So, Prometheus just came out. Maybe you’re a diehard fan of the Alien franchise and you saw it. Maybe you’re a diehard fan of the Alien franchise and you refused. Maybe you were born well after Alien came out, had no idea Prometheus was affiliated and the only other Ridley Scott movie you’ve seen is the one where Russel Crowe is Braveheart in Rome. It doesn’t matter, either way. Editors Jennifer Wright and Ashley Cardiff are thinking about aliens. Fucking them, marrying them, and killing them, specifically.

Ashley: Why can’t we do Superman? Superman is an alien.

Jennifer: No, he wasn’t.

Ashley: Yes. He was.

Jennifer: No, no, I mean, technically he was, but he was raised here. And was adopted. So he’s more like a dual citizen. It would be like if you knew someone who was adopted from China as a baby and raised entirely in America and you kept bombarding them with questions about their friendship with Chairman Mao.

Ashley: It’s not like that at all! That’s just you being racist. But your point about Superman is very astute and I agree.

Jennifer: You don’t even recognize that Superman is an American, so I think you’re the racist.


Ashley: Fine. ET also has dual citizenship: of his home that he phones frequently and also our hearts.

Jennifer: I love ET. But I also love Jabba! And Spock! This is really hard because all of these gentlemen are such strong choices.

Ashley: You’d have to marry ET, right? You could plant a vegetable garden together! In the evening, you could lie with your head in his weird skin sack area and he would feed you Reese’s Pieces with his two long fingers. And then you could gently nibble them and he’d say softly, “Owwww-ch…”

Jennifer: OHHHHHHHHH! He’d be like having a hairless pet cat who talked and was sent from heaven to teach us how to love! The idea of sexing ET is, however, very troubling to me.

"Baby, I'll make your cervix twinkle."

Ashley: He’d actually be a lot like having a hairless pet cat.

Jennifer: Who talked.

Ashley: So… better.

Jennifer: A little bit.

Ashley: As long as your name doesn’t have too many consonants, you’d be fine.

Jennifer: But you can’t fuck a cat.

Ashley: You can’t fuck a Hutt, either. They’re only interested in unspeakable things.

Jennifer: Well, actually, I think the implication was the there were many sex slaves there to tend to his massive, fleshy body. Maybe with back massages and stuff?

"Slave girl... I've misplaced my thyroid medication."

Ashley: Definitely not back massages. He pretty much just had a sex slave bus going from his palace to Ryloth. So, I guess, a shuttle. A sex slave shuttle.

Jennifer: No? Maybe. You don’t know. I’ve had scalp massages that were better than below average sex. I think probably I’d be willing to massage Jabba’s head. I mean, if you were going to be an overlord, what would you want to do? I’d want a group of people to have sex with me and/or cuddle me on command, to eat a whole lot, and to have a hole in the ground filled with monsters I could drop people I didn’t like into. I really can’t fault Jabba for the way he’s chosen to conduct his life as an evil overlord. I mean, if that was your job description, if your job description was “evil overlord”, I imagine you’d do exactly what Jabba does.

Ashley: God. Actually. You and Jabba would get along beautifully. His existence is pretty much your dream.

Jennifer: I do like eating and cuddling. I just don’t think he can have much sex. I really don’t. He’s sedentary.

This could be your wedding cake, though.

Ashley: Look, Jabba is a bad guy. Don’t get distracted by his palace, his entourage, his bottomless glasses of cold fresh water (with ice cubes!). He’s a disgusting space worm and a criminal.

Jennifer: Oh. Okay. I mean, the fuck portion is the problem with all of these, though, right? Spock seems like the best candidate for marriage. Although I think anyone who has been in a relationship with a person who is only coldly logical all the time can tell you it’s a nightmare. But you know, he’s the most human.

Ashley: No, no. You fuck Spock. You can’t marry Spock. If you marry Spock, the first two years are all coldly efficient orgasms but after that it’s all, “I fail to see the purpose of this dinner party” and suddenly he’s in the garage all the time, working on his model trains, internalizing resentment.



"A curious metaphor, doctor!"

Jennifer: I just feel like fucking ET would be like raping a cat. A cat that could cry.

Ashley: That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.

Jennifer: Right, okay. Here’s how I think it goes down. How it has to go down. Although this is not ideal.

Ashley: Go on.

Jennifer: Marry ET. He’ll look cute in a tux at the wedding and you can hold hands and eat Reese’s Pieces together and laugh at incredibly simplistic things, like… sunsets? Sure.

Ashley: Oh my god, he would look SO CUTE in a tux.

Jennifer: Fuck Jabba. It will be weird. But I think he’ll at least really enjoy/appreciate it? He’ll probably give you a gold bikini. That’s pretty cool. Kill Spock. He’s going to be terrible in bed and a nightmare husband. He will, actually, be Louis 16th. No Petit Trianon.

"It doesn't have to make sense to be... right, Jim."

Ashley: He’d be great in bed if you could convince him that procreation was not the “point” of sex, but rather, screaming orgasms. I can’t imagine it would be that difficult.

Jennifer: Oh! I didn’t think of that.

Ashley: I say: fuck Spock. If he’s famously handsome actor Zachary Quinto, great. If not, he’s still efficient and I admire that. Marry ET BECAUSE OH MY GOD IN A TUX? And your herb garden?

Jennifer: I guess kill Jabba then? That makes me a little sad. I always felt like he worked really hard to get where he was.

Ashley: Dude, you have to see past the glamour of spice smuggling and realize that if you don’t kill Jabba, he’ll kill you.

Jennifer: You could outrun him.

Ashley: That’s a really good point.

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