On planet Zōhlzärt, it’s okay to get with your grandpa.
In fact, on planet Zōhlzärt, you have to get with your grandpa.
Because if you didn’t get with your grandpa on planet Zōhlzärt, you’d never be born! On Zōhlzärt, that’s just fuckin’ nature, man. That’s how the Zōhlzärtians reproduce. They don’t have a choice in the matter. Specifically, in order for one to be born on Zōhlzärt, one must bang one’s grandpa. One must fertilize the ovum in the geezer’s large intestine. Then gramps must carry around the resulting incestuous offspring in his aging gastrointestinal tract for nine months, carry it to full term before giving birth through the terminus of his alimentary canal. As a matter of fact, father and mother are completely bypassed in this astounding natural process. Or, to put it more accurately, if you’re a Zōhlzärtian, you are your father.
And your grandpa is your mom.
What’s that now? Not only do you think this idea is disgusting, confusing, and morally reprehensible, but it’s logically impossible? It’s stupid, you say? It’s like one of those Terminator or Back to the Future time travel paradoxes that doesn’t make any sense, you assert, except that this one’s even that much more inane? It’s completely fucking retarded, you say?
Well, here’s what I say to you: what the hell do you know about Zōhlzärt, duuuude?
All you know is planet earth and a little bit about the laws that govern the puny universe in which earth resides. Who are you to say how time flows on planet Zōhlzärt? Who are you to say how cause-and-effect logic plays out or doesn’t play out on an alien planet in a parallel universe the likes of which you have never even dreamed? In fact, all your objections are provincial, earth-centric, arbitrarily moralizing, intolerant, myopic, and just plain narrow-minded; nay, intellectually bankrupt, duuuude.
You know what, duuuude? You’re so damn simpleminded that I don’t even want to be your friend anymore. So call me an Indian giver if you like, but give me back my zombie ass-gerbil. Now, bitch! I’m going fuckin’ home.
No, I don’t want a ride. Yes, I can see it’s raining outside—I have fucking eyes. I’ll walk. I’d rather get soaked in the rain then drive in a car with you, little bitch. No, I don’t want to borrow your goddamn umbrella. You know what? You can take your umbrella and stick it in the same place that you held my zombie ass-gerbil for the last two hours—and then you can open the damn thing up!
Yo, I hate you, duuuude.
Ouch! What the hell was that? Hey, did you just chuck a “q” at my head?
Hey, stop that! That hurts. Stop hurling letters, numbers, and other typographic characters at me!
OWW! STOP! Please! I’m fucking bleeding now. You’re stoning me, duuude!
Oh my God. I just got backslashed by a backslash, pounded by a pound sign, dashed by a dash, my colon pierced by a colon (Or was that a semicolon? I can’t tell because now there’s a big mess of blood, guts, shit, and typographic symbols down there. ) Oh no, oh shit, please not another volley . . . .
Please . . . you’re fuckin’ killing me with these things. Hey, I’m sorry about what I said before. I don’t hate you—I love you. And you’re not a little bitch. And you’re absolutely right: all that stuff I said about reproduction on planet Zōhlzärt—it was all bullshit. Planet Zōhlzärt is stupid. Planet Zōhlzärt doesn’t even exist. I made the shit up. Please just stop hurling those—oh God no!
You’re . . . fuck . . . ing . . . kill . . . ing . . . me . . . please . . . .
BIO: Douglas Hackle writes fictions that are bizarre, darkly humorous, horrific, veiny, vainglorious, stupid or some combination thereof. His stories have [vein poppet] appeared in several online and print publications. Douglas resides in Northeast Ohio with his wife and little boy, and he’s not exactly sure how that blasted vein poppet be gettin' all up in his bio n' shit.