The R.A.G. Files

Rearmount. The RAG Files sprang into action this afternoon when a telegram came in over the wire, reporting a UFO coming down Hwy 15 at a high rate of speed.

The telegram reads, in its entirety: ALIEN VEHICLE MOVING *STOP* SOUTHBOUND HWY 15 *STOP* HIGH RATE OF SPEED *STOP* "TRUCK-LIKE" OR "TRUCK-SHAPED" VEHICLE *STOP* ALIEN SPOTTED INSIDE REAPEAT ALIEN SPOTTED INSIDE *STOP* CONTACT IMMINENT ETA 8 MIN. *STOP*

(SPECIAL NOTE: The RAG Files feels that telegrams are a more efficient means of communication than telephone, e-mail, carrier pigeon, or instant messaging. Also, telegrams are written in broken sentances and phrases which make an urgent message look that much more urgent! We wish to thank our readers for their understanding, and remind them that these temporary aesthetic changes will not result in any interruption or termination of previously established service levels or response times.)

This reporter immediately grabbed his hat and ran outside to scane the skies for the incoming alien vessel. He wondered what message this extraterrestrial vistor was carrying for the people of planet Earth. Was it to be a peaceful blessing...or the opening shot in an interneccine war which would result in a planet devasted by thermonuclear holocaust? Were human beings destined for a hippie partnership with people like ourselves who could finally show us how to meet all our needs with solar energy and the importance of loving relationships that take into account our humble beginnings and enlighten us to the fact that we are not the only sentient being in the universe? Or would violent, bipedal leezard men come to wipe out most of humankind, leaving behind a small remnant of a once proud species to serve as livestock, surviving by getting fattened up in breeding compounds only to be slaughtered for the KFP's (kentuckey fried people) of our sinister leezard overlords? You know, like on that show V the Final Battle? Come on, people! 1982? Remember Marc Singer, a.k.a. The Beastmaster? He was in it! He was totally in it! Such a shame that guy never got an Oscar...

As these thoughts were quickly entering and then passing through this reporters' head, he remembered that he had forgot to call fellow muckraker and RAG Files founder, Lost Bird to apprise him of the situation. Without another second's delay, this reporter called that reporter on his cellular telephone, and that reporter picked up his cellular telephone and spoke to this reporter, and thus he spake: "Duuuuuuude! Settle dowwwwwn! No. No. No, I'm serious dude. You need to chill." After this reporter began settling, Lost Bird continued, "I'm on Hwy 15 right now guy, but I don't see it. I'm right where they say it is. Just hang on there, just keep your punk ass on the phone. I'm hitting town in less than five minutes. We'll meet up and wait for it. God this is weird! I must be just ahead of it or something. It should be right here but I don't see a damn thing. Oh...Wait a second, wait. Oh, okay. I don't know whats going on dude. I just checked my mirrors and I saw three cars pull off the road. There, somebody just pulled off ahead of me too. What the freakin' A is going on? Everybody is pulling over."

This reporter looked around and noticed a mob forming, and hastily erecting barracades across Mainstreet. Though it was noon, many in the crowd were carrying torches and pitchforks. A chant rose up from the din: "DOWN WITH ALI-EN! DOWN WITH ALI-EN!"

Then, all of a sudden, Lost Bird's truck was seen entering town and the crowd let out a roar. "There it is! There it is!" dozens of voices cried.

"There what is?" this reporter asked to the least brain dead person he could find within a two-mile radius.

"The alien, you dummy, the alien!"

"Where is the alien? I don't see a thing."

"Look, are you blind! He's in that weird, trucky thing! My God it looks just like one of our trucks! What do you think that means?"

At this point, this reporter became very confused, not having witnessed so much collective stupidity on such a grand scale. "Its a truck, you jackass!" this reporter said. "And thats L.B. in there, not an alien!"

"No, no its one of them oofies, you know, or, no, what they call it, oh yeah: an Oooh-fo. Yeah!"

"A U F O?"

"Yeah, thats what I done said!"

It was up to this reporter to explain to the citizenry that UFO stands for unidentified FLYING object, and trucks don't fly. Then, the crowd had to be told that the truck in question was being driven by Lost Bird, an identifiable community member, properly speaking, an Identified Driving Lost Bird or IDLB. Unfortunately, this explanation was not satisfactory.

"You're wrong! Birds fly. They don't drive! Anyways there ain't no suchy thing as an Idlebub or an Idlyb or whatever you done said. Lookee here reporty man, if'n you're messin' with out mind I won't hesitate to smash you like a fig freakin' neuton! Got me? Friggin' fig freakin' pig neuton! Gol damn it!"

As the mob proceeded to bear down on Lost Bird's truck, this reporter was able to pacify them with a few well aimed bursts from a supersoaker filled with a tank of warm un-neutered male cat urine. "Whats going on? What did those morons freak out?" L.B. wanted to know. There were no easy answers.

"Maybe it would be easier if the leezard people came and did us in. At least it would be quicker," this reporter opined. "These rejects can't seem to figure out what they want."

"Yeah," L.B. said, rolling his eyes. "Uh, huh. May-be. You just sit tight there little guy. We're gonna get you all the help you need!"

This last thing this reporter remembers was being offered some strange tasting M&M's and waking up feeling veeeeeeery stoned.