(vol. 12W, no. 5; newsletter by b.n.)
I was cruising home from the game the other night when I was abducted by aliens. Or at least that is what I think they were. Maybe they were Solar Bears. But that really doesn't matter. What matters is that one minute I'm
cruising down the road, contemplating the outcome of the game and the next minute its five days later and my email “in” box is overrun with messages from Harris demanding the newsletter. How does that happen? At first I didn't know, but as I researched it on the internet I found that what I had experienced was known as “lost time.”

According to, the classic sign that you have been abducted by aliens is the effect of “lost time” — which is just what is sounds like; the inability to consciously remember certain periods of time. It seems that when you are abducted by aliens, they wipe your memory of the event (a.l.a. Men in Black). So what you ask? What does this have to do with the newsletter? Well, to be honest, I'm was just plain curious. What I discovered was just plain bizarre. Using the links on kooksareus, I was able to track down a scientist that specialized in recovering lost or suppressed memories through the use of hypnosis. Fortunately when I called the guy, he had been a little slow so he was able to bring me in right away. Let me say one thing about hypnosis — it 's a crock! Well, at least I thought it was a crock, but then Dr. Quack (yes, that is his real name) opened my eyes to its true potential.

At first he started outwith the cliched “You are getting verrryy ssllllllleepppy,” while swinging a watch in front of my eyes. That really didn't do anything for me. Then he progressed to the “when I snap my fingers, you will be in a deep sleep.” He snapped. I was still awake. So it was back to the “You are getting verrryy ssllllllleepppy”... and on and on and on. Finally, after hours of agony, I think I just finally passed out. Or something similar. It was all pretty weird, I felt extremely groggy, but not tired. I felt very lightheaded, but my mind seemed crystal clear. I felt like I was in a darkroom with a disembodied voice speaking inside my head. The Voice asked me: “What is your name?” I responded appropriately. The Voice then commanded me to jump on one leg and quack like a chicken. After carrying out the command, I could hear The Voice laughing at me — not the meanspirited laugh of someone who had just gotten one over on me, but the innocent laugh of someone who was honestly amused, “I'm sorry,” The Voice said to me, “but I needed some practice for a birthday party I will be doing next week.”

“Take me back to last Wednesday night,” The Voice commanded me. I shivered uncontrollably as I thought about the subfreezing temperatures encounted after the game. What was this, the Shakelton expedition? Ah, but The Voice scolded me for getting off the subject. Yes, I do remember Wednesday night — camped out in the back of Scott Miller's minivan trying to stay warm with the heat cranking, but with the back hatch open all the heat escaped out into the frigid night air. Then I remember a vehicle pulling into the parking lot. “A vehicle,” the VOICE asked me, “What kind of vehicle?” Well, I think it was a Jeep Cherokee. “Was it an AMC Jeep Cherokee or a Chrysler Jeep Cherokkee?!!!” The Voice belligerently demanded. I don't know, it was a white Jeep Cherokee. “Ah, yes,” The Voice suddenly relaxed, “The aliens from Proxima Centauri often travel in the form transcribed to them by than ancient Navajo shaman. In centuries past, you might see an eagle or a hawk travel the sky but they have updated their mode of transport for the new millennium.” Well, it kind of looked like Dave Matthews driving the car. “Hah, don't be fooled,” The Voice laughed. “Like Dave Matthews has time to take off his national tour to drive to some godforsaken hockey rink on one of the coldest nights in recorded history, if not since the beginning of time.” No, not the musician, the hockey player on the Pirates. “Yes! I knew that, I was just testing you,” The Voice responded, “but why would Dave Matthews choose this moment in time to suddenly materialize in the parking lot of Goodsports USA?” He said he got an email from Harris saying the game was at 11:00. “And you believed him?” The Voice demanded to know. Well, Russ seemed to have a copy of the email on his blackberry unit. “Don't be an idiot. All those things can be 'altered' by the merest tug in the time-space continuum. Did you notice anything strange about his arrival?” Well he brought new refreshments. “Exactly!” The Voice boomed confidently, “What are the odds that Dave Matthews would pull into the parking lot with a cooler full of refreshments just as the meeting supply had been extinguished?” Hmmm, I guess it does seem a little far-fetched. “You didn't drink any of the refreshments from the Cherokee, did you?” The Voice asked cautiously. Well, yeah. “Oh no! You should never drink the nectar from Proxima Centauri! Do you have any idea what that stuff can do to you?” It did taste a little skunk. “Skunky? Skunky is hardly the word for it, on a planet ruled by seven suns that exert tidal influences on a planet that make earthquakes look like ripples on a pond, there is no telling what that stuff will do to you.” Oh. “Did he take anything from you?” The Voice once again demanded. Well, I have been unable to locate my mobile phone. “Oh no! With the merest spec of your DNA and the voiceprints from the phone, they will be able to build a clone army that will return in 20 years to enslave the entire human race!” Nahhhhhh ... The Voice was quiet for a while, before it asked in almost a whisper, “They didn't give you anything did they?” Well just the file that I attached to this email. (editor's note: in an effort to save humanity, we have not posted the attachment. Long live Earth!) “Aahhhhhhhh! By sending out that attachment you have just set into motion an unstoppable force that will overcome the entire internet and will lead to the downfall of western civilization!” Oh. “By the way,” The Voice asked, “did you win last Wednesday?” Nope, we lost on the magnitude of 6-0.

The silence was broken by what sounded like a knock on a door. What was that I asked. “Oh, that is my next appointment,” The Voice responded, “its Pete Townshend, I am helping him recover his memories about how he was abused as a child.”

LOST 6-0


(none awarded)