Oldie from us:
“My ancillary nerceptor tentacle can’t quite reach the subject’s amygdala Master Inceptor Gworvash!” cried the alien examiner in training.
Master Inceptor Gworvash wriggled over, he was a mass of tentacles and eyestalks.
He was also several hundred years old.
“Marrumph, you’re just too young. Your tentacle stalks haven’t grown in yet. See if you can interface with his visual cortex.”
“You mean, lay on his face and mess with his eyes?” the examiner in training asked.
“Yes, yes. Quite.”
Hours later, the man would wake up screaming about how a pulsating shag pile rug laid on his face and blinked light into his eyes while noting his reactions down on a clipboard.
Two days later, the vet looked at him and said, “It’s a cat. I don’t have any idea what you mean about playing with your eyes and taking notes. Cats have been known to lay on your face until you wake up. The rest must have been a nightmare.”
Meanwhile, Master Inceptor Gworvash chuckled behind his feline whiskers content in the knowledge that feline alien origins had not been uncovered.
Nor would they be.
Gworvash and his protege loaded their subject back into an alien device for another night of prodding and experimentation.
The novice asked, “How much longer will this study be? The stupid human keeps expecting me to eat that fishy stuff he takes out of a can. He seems to get upset if I don’t choke it down like some kind of animal. Then, when I do get an opportunity for some good food, my stomach hurts too much.”
“A few more tests before we send him over the edge and we move on to unsuspecting doting humans.” Gworvash said to his protege.
The sounds coming from inside the device were terrible.
It sounded like a crazed poodle was doing nasty things to a spinning agitator in a washing machine.
Attack of the cat -by Argee and Darksheare 12 Feb 2013
Another short
The Laundry.
“I arrived back to my place to after the party.
Mounds of the usual laundry greeted me, and my antediluvian headache.
Socks, shirts, briefs, pants, a jacket that I never wear, and a sequined thong.
I stopped to consider the thong.
The alien object sitting there, glittering a taunt at me.
“You don’t wear these, so why am I here?!” it jabbered.
“I have no idea, but in with the rest of the clothes you go.” I said, as I hideously mixed lights with darks, gentle knits with permanent press.
My work of evil complete, I sat on my davenport and listened to the pained screech of the laundry convulse in its death throes.”
Thank you!
... which was a Tuesday, because 2013 equals 2019. There are only fourteen calendars, but every year we buy "new" ones.
Hmmm...I missed that. And I don’t understand why. Must have been one of those times when I was without the interwebs.