O Mighty Shovel!!!! It is I, your most unworthy minion. Your Rotundity, it may be time to switch to Emergency Plan Alpha Tango Foxtrot Samba Rhumba. The large-jawed woman has discovered the secret connection to Minion T--- Crui--e!!!! Perhaps it is time to beam him up to the Mothership for his own protection!!! Excellent work, Your Niftiness, with the placing of Minion Paul Ryan into the Romney campaign. The Mormons are so alien themselves that Minion Paul will never be detected as one, even though you would have to be Helen Keller to look at his face and not think "otherworldly". Our secret plan to take over this miserable mudball is in full swing! Returning to my observation post, which is actually in the back of Bruce's truck. I know, but you haven't exactly been sending me the quadloosI need to rent an actual apartment, Your Minginess, so I have to take advantage of the fact that Bruce is trying to take advantage of me. Oops, here he comes! More later! Your faithful minion, Illuminati

Occasionally a neighbor would come out of his house and scream "would you shut the act of sexual intercourse up???" Then several of the mercenaries would spray his lawn with bullets and jeer as he ran into the house.

I wondered why the Terran security forces didn't come. This morning I found out that their new policy is not to answer anymore calls from this street or, as the officer I spoke to from the payphone said, "we wouldn't have time to do a damn thing all day."

When the sun came up this morning the carnage was terrible. Poor dogs and cats lay all over the yard, cut down by the mercenaries during the night.

"Well," Bruce said as he gazed at the littered ground, "that should cut down on the barking, at least."

When Bruce and I emerged from our packing crate, I was walking a little bowlegged, but otherwise in good spirits. Our reunion had been, how shall I say it? Intense. But he was quickly distracted by the uniforms provided by the large-jawed woman for her defenders.

Remember the night we stayed in on the spaceship and watched the human service called Netflix, O Mighty and Grand Digging Instrument? That movie called 300?

I didn't mind it so much, but the tiny leather bikini looked a little ridiculous on someone of Bruce's frame. He wriggled into it while muttering obscenities. And when we met up with the other members of Oma's Home Guard they weren't that happy either. We stood in the dusty area in front of Base Camp Oma and tried to look as professional as a group of men and a three-foot alien can look while wearing very little covering their posteriors.

Strangely, the large-jawed woman looked satisfied as her eyes raked us up and down, then back up.

"I knew all those spare outfits were gonna come in handy some day! Pass out the shootin' irons."

Her assistant shuffled forward with a handful of old army pistols, BB guns and in my case, a water pistol.

"Sorry, dude," the assistant muttered as he handed it to, "we're outta the real shit."

"Not a problem," I said brightly. Then I aimed it at Bruce and began squirting him with it again and again until his entire torso was gleaming in the late November sun, with little drops of steam rising off his taut pecs and --- sorry. I digress.

Anyway, I drew treehouse duty. There were a couple of planks nailed across two branches in a place that allowed me to see anyone who might be approaching the perimeter fence. By this time, neighbors had begun to appear on their front lawns. I suppose it isn't every day that a house on their street is surrounded by burly men dressed in leather bikinis. Or maybe it is. I was visiting Minion Kyle in West Hollywood, and it happened there every day. Sorry. I digress.

Friday night wore on. Every ten minutes or so there would be a noise, and one of my fellow mercenaries would let loose a few quick rounds of ammunition, peppering the darkness. From my vantage point I could see into the house to where the large-jawed woman sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by what appeared to be dozen of Terran canines --- you know, the creatures you always say remind you of my cousin Erglin, O Blemish on the Celestial Chin of Theta. The assistant was sitting with her, and they were trying to talk while she typed on the computer. It didn't appear that she was getting anywhere fast, since after she had typed for a few minutes another human who looked like her would jerk the computer out of her hands and scamper to another part of the house to watch exciting film clips. Really exciting film clips. Then the large-jawed woman would stand up and roar "you bring that sumbitch back here, baby boy!" and he would scream back "Act of sexual intercourse you, momma!" and the assistant would knock his forehead on the table. It got so interesting that I forgot to watch for the approach of Mr. O'Connor's forces! Of course, even if they had come, the most I could do was get their kneecaps wet, given my height and the nature of my weapon.

O Mighty Shovel!

It has worked, Your Decreptitude! I have been accepted as a mercenary at Base Camp Oma, as we are now calling it, for Operation: Desert Minimal Chance of Rain. I managed to mingle with a group of Hispanic humans waiting around outside of the local Home Depot when a rusty truck drove up with the large-jawed woman driving. The cab was filled with howling cats, frantically scratching at the windows to be set free. She ignored them, and motioned at three of us to get into the back of the truck. As per your instructions, O Wearer of the Sacred Jockey Shorts of Theta, I had procured a droopy mustache and sombrero as a disguise. The other Hispanics had looked curiously at me (you could hardly tell they were Hispanics at all, since they were wearing jeans and Tommy Hilfiger shirts. I felt pretty smug in my serape, let me tell you!), but I couldn't tell if this was because of my native dress or the fact that I am only three feet high, and the sombrero kept sliding down my face to rest on my shoulders.

Anyway, we reached the compound in Littlerock, and joined a crowd of other soldiers-for-hire that were milling in the front yard. The large-jawed woman climbed up on top of a crate (there were a lot of crates in the yard for some reason, as well as heaps of dog freeplow all over the place --- a lot of the other mercenaries kept stepping in it, and the smell was terrible!)

"Listen up, you retards!" the large-jawed woman bellowed. I had been distracted by the sight of her purple leggings and lime green top, but my attention was immediately front-and-center.

"There is going to be a major operation against this compound within the next thirty-six hours. I have received satellite intelligence reports from my supporters at NORAD that Patrick O'Connor's army will be moving against us at 0800 Sunday."

She pointed to some large wooden crates leaning against the far wall of the house.

"Those will be your barracks. Inside you will find your uniforms and weapons. Stand down, dress, and be back here in five minutes."

The throng of mercenaries dispersed. I tried to keep well in the background, but before I could get very far I was recognized! A burly man approached me, lifted the sombrero from my head and smiled down at me.

"Little guy, is that you? It's me! Bruce!"

My hearts sank, O Keeper of the Cojones of the Lords of Meeprap! It was my old friend the truck driver!

"Sure have missed your purty mouth, l'il feller. Come on, let's get away from the crazy bitch for a few seconds, 'cause you and I are gonna be bunkmates!

Gloryosky, Your Manliness! As per your instructions, I have been hunkered down here at the large-jawed woman's less than palatial estate in Littlerock! You were right, O Girdle of the Thighs of Theta! I was able to burrow down into one of the several padded pieces of furniture that she keeps out for her "pets". I think that she has spotted me several times, but there are so many beasts kept in doleful captivity in this place that I think she just assumes I am one of them. Anyway, she now calls me "Mr. Grumpy Paws" because I have bitten her several times when she has almost sat herself down upon me. Fortunately, my teeth usual don't do any damage because she is well-padded in the rear. In fact, there are times when she unknowingly crushes the occasional cat or small dog when she throws herself onto the upholstered furniture and doesn't even realize it!

Things here are not good. At least once a day the large-jawed woman staggers out of her domicile with another stack of clothing and tosses it into a great heap of rubbish. No one ever comes by to see her, either. I hate to say it, but I think it may be because she is now giving off a rather distinctive odor, much like the eeko plant on Theta --- I mean, France! Those who live closest to her less than palatial home have taken to throwing rocks and bricks into the yard with clever messages attached to them: "Go Home!", "Go Away!" and "Will you please stop your animals from shitting all over my yard?" Every once in awhile someone climbs over the fence and takes a picture. There was a doozy a few weeks ago; the large-jawed woman is down to her last few outfits, and this one was something that no one would want to remember. So of course someone took a picture!

She doesn't have anyone to talk to, as her human offspring seems content to sit in front of the communications screen of his computer and stare at pictures of undressed female Terrans. I think he is like his maternal unit in their shared love of animals, because from what I can see, the unclad Terran females are frequently depicted with animals themselves, and boy, do they like animals in the pictures!

Once in awhile the large-jawed woman will throw herself down on the upholstered furniture and mutter to herself while ignoring the smells of urination and defecation that waft up from the cushions (I only wish that I could, Your Immensity, so if you can beam down the Febreeze that I asked for, I would be ever so grateful!) Mostly she just says "Patrick! Rob! Bob!" over and over again, but every so often she will add "It's about damn time Jim sent me a check!"

Can I come home anytime soon?

Forgive your unworthy minion for being out of touch for the past few weeks, O Proboscis of Theta, but honestly, I have been all over the place!
As you may recall, I had trailed the wine man to the restaurant, where we discovered the large-jawed woman working undercover as a conveyer of comestibles to tables. After the small incident that resulted in the utter destruction of the dining establishment by customers angry because the large-jawed woman had refused to bring them the napkins they had asked for, she managed to elude me once again. Fortunately, I was able to pick up the trail of the wine man, and was able to follow him back to the city of Austin. Once more I occupied the bushes in front of his domicile, thinking that sooner or later the large-jawed woman would turn up. And she did, Your Magnificence! She did!
A few Terran cycles later, the wine man and his friend left their domicile and drove to a large building with the word “Justice” chiseled over it. I had cleverly disguised myself as a waste paper basket, and by extreme effort and the help of a very nice janitor named Juan, I was able to placed in the room where “Justice” is dispensed. Imagine my surprise when I realized that not only the wine man and his friend were present, but the large-jawed woman as well! The poor large-jawed woman looked terrible, dark circles under her eyes, and hair that for some reason now had two distinct color shades! I do not know if this is something that happens to all Terran females, but I have noticed that in some of them there is a new color that appears closer to their scalp for a few days. Then it goes away. But this time the new color had occupied more than half of the large-jawed woman’s head!
It seems that the Terran in the black robe (just like yours, Your Stylishness!) was there in order to ascertain whether the large-jawed woman owed the friend of the wine man money. It turns out that she does, to the tune of $15,000 in Terran currency (that is 11 orvaks in our terms, Your Parsimoniousness, or roughly 150 times my annual salary). The black-robed Terran looked a little bored and then he hit the top of his desk with a gavel and told the large-jawed woman that she did indeed owe currency to the friend of the wine man. He just looked very tired. The large-jawed woman admitted that she did, and the judge left them to work out the details of payment.

This is when it really started to get interesting, Your Infinitude, but I was distracted for a moment when the seedy lookingTerran with the large-jawed woman dropped a wad of chewing tobacco into me. By the time I got clear of the mess, the situation had deteriorated. The large-jawed woman had agreed to pay the friend of the wine man (he still just looked tired), but the wine man himself was refusing to believe that she ever would because “she has done this over and over” and her word isn’t worth anything, which I didn’t understand, because what he wanted was her money, not her word. His eyes flashed and his appendages convulsed as the large-jawed woman began squeaking at him that she was “good for it”, whatever that meant! Behind me I heard a really well-dressed Terran female say “in the schmatta she’s wearing she doesn’t look good for cab fare, Nitzi!”, but I don’t know what meant either! The wine man began shouting that the large-jawed woman was a thief and a liar!!!! Each time he said something, the well-dressed female would say “from your mouth to God’s ear, Rob!” and the large-jawed woman would squeak louder. Her seedy friend was so nervous that he swallowed his next plug of chewing tobacco and ran from the room!
But in the end it all seemed to get calmer. The large-jawed woman promised to pay the wine man’s friend the money that she owed him, and slipped from the courtroom,. The seedy man had been in the hallway with the wine man because the wine man’s eyes had flashed and his appendages had convulsed loud enough for the judge to ask him to leave the room. So it all seemed like it was settled.

But it wasn’t, Your Persnickytiness! I slithered under the chairs in the courtroom and trailed the large-jawed woman down the shaft by attaching myself to the roof of the elevator device. From there it was a simple trip to the airport affixed to the back of her rental car!

The 1980s and early 1990s were

. . . . good years for me. I served several of the Grand Shovels assigned to the California region, faithfully carrying out my duties to observe the native customs. Occasionally this would involve assignments that took me into some mystifying locations, particularly a valley located beyond the city of Los Angeles. I was sent there in order to bring news of the Terran entertainment industry back to my then master, who as you may recall from previous entries had an insatiable desire to understand the concept of "celebrity". He was particularly fixated by Terrans with large jaws such as Jay Leno. I should mention that my people are not particularly gifted in terms of mandibles (indeed, we are occasionally referred to as the "chinless wonders of the Universe" by unkind bloggers on the planet Mosheinia, which has historically produced the meanest bloggers in the galaxy). I spent a lot of time getting photographs of Mr. Leno, Carol Burnett (after her chin-implant surgery), Tori Spelling (or as the Grand Shovel called her, "Jackpot!") and any others of note. I remember that the Grand Shovel has quite a crush on Ted Danson for awhile, but that faded after Becker came on the air.

At any rate, on this particular day I arrived at what I was told was a movie studio in the valley. It was called "Mystery Films", and I have to say that it was truly an enigma. For one thing, the Grand Shovel had told me that it was an actual studio with hundreds of employees. In fact, it turned out to be a mail drop in a strip mall. As far as I could tell, "Mystery Films" had no employees, and indeed no one there had heard of it when I asked about it. The best they could do was direct me to a small building next door. They said that it had always been empty, but within recent weeks there had been mysterious, not to say "enigmatic" sounds coming from it. More than that they would not say.

I hesitated outside the closed door, but when I finally turned the handle it wasn't locked, and opened silently. I stepped inside, temporarily blinded by the gloom after the glare from the sun outside. There was nothing in the front room except for a desk with a pile of magazines on it. I tiptoed across the floor and looked at them, rifling through the top two or three on the stack.

I could not tell what the magazines were about. I was, of course, familiar with the general run of Terran magazines such as Time, Newsweek, Popular Mechanics and Architectural Digest, but this seemed to have no purpose that I could determine. Page after page was filled with images of young Terran females --- very young Terran females --- dressed in revealing plaid jumpers, bending over to undo the clasps on what is called "hosiery", all the while smiling at the camera. I could not figure out the intent of the pictures, and yet after a very short time looking at the magazine I started to feel a tingling in the region of my mulktow. Before I could scratch the itch (so to speak), I suddenly heard voices from the back room.

"No, no, no, dipstick, you're doing it all wrong!" The voice was stridently male.

"How the hell can you do it wrong, you son-of-a-bitch?!" This time the voice was female, with a faint hint of an accent that sounded vaguely familiar to me. "I'm sucking as hard as I can, goddamnit! It's not mah damn fault if you can't get it up!"

"Sexual Intercourse you! I don't have to take shit like that!" Suddenly the door to the back room flew open and a Terran stormed past me. He was so angry that he didn't even notice me, probably because he was distracted by the difficulty of pulling his pants over an engorged mulktow. In a moment he had hitched his zipper up and darted through the front door, slamming it behind him.

Before I could move, a Terran female appeared in the doorway. She glared after the retreating male Terran, and shook her fist at his back. This caused the sheet she was clutching around her to drop to the floor, revealing that she was not a natural blond. Before I could move, she had spotted me.

"What the hell are you staring at, Shorty?"

I couldn't answer. It was obvious that she didn't remember me, but I could never forget that jaw! It was enormous! Leno-esque! Dwarfed only by her mammalian characteristics, which seemed to have mysteriously increased in size since the last time we had seen each other.

"Did Justin send you up here? What the hell was he thinking? This is a straight shoot, just blow and go. I mean, for Chrissake, look at you! It'd be like having it off with one of the friggin' Munchkins!"

"We ain't got time to get nobody else, Ms. H., " said a voice from behind the large-jawed naked woman. She looked speculatively at me, and I felt my mulktow shrivel. Finally she snorted.

"Okay, get your tiny ass in here," she said, and yanked me into the room.