Profanity Included

A Profane Rant about Modern Ufology

Even the Navy UAP videos contain a trained military airman shouting, “What the fuck is that?” They know Tic Tacs are not zipping around our jets to keep the skies minty fresh.

Dear Medium, please excuse this profane article as simply an outlier that is a piece of First Amendment art, not an offense against the decency of your platform. What follows is not the voice of the author but his literary creation, a modern mashup of George Carlin, Holden Caulfield, Hunter Thompson and Howard Beale blended into an age of pandemic, politics, and phenomena.

IF YOU REALLY WANT TO HEAR about it, the problem is that just when some poor bastard starts to think to himself Jesus Fucking Christ this shit is real, the goddamn enormity of it all, the implications of the entire craptastic House of Cards falling down and the fact that there really might be actual aliens flying around our tortured spinning blue ball of life, well, that’s what pulls the entire frayed, wine-spilled, cat-peed rug out from under us again. Fucking A man, aliens!

So, yeah, your brain explodes like a bag of Pop Rocks. It’s easy to think if there really were ETs, we’d know already. But then you remember the Magical Secrecy Tour the government’s taken us on and wonder what that shit was all about. And just when you think you should get a three-color all-cotton vintage To the Stars Academy beach towel, you see that wankdolphin in the FedEx shorts standing outside his truck that’s double-parked in front of your car and you forget about this we-are-not-alone BS because who’s got time for extraterrestrials, ultra-fucking-terrestrials, Atlantean fish people, hitchhiking Skinwalkers, or some lost reject from the future when there’s an ass that needs kicking?

Besides, if there was some big damn secret about UFOs, they sure as hell wouldn’t have told some douchebag in a 90s rock band like Tom DeLonge, before they told you, now would they? Maybe Adele, but even that’s a stretch.

So you spend all night in bed, staring at the lava lamp you promised you’d donate, thinking about what the fuck is going on, and how if crop circles are real then maybe we should switch to texting with ET and feed the world… when you have to throw off the covers before the damn sun even comes up so you can drive to someplace you could not give two shits about so the government can take half of your already flaccid paycheck.

On the serious side of Sirius radio that day, you probably can hear Neil-the Ass-Tyson make a joke about how UFOs get seen by people who just like to make stuff up to get attention. Or maybe he and his co-lunatics like Bill Nye send out some other phony with a dumb British accent, a guy named Mick or Twit, who gets on some dipshit cable news show and says that he doesn’t see any evidence, that it’s probably your imagination or maybe even birds or some shit. Fucking birds!

You pull your ride over to get your shaky act back together, hoping this will all make sense in a haze of vape smoke, wondering how we’re supposed to figure out their warp drives and all if we still don’t really know if they wear clothes. That’s when you realize it’s so blazing hot that you can fry a goddamn turkey patty on the sidewalk. But don’t say global warming because that’s only a theory and that’s when you realize that half the rubbernecks in this decaying orbit of a nation say it’s your choice what to believe anyway, right? You don’t have to believe in facts or Covid or elections or any of that crap anymore. You sure as all fuck don’t have to believe in aliens when you can blame it on Russian drones which is a joke and a half. The only real truth these days is that nobody knows what’s true anymore about anything. Pick your reality and stick with it.

That’s when it hits you that these ugly gray mutants from Zeta Reticuli who look like they’re here on a cosmic sperm hunt brought everything they needed with them in those saucers so they could tag us like deers or snowy plovers or whatever and it makes you wonder why it is that you can’t even get a Rice Krispie treat at Starbucks because some trucker in Nashville can’t get to Houston to not get a shipment off a boat that can’t unload.

So you stop thinking about UFOs, at least today, because nobody really knows. But whatever the hell you do, don’t call them UFOs because now we’re all oiled up to call them UAPs which means exactly the same thing but some genius said, well, people are scared to believe in Unidentified Flying Objects but if we call them Unidentified Aerial Phenomena that will be Completely Fucking Different. And don’t call anybody an abductee because now they’re all experiencers and they’ll experience their bullshit all over you. They have their own private meetings at UFO conventions now, swear to God.

Sorry. Please excuse all the goddamn swearing. Obviously we need some new curse words. Maybe these ETs have a few we can borrow except some Ken or Karen would call it out as cultural stealing, and somebody would have to burn an Apple store in protest. And don’t look for the President to fix this. Trump was too focused on talking about himself to trust with the secret and Biden is too cunning to tell it anyway. They’re probably both afraid they’d end up like JFK. Clinton sure as hell was.

The point here is that real UFOs get seen by millions of people but the world pretends these anti-gravity racers don’t even exist and that makes as much sense as buying Bitcoin on the upswing. I mean, seriously, there’s some cranky as hell senator who’s like 112 years old in Washington who I saw on TV who believes we never went to the fucking moon but he’s absolutely convinced NASA has had people on Mars since the Reagan years. By the way, they say this old rat-face is a shoo-in for re-election .

Why should it make any sense anyway? You got people teaching high school who think that TV show about Project Blue Book was a documentary, right? But before you trash talk them remember you also got that Harvard professor who thinks a rock named after some half-naked Hawaiian dude is a space ship, and you got Jeff-freaking-Bezos who built a space ship that looks like a dick and got Captain Kirk to take a ride in it. And if I have to listen to one more podcaster interview some other lousy podcaster to make his weekly quota of stupid guests with nothing to say, well, shit, I’d probably take a ride in the dick-rocket just to put myself out of my misery.

Over the years, though, millions of these bastards, morons and madmen who do see some bullshit in the sky do manage to get out their superpowered batphones and take pictures of these dancing light shows and they say fuck, oh, like two-hundred times more than I do, to describe what they’re seeing instead of what day it is or what the weather’s like or where they are so there’d be some actual evidence maybe, and then, bam, this linguistic fuckfest is up on Instagram faster than a speeding Tic Tac and their stoner friends tell them what a freaking genius they are. Hashtag that, #ufotwitter people, you found today’s smoking gun.

I hate Twitter, of course, but I read it anyway because the avalanche of bullshit just knocks me out. Wilson Memo! Orbs! Water-sucking! Añjali! Tastes Great! Less Filling! If this is what Disclosure looks like, find me a Quietus kit and let me get a good night’s sleep finally.

Meanwhile, last summer the government puts out a report that says this shit is real, except we have no damn clue what they are, where they’re from or who makes these flying fucking saucers. As if bald generals with stars on their shoulders haven’t been sitting on what they got at Roswell back in the good old days when we could still nuke anybody and they couldn’t nuke us back. Maybe the Collins Elite dudes at DoD got hit by an amnesia space ray, if that’s even a thing anymore, I’d ask Harry Reid but he’s on the other side now stuck in a steaming pile of Woo, or maybe I could get Sean Spicer on the cell because I’m pretty sure Spicer’s next up to run MUFON. But, anyway, this flimsy ass report makes news for, like, three hours, then it’s on to live coverage of the Britney Spears Freedom March. Makes me want to puke.

And when somebody’s holding your forehead over the toilet that’s when you remember that Smokin’ Joe Biden just signed a Defense budget sent his way by Congress right after Christmas that’s like, oh, maybe a thousand trillion dollars. And inside this giant shit-ton of bucks is enough extra money to get serious about studying UAP which is a joke and a half because that would mean they’ve been sitting on their hands since Hitler took his dirt nap and just looked the other way when foo fighters, ghost rockets and flying saucers were scaring the holy shit out of people flying the unfriendly skies.

This Amendment comes from the new team-up of Gillibrand and Rubio. She’s that blonde Democrat New York Senator lady who I’m pretty sure was a babe and a half in college and he’s the Republican Florida wack job Senatorista who probably got pantsed by his frat brothers back in his campus days. Anyway, the only goddamn thing these two have ever agreed on besides running for president is that UFOs might just be a problem.

Anyway, so now Congress and the President and the Pentagon and the CIA say they’re gonna look into it for real, and that means even putting together a team that can get to a crash site faster than the Avengers which sounds like a TV series I might actually watch. And they’re also gonna check out people who’ve been getting sick when they see these flying whatevers but, for me, if I ever do see a UFO up close enough I could hit it with clean nine-iron shot, I’m gonna wear an N-95 all the way to my eyebrows unless it gets in the way of kissing my ass goodbye.

I don’t trust any of them. I mean, they already had some goddamn thing called the UAP Task Force. So these generals decided to improve that and now it’s called the A-O-I-M-S-G, or Ah-oims-guh or some shit. This girl on Tik Tok says MSG is mono-sodium glutamate which can give you a headache, which sounds right. I mean, how are these guys supposed to win wars if they can’t even name something?

I probably should smoke a bowl of Area 51 sativa to calm down but even then I think about this shit. One of my favorite things after hitting up the local dispensary is to listen to Lue, the spy dude, talk on a podcast. You know him even if you think you don’t.

He’s the one with the goatee, baseball cap and some badass tats. I guess I must be watching him on TV, too. Anyway, my buddy Zeke calls his beard a “Fravor savor” which isn’t even funny but it cracks us up. Why does Lue always say he can’t really talk and then say some crazy shit about crashes and all? That’s what I’d ask all those online gatekeepers but I don’t have enough bread to pay for their Patreon subscriptions. When I’ve got a buzz on, I think about the 47th season of Dancing with the Stars and I wonder if the spy dude can tango? Will they let him wear his hat? Deep shit like that, mainly because the actual truth is too stupid. He’s cool, though, kinda like ufology’s Batman which makes the tall guy with the tie that he used to hang out with Alfred, I guess.

I mean, Jesus H. Christ on a hotdog stick, we all know the boat’s leaking, but people still don’t seem to think it’s time to admit we’re in the middle of the greatest fucking bases loaded pressure play in human history. We think, yeah, oh shit, today will be the day when they let it all hang out, but the entire goddamn hair-on-fire cosmic fucking BOOM! of UFO disclosure never seems to get here. There’s the real Moment of Zen.

I mean, for fuck’s sake, Tic Tacs are not zipping around Navy jets to keep the skies minty fresh.

The closer some of us get to admitting the impossible, the more the rest get hypnotized into believing there’s nothing to see here. There’s some fuckwit, he calls himself a UFO activist whatever the hell that means, who every goddamn lousy year says that the shit’s coming down next year. It never fucking does but he’s playing the odds that one year he’ll finally be right. But maybe he never will and God is giving his balls a little tickle every few months with a leak here and a tease there. But I guess if somebody should have a sense of humor in this whole freakshow, God should get first crack at it. Unless he’s an alien, then just get me a private room in the James Forrestal Psychiatric Institute where Nurse Ratched is a Nordic who arrives every morning by Feuerball.

We all want the dirty truth, yeah, but we really don’t want the whole goddamn world — even if it is a piece of burning sewage most days — to fall apart more than it has already, if that’s possible. So the toe gets dipped in what passes for water and it’s cold and muddy and we run home to mama who tells us monsters aren’t real and have some hot cocoa and the next day nobody remembers a thing.

So life goes fucking on and on. Every time we move the football, the morons in charge add a few more yards to the field. No reptilian overlord did this to us. It’s goddamn humans who kept this mother-effing secret from other humans. Even if the truth is that we’re just an amoeba in a giant Petri dish, or a big nothing living a couple rungs down on the food chain, or some kind of holographic Matrix-to-the-Max simulation, I’d like to know so I can start hoarding toilet paper again with a clear conscience.

I mean, what the absolute fucking fuck is going on? Either these space sisters need to show up for real now and put an end to this bullshit because we won’t, or they and their ET bros need to get the fuck out of here and take their fleets of motherships and sport saucers with them and let us get back to our own pathetic lives, and that’s all I have to say about it.

Trail of the Saucers, published by Bryce Zabel and Stellar Productions, is usually a sober accounting of UFO/UAP news, history, culture, and analysis. To prove it, here are three of our Very Important Articles, none of which contain the “F” word —

Bryce Zabel co-hosts the popular new podcast Need to Know with Coulthart and Zabel that can be found on all major platforms.