Alright then, picture this if you will: 10 to 2 AM, X, Yogi DMT, and a box of Krispy Kremes, in my "need to know" pose, just outside of Area 51. Contemplating the whole "chosen people" thing with just a flaming stealth banana split the sky like one would hope but never really expect to see in a place like this. Cutting right angle donuts on a dime and stopping right at my Birkenstocks, and me yelping... Holy fucking shit!
Then the X-Files being, looking like some kind of blue-green Jackie Chan with Isabella Rossellini lips and breath that reeked of vanilla Chig Champa, Did a slow-mo Matrix descent out of the butt end of the banana vessel and hovered above my bug-eyes, my gaping jaw, and my sweaty L. Ron Hubbard upper lip and all I could think was: "I hope Uncle Martin here doesn't notice that I pissed my fuckin' pants."
So light in his way, Like an apparition, He had me crying out, "Fuck me. It's gotta be Deadhead Chemistry. The blotter got right on top of me. Got me seein' E-motherfuckin'-T!"
And after calming me down with some orange slices and some fetal spooning, E.T. revealed to me his singular purpose. He said, "You are the Chosen One, the One who will deliver the message. A message of hope for those who choose to hear it and a warning for those who do not." Me. The Chosen One? They chose me! And I didn't even graduate from fuckin' high school.