Most of us have fond memories of Spielberg's 1982 classic E.T. Not this guy. I have a sweet case of OCD, so the very thought of a dessicated alien hanging out in my closet is enough to give me the heebie-jeebies.
What's that, poor little feller? You got left behind by your intergalactic family? Well they should've attached you to their craft by a long leash, Mitt Romney style. At least that way you'd be dangling behind their spaceship, rather than fraternizing with my toys.
Wait! Did you just put a glowing, freakish little finger on my Atari? Guess I'll just toss that in a bonfire! Thanks for that, space man. And you best believe I'm burning all of my stuffed animals, too.
I don't care if they dress you up in a goofy little outfit and point out how cute you are. There's not enough Purell in the world to put my mind at ease. I'll be obsessing about all your tiny little space germs invading my body for the rest of my life. In fact, I haven't felt this gross since I slipped out of my flip flops and onto some dog crap when I was five. Took me eight bottles of antibacterial soap and a therapist just to feel right again.
Now where're you going, little man? Hey, stay the crap out of my fridge. Ohh! WTF?! That's a brand-new milk carton. Well now you can just toss it down the toilet. Pasteurize it 12 more times; there's not a spitting chance in hell I'm ever taking a sip of that tainted dairy.
You know what? From now on, I'm just gonna live in my G.I. Joe tent outside. And when those scary government folks show up at the end to wrap everything up in cellophane and latex. Well, they best just save some of that for me. Oh, and don't mind if I do try on one of their air-tight suits. I'm gonna need it just so I can sleep at night.
E.T., you may eventually rejoin your family, but my life as I know it is over. And since you waddled past my mom, I'm never getting within three zip codes of her ass again.
(Photo courtesy of Carol Esther)