How I met Drooz

When I got in today, W was in the office. He wasn't there to catch me up on my paperwork, though- he was actually on the schedule for today. We had a classified briefing that I had to catch up (I decided to go bowling on the original date).

So anyhow, W says "Say hello to my little friend!" I think what the hell is going on here, a coup? I dive behind the desk- and nothing happens.

"What the hell's the matter Barry? Asked W. "Is that anyway to act in front of a guest?"

First, I thought this must be a trick. Then I thought, well, he could have just walked around the desk to finish me off, so I slowly stuck my head out. I was quite amazed by what I saw.
It was a little grey man with big eyes standing next to W. He looked like a cross between a little shrunken Cheney and a hooker -surly and leathery. Demanding. Worn out. Just Like Cheney. He was also wearing six inch pumps, like a hooker.

I stuck out my hand, and sure enough the little guy approached. What kind of wisdom did he have to share with me? Will he solve our energy problems? Provide an end to starvation or cure cancer? I knew this would be a life changing moment.

He stopped right in front of me and looked me up and down. I noticed a peculiar smell- like Italian salad dressing. Then the a smell I cold only describe as a cross between road kill and Gordon Brown's breath. It was the worse thing I had ever smelled (at least until I had met Bono- but that's another story). I was overwhelmed by a feeling of confusion and grief (okay, the confusion was normal, but the grief was new). Then the little bastard kicked me square in the jewels. I dropped like a rock.

"Oh, Sorry" said W, "He does that sometimes. His name is Drooz".

I then noticed this horrible sound. It sounded like the sound a lemming would make when he realized that he had made a horrible mistake. And after he was set afire. And had needles poked in his eyes, while being sodomized by a red hot fireplace poker. It was the second most horrible thing I had ever heard. (Editors note- voters all over the country have started making the same sound).

"What is that?" I asked.

"Oh, he's laughing. It's the only sound that they make. They communicate through smell", said W. "He's our ambassador from Zeta Reticuli- he doesn’t do much. He'll show up- usually drunk, without saying or doing anything, then he's gone."

I had to ask "What does an alien get drunk on?" W answered "Pabst Blue Ribbon"

Well, I always wondered who was actually drinking PBR...