Sexy Alien Races By Paul Blake Smith

Come on in and take a load off the floor!” That was my first up-close, face-to-face contact with the baseball fan-tastic, enthusiastic, and bombastic Mr. Kenneth K. Yotch. It was an ironic conversation starter; Ken was the very visibly overindulged and obese owner of the Las Vegas 33's, a sad-sack minor league baseball team perpetually hurting for business. Meanwhile I was the skinny young UCLA grad who had answered Ken's online job ad.
Sexy Alien Races
Sexy Alien Races By Paul Blake Smith
So nervous Tim Von Twigs II shook hands with beefy, locally famous Mr. Y on an early summer's day and nearly lost a few fingers in the painful process. Sporting a big grin, fifty-something Kenneth immediately broke the ice and the morning coolness – and seemingly my right pinky. He smoked, spoke, ate, burped, and quickly turned a new sheepish shade of crimson, all in a matter of seconds. He soon shrugged and laughed and I followed suit effortlessly. We were off to a rather odd but very human start.
I confess we had nothing in common yet I really loved the guy right away, but did so while nursing my thin, aching hand, to him obscured by his enormous girth and desk berth. I was frankly distracted by the wonder around me. Both the ex-jock proprietor and his ballpark office were both quite a colorful sight, especially compared to the dullness of the energy and décor of the rest of the stadium itself. Maybe it was the aura of continually finishing in last place that has a way of taking the edge off a sports venue. Attendance and morale were lagging. Both good ol’ “Kenny-boy” and the 33’s clearly needed help in more ways than one and I felt I was just the man for the job.

Young Tim never knew what the term “sad-sack” truly meant until he saw the “crowd” for the 33's game that night. For a stadium that featured over seven thousand seats, the 33's were lucky they had a measly thou turn out, and that was only because of “Preparation H Seat Cushion Night.” {And it was no cheap shot to say one could notice right away that Kenneth's own “seat” had more than enough “cushion.”} The scattering and smattering of older, die-hard fans in the sweltering stands was at least something to build on, sleepy, overweight loyalty in a busy town built on glitz and glamour, cheap thrills and free frills. Yet none of the attendees were nearly as economy-sized as the owner, who actually had a drive-thru lane at the nearest liquor store named after him (true story). He was even given an “E-Z Pass” for drive-thru discounts there, he was such a “frequent flier (okay, I made that up).

So it was crystal clear to me in seconds that Big Ken needed help in two important ways, assistance I quickly determined to bring him. First, to lift his team's energy, attendance, and revenue. And second, to bring down his weight, blood pressure, and eating/tipling consumption. Neither task was going to be easy, unlike his buxom, slim-witted secretary. Moron her later. I mean, more on her later.

It was no urban legend, I found out: chummy, chubby Ken Yotch famously kept cheap paper sacks in his upscale stadium office and loved to fill one with a different glass bottle of booze every afternoon, then roam the undernourished grandstands of his beloved “Playtex Park” in the evenings to better make friends and win over fans, what few who actually showed. Mr. Y sucked from his “big bad bottle in a bulging brown bag” as if this slovenly Skid Row approach made him appear more of a blue collar “man of the people.” He was in fact rich, but not obscenely so, and when Ken wanted to “go lowbrow” (or “Lowenbrau”) he'd have his voluptuous personal secretary bring him his latest “sad sack,” select his liquor, and hit the fans where they lived - in their beer bellies. I discovered that even during day games starting at noon, he'd drink up with attending retirees, the unemployed, naïve nuns, and class-skipping teenaged school kids. Any ol' stranger who looked like they'd be good for a chat, a sip, and a pitch for season ticket package. When his bottle emptied, Mr. Yotch would simply signal a vendor for more, and was never charged a dime. Yet for such an overt, extroverted “Good Time Charlie,” Ken Yotch always seemed to me to be rather lonely.

As you can imagine, even when the struggling 33's were playing well, or reasonably close to it, area baseball fans just wouldn't come out in droves for Mr. Y's product, not with all the nearby, more thrilling competition for entertainment dollars and not in the blazing southern Nevada sun. This particular summer Kenneth was really losing his money, sobriety, and patience. He needed major marketing and promotional help to pump up attendance and save the franchise, since the team was yet again struggling under .500. Without more paying fans, and another losing season going down the drain, the 33's were rumored to be in danger of folding, or being sold, or at least fading away in the face of local high-stakes casinos and entertainment options. Broiling Vegas was a tough town for outdoor sports of any kind, even sex.

You’ve probably seen Mr. Yotch in TV sports interviews and/or wacky commercials. He was actually only six foot, one inch tall, two inches more than me, but he nearly appeared to be like an oversized colorful costumed mascot at his own ballpark, “larger than life” as they typically say. He was even featured in the news now and then, sitting back in his stressed and strained, XX-large reclining desk chair, appearing more like a busy, serious executive... just one who wasn't always shaven or well dressed, his belt undone and shoes kicked off to one side. And one who just happened to keep a fully stocked, ornate liquor cabinet right behind him. And I haven't even gotten into his history of tomfoolery with women of all shapes and sizes, ages and backgrounds, races and disabilities. That would take too many extra chapters, footnotes, and lawsuit research. From my own personal standpoint, let's just say I only once caught him in the act, briefly, two weeks after my hiring and even then it was “just” a nearly naked office romp with his perfectly legal and single personal assistant. Kenneth was on that day clean-shaven but dirty-minded; he simply blushed, cleared his throat, and muttered, “My, uhh, secretary and I were just getting something straight between us.” I laughed aplenty at the double entendre, even to this day; at times toiling for Mr. Y was like working for an old-time burlesque comic, right down to the garish baggy pants.

So let's just say “well-rounded” Ken's seedy public image and his jumbo personality seemed to regularly upset the executive management of the minor league baseball system. The commissioner's office wanted a clean, wholesome, moral sport. Now and then, Ken would catch hell from league rulers for openly getting intoxicated (and perhaps partially disrobed) in public, for charging the field and bumping umps, for impatiently firing too many managers, and for getting thrown out of his own stadium, but... obviously he didn't care to conform. {And yes, I'll go over that statement once again: it is actually no mythological lore but quite true that Ken K. Yotch was once ejected from his own ballpark. One night years ago he was given the drunken bum's rush by a newly-hired security guard with poor recognition skills but a pretty good underhanded, bowling-like delivery. He sent the rowdy, rotund, inebriated owner rolling out onto to the street, beyond the outfield pavilion, between some passing shocked fans, much like a fleshy 7-10 split. The following day the decidedly ex-security guard was the next one to hit the bricks, so to speak, leaving him plenty of time to brush up on his bowling skills, once his badly sprained rectum healed. He got to keep the baseball bat that had been inserted into it, though.}

Yes, this was Kenneth's park, his team, his fans, his bloated liver, and his sack of suds. His sandbox and his toys. Usually with an unhealthy cigar in his mouth or meaty right paw, Kenneth would toddle around rundown Playtex Park and sign autographs, swapping stories about his long-ago playing days with anyone who'd listen as the latest game played out before them. He had been that way for a few decades now, like a huge neon Vegas Strip sign come to life. But even such electric garishness rusts and burns out eventually.

His handshake certainly hadn’t eroded from time. “Take a load off the floor” was the rich remark that struck me right off the bat - baseball pun! - when we first locked eyes. I guesstimated that Kenneth weighed probably three hundred pounds or more, depending upon the weather. The hotter the day, the more sweat he'd build up on the short walk from the employee parking lot to his stadium office, making him thirstier. He obviously needed a lot of exercise, and yet he had an entire clubhouse work-out room at his fat fingertips and didn't go there. I swear, if our portly prince of pop-ups and pick-ups were to pack on just a few more ounces and turn purple, I'm sure the ushers would have to fight the nightly urge to roll him out to his sleek sports car like Violet Beauregard, the human blueberry in the classic movie “Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.”

But I digress, for fearless and peerless Kenneth was much more than a money-stuffed tub of alcoholic goo, or even my future beloved boss. He became like a father to me, a mentor, and a trusted friend. And we could all use as many of those as we can get. My own father had passed away a few years earlier from a heart attack, and his tragic, sudden end ran through my mind when I first saw Kenneth barely able to stand from his greatly-relieved swivel chair and reach his enormous paw out to greet me with enthusiasm.

That day in the 33’s offices, I was actually expecting to meet only with the team's head of Public Relations, or a Marketing department honcho. But this was Kenneth's show and he demanded to interview all candidates for all positions, probably more in search of a new drinking buddy or love relationship, I suspected. He was striking out in either case, for I did not imbibe in either vice. But I confess now I did have another weakness, a secret gambling compulsion. A near-addiction that I wisely kept hidden from Mr. Y that fateful, fat-filled day. It was a tough habit to kick or at least obscure in an open town dedicated 24/7 to “gaming,” wagering, and risking whatever you had in your pockets, your bank account, and your wildest imagination.

“Welcome to the finest minor league baseball club in the entire city of Las Vegas,” Mr. Yotch informed me proudly as he sat behind his messy desk.

“But isn't this the only -”

“Say, I like your resume font! And your clip-on suit. Thanks for coming in today, Timbo.” He was thanking me? I fully admit, I was nervous on this critical job interview. I needed the position and its respectable salary, very badly.

“I'm very playful and greased... uh, grateful and pleased to be here.” Oh dear. Whenever I get really anxious, I ineptly juxtapose my dyslexic words, and I was off to an embarrassing start now.

Ken smiled patiently and gestured me to a padded seat nearby. “Grab some pine and let's have a belt. . . . I find that a little pick-me-up after a long, hard, busy stretch of work always does the trick.” Kenneth ignored last night's rumpled “sad sack” as it lay on the floor near his swivel chair; he stood and reached for his liquor cabinet’s doorknob.

I tried to think fast and certainly regretted having done so when I opened my mouth. “Well we all enjoy picking up tricks, sir,” was all that came pouring (or polluting) out of my mouth. After the very definition of awkward silence, I hastily added: “I mean, uhh, how long have you been working this morning?”

Kenneth plopped back down in his chair as he replied blithely: “About ten minutes.”

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or shuffle uneasily. I decided to drop down into my own seat (not really pine, but oak, I think) and try to come up with something more likeably clever to say, staring around at the sloppy but charming baseball decor. Memorabilia from Kenneth's former playing career lined the walls and the halls, the doors and the floors. Glory Days. It was seemingly everywhere, in every corner and a little bit on the ceiling. I spied a few empties aiding in the colorful sports-heavy chaos. Cigar butts and empty doughnut boxes littered his office too, mostly shoved artlessly behind his sofa and desk, which to no one's surprise was a big, rambling mess.

I notice the many framed photos of Kenneth all around me, some from his early days as a ballplayer; some of his days as the mere Las Vegas Aces general manager; and some of his current proud full ownership of his redubbed Las Vegas 33's. He posed with some national celebrities who obliged their own public relations people by showing up when in town to throw out the ceremonial first pitch, often lamely. He also happily posed with fans, players, friends, enemies, pets, statues, nuns, drunks, hoods, and smiling employees. He posed by himself, with family members, with business pals, and even a most willing corpse at a funeral! A consummate back-slapper, Kenneth actually had genuine athletic talent way back in high school and college ball, where he was once a respected prospect. In the minor leagues too. But as he roamed rather lonesomely from party to party, town to town, bed to bed, staggering straight to the top, his excesses naturally took their toll. He had a “cup of coffee” (probably spiked) in the majors. He flopped in The Big Show, but won the lottery of life when he, well, actually bought a winning lottery ticket. Thirty million smackers in the California Lotto just a day after getting cut from his major league club, and passing through waivers unclaimed. It was the biggest stroke of luck ever from a man who was the biggest stroke ever waiting to happen. The lotto draw saved Ken from financial ruin, and he bought his way into a partial partnership of the team, then later took over the whole shebang. Along the way, he appeared to collect only a few trustworthy friends and associates, but right away, I liked him and considered him one of mine. I sat there wondering if he had ever quietly suffered any heart attacks, cerebral hemorrhages, or paternity suits, or just any sort of natural disaster that usually befalls such a high-livin' playboy. To my knowledge, Ken always nimbly skated through life with ease, as difficult as it was to picture this man skating nimbly anywhere. You’d think he’d have fallen through life’s often-thin ice long ago, instead he was just adding some to his usual mid-morning drink. I knew that if I could help him, to rescue him from himself, I might be earning a Merit Badge For Lifesaving.

Mr. Y set out a shot glass on his desk as he thankfully looked over the cover sheet of my carefully crafted resume. “Timmy Von Twigs, eh?”

I nodded as friendly as possible. Yet I corrected him. “It's just “Tim,” sir,” despising the usual alteration of my name since I was a child. “Timmy sounds so juvenile,” I always thought to myself, “Now I'm a grown man with a college degree in Marketing. When am I going to be treated like an adult?” It didn't help matters that I was a little short, with a baby face and a mop of thick brown locks, worn in a Beatle haircut. I knew I appeared to be an adorable little Timmy, but here was my chance to score a good, fun job with a fascinating, generous, wealthy employer, and yet I still didn't want to be considered a tot to pat on the head and give a stick of candy. Or malt liquor at 11:02 in the morning.

“Well, “Just Tim Sir,” care to join me?” Kenneth set out a second shot glass. I quickly declined, citing the need to keep my wits about me, or what little I could nervously summon.

Undeterred, Kenneth pulled out another paper sack, this one kept in his desk's messy top drawer. It was larger, greasy, but sweet-smelling; it contained a fresh boxed set of jelly doughnuts. He grabbed and devoured one with gusto as he proceeded to read my resume and references. At one point, he even wiped his breakfast's raspberry jam on his face with my carefully-printed job history list. I declined again the proposal to join him, even though the odor of the deep-fried sweet treats really made my mouth water.

Finally, he spoke, breaking the awkward silence. “Timber, what's your lasting experience at the baseball game?” Ken mumbled with a full mouth, his doughnut in hand down to a nub. {By now I'd have settled for “Timothy” but even that wasn't happening, either.}

“Oh, uhh, usually about the third inning. That's when I have to get up and find the can. You know those jumbo sodas just drain right through me.”

Kenneth looked at me with a quizzical expression, unsure whether to laugh or frown at my misinterpretation. “Son, I'm talking about your understanding the game of baseball.”

“Oh, uhhh, well, I've seen many a game in my time. Enjoyed a few, too,” I smiled. Thankfully, he laughed.

“Tim, I'm talking about the depth of your knowledge.”

“Oh… the depth? I can sink pretty low, if you want.”

I could see mild exasperation growing in Kenneth's facial expression. I felt my job chances sink as his eyebrow went sailing up again. He eyed me carefully. “I mean… did you play Little League? High School? In college? Or did you take up broadcasting?” He waited while I conjured up something...

“Well... I used to collect caseball bards. Uh, baseball cards. I remember my excitement when I got one of yours. The one where you had a profanity shaved into the side of your scalp? I sold that one on E-Bay for two hundred bucks,” I smile proudly. Genuinely touched, he smiled right back and nodded. “I had my first big party with the money, too.” This seemed to put Mr. Y at ease. He chuckled approvingly at the idea, until I foolishly but candidly added, “...for my fellow Boy Scouts.”

“Boy Scouts?” Kenneth was incredulous. I felt ridiculous. How could I have blurted out such an unhip factoid? What an idiot! Yet, my seeming faux pas was just what the doctor ordered. He thought a little to himself, drumming his fingers. Then he smiled broadly.

“Timmio, you're hired.”

“What??” I was stunned. Mr. Yotch calmly started on a second jelly “dog-nut” (as he called 'em) and slugged it back with another shot of booze. I grew very excited - for one full second.

“That's if...”

I sat and waited with great anticipation and anxiety.

“ can cut the muster with my daughter. Carole. She's in charge of Marketing and Promotions.”

My shoulders slumped, I'm sure. I was only halfway home. Big K eyed Li’l T with a serious sizing up, smeared resume in sticky hand.

“Timzy, you seem like a pretty polite, clean-cut… educated young man. Good grades and a good work history. Very handsome, well dressed, and well mannered. A little nervous, but... that's a normal reaction in here. So let me take the time to go over the rules we have around here…” He sat back and kicked up his feet, barely able to get them up over the top of his messy desk. I waited with a patient smile.

“Rule Number One: always follow the rules.”

I looked carefully to see if the boss was joking. His face revealed no clue. I nodded as if totally understanding.

“Rule Number Two: never fail to follow Rule Number One.”

I could barely believe what I was hearing, but nodded somberly again. Was he just making this stuff up to sound important?

“And Rule Number Three: if you forget rules one and two, you can always come back to Rule Number Three.” Kenneth quietly poured himself another generous shot. I smirked, barely holding in laughter. “Any questions?" he asked. I opened my mouth to reply but the boss interrupted. “Good! That concludes the rules portion of our initial introduction and induction and, uhh... indoctrination.”

“Truly words to live by, boss. But I want to make clear: I don't ever drink, choke, or spew. Uhh, I mean, smoke or chew.”

Amid laughter he replied: “That's okay, you'll probably be hired here anyway.” Now I was downgraded to “probably.” He pored over more resume facts and figures, but mostly used the pages to wipe his fingers clean. “Now then, you say you do like girls?”

“Oh yes sir, every night for dinner. I mean, umm, I eat them out, for dinner. No, no, I mean... I eat out with them, at dinner. As long as we have a coupon or a gift card, or she's paying.”

Kenneth threw his head back and laughed merrily, giving Santa Claus a real run for his jolly. “What a big spending Romeo! You're dirt poor but playing the infield, eh? Welp, Timster, have as much fun as you legally can in this town, just as long as you don't choke or spew 'em.”

“Yes sir.”

“You know, I played the field in my day. I was quite the handsome prospect. And a good first baseman, too.”

I wasn't sure if that was a straight-up joke, or just an unintended one. I completed the record at this point for “Most Awkward Smiles.” Kenneth smiled back, probably because he was lost in a sea of sinful memories of his younger party days. He told me later it was my remark about being a Boy Scout that caused him to desire my services. He'd handle the office debauchery, I was to be trusted with actual work. Especially with his gorgeous never-married daughter. I was just what he was looking for, it turned out, in more ways than one.

“Timio… tell me… what brought you out to Vegas? Why leave sunny L.A.?”

“I wanted to try my hand at the ass keno. Uhhh, I mean, the casinos.” God, I wanted to die, right then and there. Kenneth only roared with laughter, appreciating the twist of adjectives. Mr. Y turned to the final resume page, a careful list of my ideas for proposed Las Vegas 33's promotional stunts, to increase attendance. I had always loved pulling stunts and gags, so I majored in this sort of area in college and figured I might as well get paid for my creative ideas. Marketing. Public Relations. Promotions. Making an ass of myself, to get attention. Whatever it took.

In order to read the finer print of this particular document, Kenneth pulled some reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He wiped them clean on his sleeve and put them on, but more earnestly polished off his liquor. I pointed to the carefully constructed resume list on the last page.

“That page is my list of ideas for your pubicity deployment. Uh, I mean, your publicity department.”

Kenneth laughed some more, read some more, and smiled some more. “Hmmm, this has real potential! We need fresh blood. Creative ideas, new promotions, and lots of 'em,” a semi-sentence I was greatly relieved to hear. “Our attendance hasn't been so hot this season. Especially since our big Fourth of July promotion that went a little south on us.”

I asked quite innocently, “Oh, what happened?”

“Wellllll... let's just say it involved some rather intoxicated fans... some free fireworks... and a seventh inning stretch where my lovely daughter arranged some “alien probe demonstrations” as our “family entertainment.””

“Oh yeah,” I replied, “I remember the reports on that story, on the news. Live, from outside the hospital emergency room.”

Kenneth nodded yet frowned at the memory. “The proctology bills were staggering,” he muttered, still reading my list. I worked hard to hold in another burst of laughter. “Oh but here's one we can't use," he pointed at the list as he continued. “Midget Night.” I groaned inwardly, as I liked that idea the best. It reminded me of a joke from a standup comedian, some years ago: “Half-sized gets you in the ballpark at half price. But let’s not have a repeat like last year, when fans threw the little guys in over the fence, to get in for free.” I kept that “humor” to myself, but Ken kiboshed the notion anyway.

“Midgets don't eat or drink enough. Their teeny stomachs are too small. Concession sales are down to start with.” He patted his own enormous gut and continued. “We need really big fat fans. Even bigger than me, if possible. Epic eaters. Enormous appetites. Circus freak fat, if at all possible. America's the perfect breeding ground for that now.”

“I see. Good for the vendors and concession stands. And for local diabetes specialists,” I nodded and smiled.

“Yeah, and good for my big fat bottom, uh, line.”

I both nodded and smiled yet again, setting new records for those impressive multi-tasking skills with every passing awkward second. “I know you’re having attendance problems,” I mentioned, building to my own attempt at humor. “I called up the ticket office the other day to ask what time the game starts. They said: “What time can you be here?””

Mr. Yotch laughed out loud. With him, every laugh is a “belly laugh,” considering his immense midsection. I was please, and emboldened to press my luck further.

“I’ve had experience in marketing at UCLA. I went to the best markets on campus and found some real bargains. . . . I also helped push the Rose Parade, mostly as a floater.”

No great laughs here, but Mr. Yotch smiled politely and set the resume down. He removed his reading glasses and looked me over carefully once again. I tried not to squirm uncomfortably but… no dice. {Vegas pun intended.}

“So Tim, you're a bachelor, eh? No kids? No pets?”

“Oh no sir,” I replied firmly, “I haven't fathered any of 'em.” He gave me a long look on that one, then continued to read the resume.

“Hmmmm... I think you may be just what we're looking for indeed. Especially considering the other losers that shuffled in here, trying to get this job with no knowledge of baseball, no experience in marketing, and no ability to turn down my drink offers. And I don't respect that. I need someone sober to drive me home after most night games. So you're the frontrunner, son.” I was so excited and moved I nearly passed wind as I repositioned myself in the chair. Perhaps with cut-up Kenneth, that would have actually cinched the job right then and there, knowing his crudeness and kindness. But I had another hoop of fire to jump through first.

“I think you've got the job, Timmy-m'boy, but I'm going to send you over to my little lady. Carole. See if you can cut it with her, first. She's a tougher nut to crack than me, you see."

"I could let her try cracking mine. I mean, uhh, I mean I could try mining her crack. Oh! I mean, uhhh -”

“That's her, right there,” Kenneth calmly interrupted, ignoring my painfully clumsy and frantic attempts at insightful responses. He pointed to the framed desktop photograph of a beautiful blonde woman, turned to me. I gazed at this fox worth hunting and my eyes nearly popped out of my skull. “How in the heck could this happen?” I thought, “She's the fat man's daughter, and she looks like a sexy movie star!”

“Carole is my only child. Well, that I know of. She's the head of daily operations here. A little eccentric, but smart as a whip.”

“Gee, “eccentric,” eh?” my unspoken thoughts continued in a cynical flow, “What a shock. The fruit-loop didn't flop far from the ol' fig tree.” Thankfully I didn't blurt these things out loud. To Mr. Yotch I managed to simply nod politely yet again as I gazed most dazed at the luscious curves in the glossy 6 x 10 before me. “Just take this down the hall, to the right. And keep in mind my little girl is the one who changed the name of this time, to the “33's.” You'll find out why pretty quick, believe me.” Ken handed me the jelly-stained resume and I stood up.

“Uhhh, okaaaaayy... Thanks. I look forward to working here, Mr. Y.”

“Call me Kenneth, son - if you cut it with Carole. Good luck.”

“Okay, Kenneth-son, thanks again.” That was my purposeful attempt at humor.

Ken smiled warmly, then wanly. He seemed to turn half serious but fully cautious. “Uh, tell me, do you have insurance? Do you bruise or bleed easily?” I just laughed in response, not fully grasping that he was trying to tip me off. A fair warning. I turned and promptly stumbled over a display of prized baseball bats, which spilled onto the floor very noisily. Kenneth's eyebrows arched up once more as his smile quickly turned upside down.

Naturally I thought fast and came up with a witty remark. “Uhhh... oops?”

I tried to pick up the rolling bats and reassemble them but Kenneth waved me off, stepping forward to fussily handle the task himself. So as I quickly passed out of the office and through an outer secretarial office/lobby, I nearly passed out. That's when Timmy-sir turned to glimpse Kenneth-san's personal aide. His secretary. She had been out when I first arrived. I managed to stay on my feet when I laid eyes on her, but audibly gasped, my heart racing. “Miss Jigglesworth,” as Kenneth seriously called her. She certainly put the “ass” in “assistant,” and the two big T's as well. An impossibly shapely sexpot, this gorgeous thirtyish brunette was busily painting her fingernails at her desk with little else going on but the feminine voice blabbing in her phone, stuck firmly to her flat ear. In reality, this stunning German-American woman's name, I found out later, was Helga Jhiggenzwerth. The single, sultry secretary had ample flesh that wiggled and jiggled in the most delightfully different directions all at once, presuming you happened to view her actually doing something on her feet. Most of the time, buxom Miss J was on her back, but I'll leave any tawdry descriptions of such couch activity in the rear. Um, of Kenneth's office - and the floor, and the broom closet, the restroom, etc. When paired together, the duo seemed like a pair of over-inflated Macy’s parade floats, drifting towards each other, tethers and morals abandoned.

{Hmmm, have I mentioned yet that Mr. Yotch was quite heavyset and riddled with vice? I think I have.}

The monosyllabic, alluring Miss J calmly pointed me in the direction of an office door just down the hall; she could barely be bothered to grunt her replies into the phone, that day and every other. “Mmm-hmmm,” seemed to be her favorite word, at times seemingly her only one. Helga was clearly in the office for one reason only. Kenneth preferred the very finest yet cheapest in everything, as noted previously, so naturally his tastes included this talentless office hour-glass figurine that shined so bright, but just like a light bulb was empty inside. She was the office “help” that gave him the most pleasure. Couldn’t type, couldn’t run a computer program, and couldn’t spell “cat” if you spotted her the “c” and the “a.” {Or in her case the “t and a.”} I'm not sure to this day if I ever saw Miss Jigglesworth ever do one lick of genuine, productive secretarial work, although I'm quite sure licking was part of her daily load, uh, so to speak.

At last I began to understand why Kenneth Yotch signed on a special corporate sponsor for renaming his stadium a few years back. “Playtex Park” naming rights now seemed much more understandable, considering his secretary's enormous “over-the-shoulder boulder-holder,” as my late father used to say. The mere mention of Playtex Park may have induced snickers all over town but it was memorable and alliterative and fun for, well, half the family. Guys loved it. Overall this corporate title deal was probably good for business in two big different ways, most appropriate for a brassiere company, eh?

Trying to get the boss's eye-popping personal squeeze out of my mind - not an easy task, I'll admit - I knocked on the door to his daughter's office. Her name - “Carole Yotch, C.O.O.” - was properly stenciled on the polished wood. I heard only “Step aboard, alien!” from the other side, in a pleasing, slightly-husky woman's voice. Unsure what this meant, I timidly opened the door and peeked in, then stepped inside slowly when I saw a normal-sized, feminine hand wave me into the room. It was seemingly attached to a shock of bright blonde hair attached to a smaller, thinner frame of an obscured woman who was seated in a tall executive chair that swiveled behind a cluttered, busy desk. I entered, rumpled resume in both hands, my future about to change dramatically, in often the strongest and strangest of ways.


Half-Baked But Fully Alienated

I remember it like yesterday, or a few months ago, more accurately. The day I fell in love. At first sight, pretty much. It was inside an alien spaceship. Or so one would have thought in that weird stadium office across the lobby from dysfunctional Daddy Yotch’s booze-soaked, doughnut-saturated headquarters.

Still unable to see nothing much more than the back of her blonde head and a swivel office chair, I walked up to a padded visitor's seat with my eyes studying the office decor. All around me were vivid pictures and dolls, DVDs and books displaying the same theme: little extraterrestrials. Someone evidently had a thing for otherworldly visitors, and that’s just how I felt when walking in. I knew very little about ETs, and cared even less. Stupid me, I only realized slowly that I had better start – fast – if I wanted a job with Big K and the 33’s.

I must state with full clarity and honesty that some actual baseball memorabilia was also present in Carole Yotch’s office, too. Alien-themed, naturally. Each team decoration featured the same 33's design: a small, grey-skinned, bug-eyed alien creature, swinging a large baseball bat, as if “E.T., the Extra Terrestrial” had landed and was quickly signed to a minor league contract, once he displayed raw power to left field and flashed a decent glove.

What was the cause for a radical change in the team name? Apparently because gorgeous, educated, and refined Carole was in love... with the popular notion that life from beyond earth was not only possible, it was a certainty. To her, outer space aliens had landed - or crash-landed – not far from Las Vegas. And that American military brass were holding onto them and their otherworldly, gravity-defying ships at a secret, restricted U.S. Air Force installation in the desert, a hundred miles or so outside of the city, popularly known as “Airbase 33.” It had been all over the national news and entertainment programs and in our popular culture for quite some time. An apparently pretty clumsy race of intergalactic beings, the “Greys” were among us, watching us, our “progress” and our planet. A great legend, in fact. But was it fact?

I came to understand pretty quickly that Carole believed in the few odd people - and to me they were very odd - who had come forward over the years to discuss openly their time spent understanding and reverse-engineering captured alien technology at Base 33. This exciting but unproven notion ran through Carole Yotch's veins and thoughts. Although our armed services and government denied it, strange rumors of captured ET ships had steadily leaked out over the past decades from the Airbase 33 area. Popular television shows and movies picked up this ball and have run like heck with this theme. Extraterrestrials were not just here and poking around, they or we were test-flying their spaceships at the secretive, off-limits airbase! The resulting eyewitness accounts and distant, grainy video footage were the "proof" in a conspiracy-filled pudding. Despite the fact that many of these shaky accounts smelled a little rancid, Carole swallowed it all, hook, line and stinker.

Was there really any truth to any bit of these tall ET tales? The home video images she later showed me were sometimes rather impressive, I had to grudgingly admit. Many showed glowing, darting objects flying over a mountainous area, and some seemed to pull out of others, or join up with them in the sky, mostly at night. Tim Von Twigs II found out later, two of these televised pieces of footage were actually taken by Carole Yotch herself. She had once been a pugnacious UFO follower who camped out with other curious souls in the mountains miles from the installation, waiting around until the wee hours of the morning to witness and record the strange lights in the Nevada sky. At least, until that area of observation was taken over and suspiciously shut down by the government, some years ago.

I found out later that this ET obsession was in full manic force when Ken stepped in years ago and offered Carole the job of running the team, more or less. It was good for her to climb down from her mountain - literally - and apply her college degree in the real business world. And it was good for him to find someone sober and competent, trustworthy and dedicated to run the day-to-day operations. All while he chased his voluptuous, non-virtuous aide around his office desk, liquor cabinet, sofa, pile of adult magazines, etc. And the mezzanine… the concourses… the owner’s luxury box… and the bowels of the empty stadium, when the team was on a road trip.

Apparently going to extremes of various sorts didn’t just run in the Yotch family, it peeled out and burned rubber as it blazed down the track, turbo-charged.

One other piece of memorabilia on Carole's office walls caught my eye as she typed at her computer keyboard, head down, nearly oblivious to me. And this was a large, framed, classy-looking portrait of another blonde bombshell. An actress who was the virtual empress of Hollywood in the Golden Age of movie-making, Carole Lombard. She was also known as "The Queen of Screwball Comedy," and also eventually as "Mrs. Clark Gable," the wife of the most famous film star of his day, and perhaps to this very day. Lombard was in fact the namesake of Miss Yotch, the attractive young businesswoman who had kicked off her heels and light jacket earlier in the morning to slave away at her desk in a nice pants suit, sipping bottled water, when I lightly flopped down before her and drank in her loveliness. It was the only satisfying drink I would ever crave and gulp eagerly in Playtex Park.

“Uhhh, excuse me, but I'm supposed to see you about your pubicity opening? Um, I mean, publicity – “

“Yeah, yeah, one moment now, I'm busy,” she replied without looking up. “Have a seat and take a load off your mind.” (I already had, and it was comfy, nicer than in her daddy's suite.) Carole was clearly not like her father in some ways. This Yotch was much thinner, healthier, more sober, and easier on the eyes. I imagined that in his day, some thirty years before, Kenneth was a handsome ladies' man who attracted the most delicious women, and Carole was the result of one encounter, or perhaps a brief union that ended long ago. She got her mama’s genes, and common sense for staying healthy and in shape, happily. He should have been grateful, for she was someone very special, I discovered from the very start.

“No updates today,” she sighed, “Bummer!” Carole tapped a few buttons and changed her computer screen, her back to me still. “My friend Lana blogs almost every day,” she explained, “and I was really looking forward to her latest entry.” I asked what that would generally be about and still without looking up, Carole replied matter-of-factly, “Oh, she channels the mental messages of extraterrestrials. You know, through “automatic writing.” Telepathic communication.”

I could barely believe what I was hearing. Mental contact with ETs? Was she serious? Had everyone in this building gone overboard on something pretty wild 'n' crazy in life? “Lana is in touch with real alien races,” I was informed.

Later I learned that this mysterious-sounding “Lana the Space Channeler” had written – or mentally transmitted – enough material, nearly, for her own book. In this detailed data, “extraterrestrial entitities” claimed that a handful – or whatever “hands” that these beings had – of otherworldly beings were quietly visiting our planet in advanced spacecrafts that were effectively shielded, or “cloaked,” as they say in “Star Trek” techno-terms. In other words, their sophisticated ships were here, usually in orbit above and around Earth, but able to avoid detection most of the time by a kind of magnetic shielding process that protected them from visual sightings, radar reports, and cameras. When some of these spaceships occasionally emerged from this protective field, or shield, to flit about in our lower atmosphere (or even land), Lana's info claimed, we can see or record them. Hence, once in a while an eyewitnessed encounter or event results in a “UFO video” which usually “goes viral.” But overall much more was going on in our skies and space that met the human eye.

The actual method of transporting themselves from distant planets and far-away galaxies – or dimensions – was that some advanced aliens could teleport, or “think themselves” here by mental processes “not yet understood by mankind.” They didn't cross time and space in a traditional method of achingly long flights that took many light years, but simply recreated their ships once in our atmosphere by mentally willing themselves here and reassembling the molecular makeup of their crafts by “atomic reassembly” once they had arrived, protected by the cloaking shield.

I didn't know what to say to all that, not back then, when I first read it, nor now. I'm just reporting what Lana passed along and what my lovely Carole earnestly believed in. But the Lana data was far more sophisticated, detailed, wide-ranging, and intelligent than I first imagined. That not only were we were definitely being visited, but how “they” could get here and zip around the planet so easily and stealthily. I was prepared to scoff but frankly when I read this material I slowly began to seriously wonder if it was actually accurate. One thing was certain: it was beyond the scope of a simple high school dropout living in a trailer park in southern Vegas, earning a living as a part-time housekeeper. Lana Krewson was to grow more intriguing as time went by, but that is another story for later.

After some awkward silence between true believer Carole and my initially skeptical self, I piped up: “Well alien races are why I'm here.” Finally Carole looked up and stared at me. Our eyes met and locked for a few seconds, both of us obviously smitten at first sight, at least somewhat. She was totally gorgeous, with large brown eyes and a shapely figure, just like her photo, only better in person. “Oh, uhhh, what's this now? Who are you?” she asked in a bit of a daze, checking me out in return.

“I'm Tim Von Twigs. This is my job resume.” I handed her the documents and dutifully smiled. “Included is a list of my promotional ideas for the 33's... but I'll admit, I saved the best one to hire on you if you lay me.” Startled Miss Yotch glared and stared at me until I hastened to nervously correct myself yet again: “Um, I mean, to lay on you if you hire me.”

I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead and under my arms, uncomfortably warm now in my cheap suit, my face reddening. Carole calmed and looked over the resume. She frowned at the jelly smear. “I see daddy got a hold of this first. Gotta get him a bib...” I chuckled, but she was actually serious. She read more intensely. “You're originally from Los Angeles and you're single. Well, well, that's… interesting.” I smiled broadly and beamed proudly. “Okay, Timmy, it's -”

“That's just "Tim." No Timmy, please.”

“Okay, Tim, it's time to spill your best idea.”

“Oh, does Tim have the job?”

“Not until I hear his mighty brainstorm.”

“Wellllll... it was going to be a surprise, but...” I sat forward, very confident now. “Here we go...” I smiled and leaned forward in my seat. “Howzabout holding eighth inning mascot derbies? Little costumed aliens, who run around the field, to a finish line. Midgets, maybe.”


“We fix 'em up with their own website, bios and blogs, and Twitter accounts. Social media bios and little quotes and stuff, for the modern world.”

“Hmmm...” She was repeating herself, and not via very vivid verbosity. I was unsure if I was hitting a homerun, or just fouling off deliveries, but I kept pitching...

“You know, they have “Sausage Races” in Milwaukee.”

“You try to “race” your “sausage” around here and you'll be lucky you aren't chased out by security,” my noncomprehending lady replied sharply.

“No, no. Oversized costumes, like on Halloween! You know, they have “President Races” in Washington D.C. I think in Cincinnati they have these big costumed communists run around, like Lenin, Stalin, Kruschev, and Bernie Sanders. You know, “Reds.” I think so, anyway.”

Carole pondered some more. I pressed harder. “You’ve seen on ESPN these colorful ballpark mascots... how they meet and greet fans as they come in the gates for each game… maybe make promotional appearances at events in the area... and chase around the warning track with a different winner each night. At home games, of course. We'll have “Alien Races.” Get the pun?” At last she perked up.

“Wow, authentic little aliens, eh?” She grinned. “I love it!”

I breathed great sigh of relief. I was in for sure now. Smiling excitedly and nodding, intrigued Carole dug into her desk and quickly plucked a contract from a drawer. “It's a great idea! I don't know why I didn't think of this before! You're hired, Timmy.” She pulled out a pen and handed the items to me, obviously very enthused. By now so was I. I ignored “Timmy” for a change and readied to put my esteemed signature on the dotted line with no questions asked, I needed the job that badly. “I had no idea you believed in ETs too.”

“Hey if there's a salary in it for me, I'll believe in anything you want.”

Carole froze. “Wait a sec… You mean… you don't really believe our government is testing alien hardware out at Airbase 33? Or in UFOs, visiting us?”

I very foolishly shook my head with a dumb smile as I signed my first name. Suddenly Carole reached across the desk and grabbed the top half of the contract, to my great surprise. “Sorry, you can't work here.”


“I only want true believers on our staff.”

“Well, uhhh... I could be convinced, you know. Let me sign. I'm half-converted already.”

“Sorry, half isn't official. You can't half bake a cake.”

“Oh no? I've done lots of half-baked things.”

We grappled for control of the contract and then the pen, with Carole spilling over her desk, and nearly spilling out of her top, which naturally surprised and delighted me as we awkwardly stumbled to the floor. She was no exaggerated, top-heavy Miss Jigglesworth, but Carole sported a lovely figure in her own right, and hopefully in my own right (and left) hand someday. She wouldn’t let go, and neither would I, and it literally pulled her across the desk and onto my lap. It was weird and awkward, to say the least, a genuine battle of wills, wits, and weights. We physically wrestled now, struggling for control of the contract amidst grunts and groans, her on top of me, falling awkwardly to the floor. Two strong-willed people with an instant thing for each other, yet some growing anger was growing and flowing in our veins and brains. It was rather bizarre, yet appropriate for that nuthouse. Uh, ballpark.

Kenneth walked past the open doorway and stopped to peek in. He grinned and shook his head, staring at his daughter straddling this poor, prone potential employee. “That's my little lady,” he chirped proudly, “Just don't play too rough with the applicants now, sweetheart, we don't need any more lawsuits.” Ken whipped out a fresh cigar from his shirt pocket and lit up as we continued brawling, with Carole weighing down one very confused wanna-be employee. It was getting a little embarrassing: I was losing this grappling match, unsure what to do. Should I really violently rip the contract from her hand to finish signing? I'd likely get fired on the spot. Or should I let her get the best of me and surrender, and look like a wimp? Then she'd have no respect for me, but at least this would end our insane tussle. Kenneth had warned me about health insurance and bruises; he walked away, down the hall, as he chortled, “No choking or spewing now, Little Timmy.”

I raspily called out to him, indignant. “Tim!”

“Face it, Tim, you're just not alien enough for me,” Carole fumed as I finally yanked hard and got complete control of the document, and my waist as she straddled me in a most unladylike position. I didn't know whether to be embarrassed, exhausted, or excited. She climbed off of me, realizing the sexy nature of our positioning. We both sat up, her still somewhat on me, hair and pantsuit askew.

“Not true. I can fully alienate you, if you give me a chance.”

“There's the door,” Miss Y pointed out. “Don't let it hit ya where the good Lord split ya.”

I remained and struggled defiantly to write my name on the dotted line. “Don’t worry, I can be converted!”

Carole grabbed the pen and kept it from me. “Thanks for applying, but no thanks. And thank you for the costumed ET idea. I'm definitely going to use that.”

“If you steal my stuff, I'll sue! I had the idea copyrighted.” I was bluffing, but it worked. Carole somberly rolled completely off of me and I sat more fully upright – in more ways than one - both of us catching our breath and calming down.

“Wellll... maybe we can reach a kind of compromise,” she finally allowed, standing up.

“Like what? I sign the papers to have you put away?” I tried to say it jokingly, with a smile, but at the time I half-meant it.

“A crash course in crashes off course.” Huh? “We're going to have an authentic operation here. Only real ETs will be used as mascot models.”

“Oh? Where do we go to find a “real ET?”” I inquired most sardonically (not a wise approach with her). I stood up too. I stood up to her, and won. Sorta.

Carole smiled knowingly, fixing her mussed hair. I was about to receive a higher education, compliments of my sexy new teacher, and both of us would end up bending over.... uh, I mean, bonding over… my two new aforementioned goals as well. {Again: helping her balky, bulky father find professional health management... and to raise the total number of fannies in the seats, ironically to encourage them to sit around and eat and drink more.} But first things first. It was time for a very grounded road trip to find out what was allegedly in our skies above.

The next thing I knew, I was emerging rather black and blue with big bruises from our babyish brawl, yet fully and happily employed and rolling towards some sort of mysterious crash site in the sizzling summertime Nevada sun, inches away from delectable Carole at the wheel of her fairly new SUV. It was the start of the weirdest, wildest, wonderfulest time of my life. As we wheeled along the sun-drenched pavement, my eyes became heavy and started to close for sleep, but in reality my eyes were just starting to open wide, at last. My incredible ride was just beginning.


The Steamin'est Buffet of Senior Whup-ass

Something monumental loomed in the distance, but it wasn't quite clear as a bell to me, not just yet. Oh, I could see the imposing Nevada mountain range up ahead all right. Fetching Carole Yotch navigated her Navigator down a desert highway so hot you could have fried an alien on it, sunny side up. One particular mountain up ahead stood out, with its sheer rock wall near the top, scruffy pines halfway up, and many dangerous-looking stony crevices and cliffs. There were twists of fate running down its rocky slopes. Very rich veins of irony, as I would soon discover.

Roadside signs leading towards the purply peaks of the Spring Mountain Range clearly indicated some of our trip was undertaken on the “Extraterrestrial Highway.” I kid you not. It’s a real thing in southern Nevada. Once in a while a sign or storefront would even feature a humanoid grey alien. It must have been Carole's favorite part of the planet, maybe the entire universe, I thought to myself. She enthusiastically perked up and vocally piped up after our initial casual small talk died away. “Remember now! We'll be using only reports of actual alien sightings for our stadium mascots.”

“Where do we start for that? The insane asylum?” Obviously once again I was incredulous, sure that Carole was just a tad unbalanced. She continued, ignoring my oozing sarcasm.

“Well, first there's our team logo. The little grey alien. People have been reporting seeing them, sometimes in their bedrooms at night, all over the world.”

“So I see from the décor in this redneck of the woods.”

“The Greys are abductors. They do those anal probes. Very cold scientists from another planet, outside our galaxy.” I’d heard this broken victrola before.

“So…. a cold, rectal-probing alien in the hot desert. Great symbol for baseball,” I thought to myself only. “Ballpark alien abduction exams, fun for family audiences - if every night is Halloween.”

Carole continued knowingly. “The Greys aren’t the only ones who do, but they’re most associated with taking humans to their spaceships and inspecting and testing their bodies.”

“Like an annual pop quiz. Or an anal poop quiz.”

Carole’s train of serious thoughts chugged on down their somber track: “Jana's data... and my own research says that the Greys are from Zeta Reticuli.”

“Is that where we're headed today?”

“No, we're off to a special crash site.”

I groaned, unable to hold in my disdain. “Oh Lord, we're not off to that Roswell nonsense, are we? Because I've heard that's a big load of -”

“No! This is to a local airplane crash site... up on that mountainside up ahead. See it?” Carole pointed to an imposing specific peak that I learned was called “Mount Potosi.” It was part of the Spring Mountain chain that jutted up from the desert floor about thirty or more miles from the heart of Las Vegas. She pointed to its sheer rock cliff near the top. “That's where twenty-two people died instantly. The most horrendous crash in American aviation history - up to that point.”

I stared at the eerie mountain and felt a strange shudder overtake me. Parts of me were now more spooked than ever, and it wasn't just my sore rump from sitting there for the last hour and hearing about anus-loving ETs from my talkative hottie hostess. “The things I do for love,” I recall thinking as Carole pulled us over, onto a narrow gravel road, and later parked at the foot of the mountain in question. We got out at a roadside lot and gazed around as traffic buzzed by now and then, oblivious to our solemn visit. I had to admit, the place gave me a weird feeling, for some reason. Maybe it was the fact that bodies perished and souls moved on here, at the unforgiving accident site. Carole pulled out a camera and snapped some pictures, including a few of me, staring around uncomfortably.

“What's a plane crash got to do with UFOs and stuff?”

Carole took a deep breath and began to spill her life story. “Let me start by telling you more about myself.” She put the camera away. “I was named after a famous movie star. One my grandfather helped bring down this mountain.” She pointed to some skinny, crevice-filled paths. “My mother’s father, he helped bring back what was left, that is. In a body bag.”

“Oh. A crash… victim. The one on your office wall.”

“Yup. Carole Lombard Gable. She was found here, way up there, see? She was… in just a few small pieces, burnt to a crisp. Her head was lopped off.” I shuddered again at the mental image. “She was flying home from a war bond rally in Indianapolis.”

“Really? Which war?”

“The sequel.”


“The second big one, dummy. World War II. My Grandpa Ben was a young man on their “search and rescue” team back then... when they went up the mountain. Then it became a “recovery” team. They went through hell to get up there, to bag up Lombard's body. Or what was left of it. And the twenty-one others, killed on impact.” She pointed now to a particularly blackened part of the cliff, high on the mountainside. “That's where her flight crashed, right against that sheer rock wall. See it?” I did and thought about how horrible the abrupt impact must have been... and promptly shuddered again. It was as if the sudden crash and scorch marks from this terrible accident were still there. “Her plane smashed head-on at over two hundred miles per hour. Most everyone and everything on board was either broken apart or burned beyond recognition. It was a total disaster that shocked the nation.” Carole sounded like an old newspaper headline, but she was accurate on all counts, I found out later. The Lombard tragedy rocked Hollywood, Washington D.C., and all points in between, as millions mourned the loss of a great star, plus that collection of the cream-of-the-crop pilots.

A tear formed in Carole's eye and a catch lodged in her throat, indicating how deeply moved she still was by the aging, agonizing story. Body parts and plane parts once went flying all over the mountainside, along with luggage and military gear, much of it on fire, she explained graphically. “In the rocks and pine trees and snow. It was like the most dreadful crash scene you could ever imagine. I've seen the pictures. I've been up there. It's nearly all cleaned up and forgotten now, but there's still a few bits of the plane sitting about, rusting away.”

“Man, that's too bad. But... you couldn't get me to go up there for love nor money.”

“Well no one asked you to, Beach Boy. But the point is... I can't really prove it for absolute... but... I suspect alien beings were responsible for Lombard's crash.”

I rolled my eyes once again, nearly feeling I was being put on, like this was all an elaborate joke. As I started to snort derisively and ooze more skepticism and sarcasm, Carole let a few tears flow. I knew then that I wasn't being pranked, and not to say anything. Before I could rub her back consolingly, she stepped back to her SUV and opened the door to sort through some documents on the back seat. “Her flight stopped at Las Vegas for refueling. The next stop was to fly west, to Burbank. It was a perfectly clear January night. Unlimited visibility, but no moon.” She plucked some paperwork out and handed it to me. “The airplane was a very sound TWA flight, with no mechanical glitches found, before or after the crash. The plane was a DC-3, only a year old. It had no problems… until it got close to this place.”

* * *


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