of you. Others say I can start to tell a