A Startling Interstellar Message On Election Day
Editor’s Note: Last night, Katie and I were — as we nearly always are — perusing The Establishment’s general inbox (getestablished [at] theestablishment [dot] co) for more brilliant, cutting-edge journalistic gems.
Lo and behold, we received something highly unusual.
Our introductory About Us flowchart — the cheeky, or so we thought, demonstration of our commitment to inclusivity and intersectionality (pictured below) — had evolved, we realized, into much, much more:
The email we’d discovered was cordial, but distinctly desperate. We’d been contacted by an alien life form — but our euphoria at having confirmed extraterrestrial life almost instantaneously turned to despair.
Below we’ve pasted, without editing, the troubling and imperative correspondence.
From: 2u5macwfj=== of ><X><
Subject line: Ur fcked
Dear Editors [I’m never quite sure how to address these types of emails] —
I want to begin by thanking you for such a warm solicitation. Your reaching out across the cosmic chasm truly touched us here on ><X><, warming our tentacled haunches, and we’ve admired your work since launch. While we’ve noticed an uptick in nods to diversity and the desire to loop marginalized voices into the mainstream, we are rarely explicitly included in this discourse. It’s rare, in fact, to receive any kind words at all, especially in the wake of the deep animosity toward us perpetuated by the Independence Day franchise.
For reasons that will become all too clear, we’ve decided to use the technology we’ve developed to formally contact you. We hope this letter falls within your editorial guidelines as, frankly, we need you to publicize our plea.
Given the importance of its contents, I compel you to read our message in its entirety.
Yours in galactic solidarity,
P.S. We also noticed your commitment to paying every writer and definitely admire it. However, given that your pathetic “internet” isn’t capable of tesseracting, we are submitting this letter gratis. (In truth, your currency grew so weak compared to ><X><’s bingle-coin after Independence Day, you might even owe us money, but we’ll let it slide on account of the gracious acknowledgement on your About Us page.) :)
Earth dwellers —
Time is just as important on ><X><, so we’ll make this short. Here’s the situation as we see it.
First off, it bears noting that we didn’t want it to be like this; we had a good thing going. You kept to your tiny, miserable, insignificant blue swamp 2,330,928,340,924 black-hole meters away, and we maintained our high-functioning, happy lifestyle filled with peace and prosperity notably separate from your matters. Good fences make good neighbors.
We have, in fact, predicated our society on the highest form of isolationism — we’ve managed to not speak to you or any other being in the Cosmic Confederacy in the 3,467 years since we’ve both had the means to radiate messages your way, and cracked your measly excuse for a means of communication you call “language.” In this way, we’ve not sullied our race with the faintest drop of inferior detritus — not even comet droppings. So the fact that we’re reaching out now? Yeah, it’s serious.
On August 30, we sent you what appeared to us to be a rather concise, but clear message. You called it “a strong message from deep in space” . . . BUT YOU COULDN’T READ THE MESSAGE. Why? Because your brains only weigh three pounds, we suppose (except for Kelley’s, which hovers around 5.8; we call her the “fivehead,” as you may, too). We don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.
But we were throwing up a flare about this election. And you spent the next week dilly-dallying about “HD164595b” — what could these pulses mean, Neil deGrasse Tyson?! — when you should have been putting two and two together. Because that’s math. Our dispatch had the subtlety of a blowtorch on your nipples, but hey, you couldn’t read it.
Which brings us here — an awkward, unprecedented juncture where we admit it: We’re afraid.
It was one thing when you were slaughtering each other indiscriminately. It was disturbing — sickening, even — but again, we were isolationist, bound to preserving our own borders. But now, when faced with a brackish worm whose ego is only matched by his vulgarity of mind and spirit — a man who has self-glorified a garish chrome empire into a potential presidential candidacy — we felt we had to get involved.
You see, this affects us now too.
He’s not just going to destroy you, not this swollen-headed man. Shoddy real estate wasn’t enough for him; his ego grotesque, he then sought celebrity status in the dubious reality show realm. Having traversed the television waves, he’s now set his sights upon the middling tower you call the “White House.” And he’s gotten further than even our most skeptical data analysts predicted — none of us thought you could have retained so little knowledge from your own sordid history.
But if you think this insatiably insecure and narscisstic man is going to stop with Earth, you’re more delusional than 20th Century Fox thinking that Independence Day 2: Resurgence could ever make it without Will Smith. (We mean, Jeff Goldblum is intergalactically celebrated as a living wet dream — he in fact depicted us beautifully in his 1992 film Earth Girls Are Easy — but even he couldn’t salvage that hunk of cinematic lost-cause.)
This is all to say, enough’s enough. If you can’t glean that it’s in your best interests to defeat Trump — using I don’t know, 200,000 years of stories that look just like this and end in tears and mass graves — then we’ll have to point you in the right direction.
As you’ve been so singularly fixated on emails sent from private servers, we decided to take drastic action — a step we were sure you couldn’t ignore. We’re contacting you from the most private server in the Universe — “a galaxy far far away” doesn’t even begin to describe it — to make our wishes crystal fucking clear: Get rid of the Orange One.
We’ve come to the inevitable cosmic conclusion that we are, as The Rodham says, stronger together.
Lead image: flickr/Keith Hall