I have a chip in my butt.

I suppose the aliens put it there.

You would think that they would have been a little more selective in their process. A little more discriminatory with their program.

After all, I’m not exactly good-looking.

Or, smart.

Or, charming. 

Well… that last one’s not quite true. I’m quite charming when I’m drunk. At one time I had a phone full of selfies with inebriated ladies to prove it. Of course, for the charm to have been effective the females had to have had a blood-alcohol of at least double whatever mine was at the time. 

When I first discovered the chip, I thought maybe the aliens had tagged me just for entertainment value.

I figured they wanted to observe a total screw-up in all of his day-to-day glory. 

When they took me aboard their ship, I’m pretty sure they didn’t bother to take a sperm sample or tissue samples like you always hear about in abduction cases. 

No… they just put the chip in my butt. 

And, I don’t even remember them doing that.

I hope they didn’t do anything else when they were back there.

Probably not, since the ones I’ve known are all as smooth as Ken dolls between their legs.

*****

“What in the hell is that?”

That’s what my buddy David said when he had run me through the MRI machine.

He was in a radiology residency in Mobile, Alabama, at the Spring Hill Medical Center. 

Why was I getting an MRI?

I was bored, and my buddy was a doctor. It was a slow Wednesday night, and I had just come from the emergency room.

What was I doing in the emergency room?

Let’s just say that alcohol and kite-boarding don’t mix.

Especially, on a moonlit night in the Gulf of Mexico in what is, basically, a tropical storm.

I thought I could jump the pier. 

Or, at the very least, land on it.

Which I did.

Onto an open tackle box belonging to a late-night fisherman who also happened to be out in the crazy weather. 

He said I flew out of the air like an inebriated Batman. Scared the bejesus out of him. Then, I landed on the aforementioned tackle box, and was drug by my kite. Drug by my kite to nearly off the other side of the pier as seven… count them… seven… lures embedded themselves into various regions of my flesh. 

I had to ride in the ambulance on my stomach, because the hooks of the multicolored plastic fishes were dangling from my dorsal surface. Well, technically, the two in my thighs were on the ventral side, but that still is towards the posterior since evolutionarily our legs are twisted around under us so we can locomote in a bipedal fashion.

Did you notice I just used lots of big words? I’m not dumb…

Just stupid.

*****

The E.R doc dug the fishhooks out of me, one by one, after administering lidocaine injections into the angry epidermis near to them. Apparently, I took it rather well. My physician, who was quite the looker, seemed to be impressed.  Since I was still at least two-and-a-half sheets to the wind, I figured that I was charming… and I gave her my best smile as she inspected my buttocks. I’m not sure she could see the smile, though, because I can’t rotate my head around like an owl.

“I don’t think you’re going to need stitches,” said Dr. Amanda Kay Knoxville. “But, you will need a tetanus shot and some antibiotics.”

“If I'd have known that E.R. docs looked like this, now-a-days, I’d have been a lot less careful these past few years…”

I’m pretty sure I detected an almost-smile at the corners of her mouth, but my peripheral vision isn’t the best… especially after a goodly amount of Jägermeister...