by R. Vecci
I'm not sure if any of you have heard the zany, conspiracy laden truth-paste of David Icke. The middle part of this decade saw a slew of paranoia-ridden, conspiracy-implicating books that were vomited out of the aching gut of our post-911 collective psyche. This eccentric fellow from across the pond stood out from the pack, however, with some of the most far-out sludge you could ever tickle your mind silly with. While the chap's got some interesting things to say, his theories are typically discredited once he tries to convince his intended audience that many powerful people are secretly alien reptiles, including the British royal family. Why is this such an insanely moronic theory you ask? Well, why rich and powerful people? Why the royal family? Why not my co-worker, Jim?
Jim's office is right across from my desk, which makes for akward encounters at various moments throughout the day. He's got all the qualifications to be a space salamander. For one, he strolls in twenty minutes late almost every day, breathing heavily with a strange look of displacement on his face. Is he eating babies moments before? He wears his winter coat all day long at his desk because he says the air duct blows continuous cold air on him, but I think it's because he could secretly be a cold-blooded reptile. He puts his hood up and gurgles when he makes eye contact with me. His girlfriend calls a lot and I can hear them argue, which then results in him making strange hissing and popping noises. Is this some strange Martian dragon mating ritual?
Strange guy. But I still think he's pretty cool, and I like his office decor. Still, I don't think I would care that much if someone spit on his birthday cake.
