Read What I'd Say to the Martians for Free Online

joke, but then get really confused and not remember how the joke goes, and start over again and again until it drives you mad. But it’s not my fault. You see, I am the offspring of an unholy union between a man and what people in these parts call a “wo-man.”
    Some of the townspeople believe in me, and some don’t. But if I don’t exist, then how do you explain the hook scratches around your car-door lock, or the coat hanger thrown in the bushes? Sadly, even those who believe in me are reluctant to loan me money.
    A few say I exist, but that I’m actually dead. As evidence, they point to the old gravestone in the cemetery with my name carved on it. But I have apologized for doing that and agreed to do community service.
    The truth is, I live in a weird netherworld, somewhere between the dead and those guys who are out riding their bikes, doing stuff like that.
    People are always asking if there’s anything they can hold up that will frighten or repel me. One is a screaming baby. The legend also mentions my fear of fire, but come on, who’s not afraid of fire? Man, wise up.
    To be honest, just about anything you hold up is going to frighten me. About the only thing I can think of that might not is an ice cream cone, so long as the ice cream isn’t in a scary shape.
    Legend says that if sunlight ever hits me, I will wither into a pile of dust. That’s true.
    Can I be stopped by bullets or clubbing? Of course I can! What are you thinking?! And I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t shine a flashlight in my face.
    How did I come to this curse? I’ll tell you. I was bitten, bitten by a wolf. And not an ordinary wolf, but something called a “schnauzer.” A schnauzer owned by my so-called friend Don. Ever since then I am compelled to wander the night, like a schnauzer.
    They say my midnight haunts will never end until I am united with my true love. The sad thing is, I don’t even know her name. It’s that French girl from the movie Swimming Pool. But unless I can figure out the area code for France, my love is probably doomed.
    Maybe magically the curse will be lifted. I’ll get up bright and early and point to myself in the mirror and say, “You’re going to do great things today.” No, wait, that’s a different curse.
    And so I stalk. Usually Friday and Saturday nights are the main times I go stalking, and also, like I said, the moon should be full and mist covering things. But to be honest, it could pretty much be any night of the week.

Hitchhikers
     
    I have a confession to make. About a year ago, I was driving along a country road when I hit a hitchhiker. That it was an accident in no way excuses the pain and suffering I caused.
    About a month later, I hit another hitchhiker. A hitchhiker can leave a pretty good dent in your car, so I took it into the shop to get both dents removed. While it was there, I decided to get around by hitchhiking.
    Right away, an older gentleman picked me up. He grew tired of driving, and I offered to take over. While I was driving, I hit another hitchhiker. The old man was asleep at the time, so I never told him.
    Later, I heard that the hitchhiker had tracked the old man down and, when he went out to check his mailbox, drove by and hit him with his car. How the hitchhiker got a car, I don’t know. Maybe it was a friend’s car, or maybe his car had also been in the shop. But the point is, it’s a weird world out there.
    Since hitting that last hitchhiker, I have accidentally hit twenty-eight other hitchhikers. I don’t know what’s going on. Everyone hits at least a few hitchhikers every year, whether you realize it or not. (Have you ever been driving and hit a strange bump and wondered, What was that? That was a hitchhiker.) But, to me, twenty-eight seems like way too many.
    I decided to get to the bottom of it. Maybe I was just going through a hitchhiker “phase.” Or maybe it was something more serious.
    My eye doctor checked my eyes and said they were fine. I