At night, when I look out into the shining blackness, I wonder if there is life in the Universe. The freezing Argon makes my face tubes squeeze in time to the flapping of migrating sky motes.

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The alien stunk like moldy old shoes and the gelantenous mass of its body quivered as it looked the boy over. Exasperated,Billy sighed “You said you were having me over for dinner so where’s the food?”

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Its jalapeno coloured eyes flickers with almost microscopic, heartlessly darwinian ecosystems. It gazes through a thousand generations dead on its jalapeno coloured eye-bubbles, and moistens thin lips with a pink alien tongue.

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Criticize This

I went to dinner once with a critic, a cynic, and a mutant alien life-form from Mars. The critic stuck up his nose and said the food wasn’t good enough to be served to anyone with taste buds, and with a heavy sigh the cynic explained that chefs don’t actually cook for our pleasure or benefit but rather to fulfill their own selfish desire for success – but both men looked bitterly disappointed and wistfully hungry when in one foul swoosh of its crooked, wart-infested finger the mutant alien life-form zapped both of their plates to ashes.

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Super Music Attack!

His image repeated for two hundred projectors back, the conductor raised his baton, at which moment a sea of one point two million flutes, clarinets, oboes, saxophones, bassoons, French horns, trumpets, trombones, baritone horns, tubas, mallets, drumsticks and cymbals all lifted up, signaling their readiness to strike the first note. It was hard to believe that music, of all things, was the alien monster’s weakness, but they were ready.

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