At the end of its exoplanetary message, the alien visitor changes shape and physical composition, like grunge metallixa transforming into Gymnopedie. Although it is standing four metres away I can feel my skin beginning to freeze. Then wham, bang, no-thank-you, ma'am! He is Mr. Badger - only he has to stoop to avoid crashing through the high ceiling of my Georgian sitting room.
I spread out my arms to reassure him I'm not packing a kalashnikov or have any intentions or desire to start a cull, despite government, bovine health warnings. While I'm wondering how he's going to manage to leave this room and how to cope with any of his lavatorial requirements, I can see he's struggling with the language. The process of transmogrification has obviously not gone so well, the transferral of linguistic facilities and telephone contact list having been delayed by a poor satellite signal.
He talks nonsense:
spout radioactive burlesque
triplicate plague-rat franchise
acrylic wallbanging ghost train
hand-me-down macrame burger-knitter
HOLD ON A GODDAM MINUTE THERE, BOY! This isn't randomese. He's reading my mind.
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