I was down at the Round Robin Bar in the Willard Hotel again tonight, having a couple of drinks after work, when I spied Wolfram, who works at the White House, downing a branch water mint julep all by himself. So I went over to his table and joined him.
“No point in drinking alone,” I opened as I sidled up, a glass of Pauillac in hand.
“Oh,” Wolfram slurred, looking up from staring down at the table, “it’s you, Collins. Sure – sit the hell down if you want.”
“You’re glowing mighty well for eight o’clock,” I observed. “Are you… celebrating or… drowning your sorrows?”
“Definitely… urrrp…. the latter,” he informed me.
“What sorrows, specifically, are you drowning, then?” I asked.
“Oh God,” he moaned. “It seemed like such a good idea when I thought of it!”
“Of what?” I pressed.
“The ‘We the People’ Web page on the White House Web site,” he muttered ruefully. “It all sounded so good – let the people speak, petition the President, all that stuff. They all said I was a genius when I first thought it up.”
“Right,” I confirmed, “I know – I’ve heard of that. It’s the Web page at the White House where folks can start a petition, and once it gets more than five thousand signatures, somebody at the White House has to reply to it.”
“Now we have upped – hic – that number,” Wolfram blearily declared, “to twenty-five thousand – hic – because the – hic – [expletive] petition about the – hic – [expletive] extraterrestrials.”
“Extraterrestrials?” I exclaimed. “You mean, The Grays, Roswell, close encounters… that sort of thing?”
“Yeah,” Wolfram confirmed, “that’s what I’m talking about. Flying saucers… Visitors… from – hic – [expletive] outer space… abductions… alien-human – hic – hybrids… lower – hic – body probes… all that [expletive]! There’s who knows how many… nut cases out there – hic – who believe in it… but thank God, most of them – hic – are too damn paranoid to sign a petition on a White House Web site. Unfortunately – hic – there were just – hic – over five thousand of them… who weren’t. So… like they say – hic – rules are rules… and because of my bright [expletive] idea – hic – poor Phil Larson – hic – over at the Office of Science and… whatshisface…”
“The White House Office of Science and Technology Policy,” I helpfully interjected.
“Yeah, yeah,” Wolfram acknowledged, “that’s it. Phil Larson at OSTP… he had to write a reply that said the United – hic – States government… has no evidence that – hic – space aliens exist… or that – hic – any of them have ever – hic – visited the Earth. I… I mean…” Wolfram stammered, “poor Phil having to write such – hic – damn foolishness to please a bunch of – hic – blithering ninnies… running around – hic – two dozen bricks short of a load, you know… with nothing better to do – hic – than wander in the woods with Geiger counters and infra-red light detectors… and in a [expletive] election year with the [expletive] – hic – economy in the [expletive] – hic – toilet and nine [expletive] percent unemployment.”
“Oh, my goodness,” I commiserated. “That’s terrible!”
“It sure as hell is,” Wolfram agreed. “Poor Phil having to lie like that…”
“What!” I nearly shouted.
“Oh, yeah,” Wolfram affirmed, “of course there are – hic – extraterrestrial aliens. The US government’s known about them since – hic – the Hoover administration… at least, as far as I can tell.”
“I must confess,” I confessed, “that’s a new one on me, at least.”
“Well, how about that?” Wolfram grinned. “Can you believe it? There are actually – hic – some secrets that even Tom Collins doesn’t know! What next… I wonder… maybe somebody will – hic – find a member of the Civil Service who’s… actually – hic – competent!”
“I don’t know about that,” I cautioned, “finding life on other planets is one thing, but finding a competent member of the United States Civil Service? Some things, my friend, are simply beyond the bounds of possibility.”
“Maybe,” he wheezed. “Do you suppose you could – hic – stake me to a nice strong Irish coffee?”
“Made from Old Bushmill’s and Kahlua with quad espresso shots, whipped cream and a dash of crème de menthe?” I inquired.
“Sounds good,” he chuckled.
A few minutes later I returned with the Irish coffee, which, by the way, cost me over eighteen dollars, and which Wolfram spent another few scant minutes polishing off. “Yeah,” he beamed, “that’s better.”
“So tell me,” I prodded, “this business about space aliens being real and the government hiding it from us. What’s going on?”
“You’ve got to promise,” Wolfram demanded, “that you won’t tell anybody, okay?”
“Wolfram,” I assured him, “You are hereby guaranteed the same level of confidentiality I have extended to Pakistani diplomats, shale gas lobbyists and presidential candidates.”
“Okay,” he whispered, “in that case, here’s the straight dope: interstellar teleportation is a fact of life throughout the universe. There are about a hundred different extraterrestrial civilizations that we know about, but none of them will tell us how they do it. They all belong to a… I don’t know… a Galactic Federation, I guess you’d call it, and the People of Planet Earth have been up for consideration of membership in it for the last twenty thousand years.”
“But,” I surmised, “we haven’t managed to qualify yet?”
“No way,” Wolfram replied, shaking his head gravely. “Since 1945, every six hundred and seventeen days – which is some kind of universal equivalent of one of their years, I guess – they deliver an assessment to the Secretary General of the United Nations. In it, there’s three things. First, there’s a statement about our membership in the Galactic Federation. That’s always the same – no dice. Then, there’s documentation of what we’ve done right so far. Then, there’s a list of things we have to fix before they’ll let us in, plus a statement of how long those issues have been outstanding.”
“And what sort of things,” I beseeched, overcome with curiosity, “are on that list?”
“Well,” Wolfram shrugged, “there’s sexism, that’s been on the list for eleven thousand years.”
“But you said,” I pointed out, “that they have been assessing us for twenty thousand years.”
“Right,” he nodded, “and we discovered agriculture, invented writing, and a bunch of other stuff – like I said, they document that, too. I’ll tell you something, when I saw that list, I was kind of surprised at some of the stuff. Sure, there’s the Middle East, of course. That’s been on their list for five thousand three hundred and sixty eight years; and genocide, that’s been on their list for three thousand one hundred and fifty-two years; and pedophile priests and clerics, that’s been on their list for two thousand seven hundred and thirty-six years; and money, that’s been on their list for two thousand three hundred and twenty-two years. But racism, for example – that’s only been on the list for sixteen hundred and twelve years. It’s a relatively new problem, actually. In fact, most of the issues keeping us out of the Galactic Federation are fairly recent.”
“Such as… what?” I cajoled.
“Well,” he continued, “there’s biological warfare – that’s been on the list for two hundred and eighty eight years – and there’s the Mormons, they’ve been on the list for one hundred and seventy-two years, ever since the founding of the Nauvoo Temple. And there’s global warming – that’s been on the list for one hundred and five years. Chemical weapons, ninety-seven years. Then you’ve got land mines, eighty-seven years; atomic weapons, sixty-five years; and stupid baby names, fifty-nine years.”
“Stupid baby names?” I repeated, just to make sure I had heard correctly.
“What can I say?” Wolfram shrugged. “They’re extraterrestrial aliens! For some reason, naming kids LaShonda, Panteria, Shantella, Tervarious and stuff like that really ticks them off. Beats me – go figure. Microsoft apparently burns their onion, too: it’s been on their list for twenty-one years. Oh, there’s all kinds of other stuff, too – let me see, uh… sport utility vehicles, sixteen years; televangelists, fifteen years; reality television shows, twelve years; the Kardashians, nine years; the Real Housewives shows, seven years; Justin Bieber, four years…”
“So what about Michael Jackson?” I wondered.
“Oh, yeah,” Wolfram said with a smirk, “he was on their list for nearly a decade, but as far as they’re concerned, they figure we… ah, took care of the problem. There’s plenty more, believe me, but as I recall, the three most recent entries have been financial derivatives, the Tea Party and Facebook.”
“So,” I concluded, “unless we fix all the problems on that list, the Galactic Federation will never grant membership to Planet Earth?”
“Right,” he confirmed, “and until they do, we have to keep lying to the public about the whole thing.”
“Because the extraterrestrials aliens who run the Galactic Federation say so?” I queried.
“No,” he shook his head emphatically, “as a matter of fact, they don’t much care one way or the other. It’s just that there’s one thing on their list of issues keeping us out of the Galactic Federation that there’s absolutely no way we can let the public know about.”
“Really?” I breathlessly murmured. “And what…”
Wolfram leaned close, whispering. “Banking and compound interest. Six hundred and fourteen years!”
“Oh well,” I sighed. “In that case, I guess we might as well forget about it altogether.”