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It’s unfortunate that I remember the tv show alf because something horrific happened to me one day when I was browsing the internet looking for Alf paraphanalia. I have it all, Alf chinaware, tea sets, coffee pots, doileys, even my car is shaped like Alf and struggles as it drives down the road because it’s not shaped like a car.

Anyway, I was getting ready to kill myself because I was feeling deeply suicidal at the thought that nobody remembers Alf anymore. I called the suicide hotline and told them about it, and they laughed and hung up on me. They said “If you like Alf so much, why don’t you kill yourself so you can go to the afterlife and join him.” Offensive. Trite. Rude. I put the phone down and picked up a box of Alf cereal. Now, normally you’d get some delicious prize in the Alf pops. Maybe a plastic alf airplane, or a tiny two inch Alf figurine that you could turn into a makeshift dildo and pleasure a chicken with if you live on a farm.

I got the pops, an ice cold litre of milk and a cereal bowl. I also got utensils including spoons and forks. While forks are not normally used to cut up Alf Pops, sometimes there are rats in these old cereal boxes and I needed a weapon to defend myself if this was such a case. You probably don’t believe me, and if you don’t that makes you an asshole. And if there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s plead to assholes.

I poured the cereal and milk into the bowl and got a hefty spoonful before my two front teeth broke off and flew across the room. The prize…was a VHS. Not just any VHS, no, but the VHS I had always wanted. It was the VHS of Alf. Now I know what you’re thinking, there are a lot of VHS tapes of alf. Well, a lot of people don’t know that Alf possibly wasn’t an animatronic puppet but a real man controlling the puppet. You may say that’s the same thing, but what I am suggesting is what if a real alien was controlling Alf puppet. The alf puppet. Alf puppet.

“You’ll understand…soon enough.” A voice whispered. It was a cosmic voice drifting out of my refrigerator. Probably just my neighbor, he happens to have quite a bit of Alf- suddenly I screamed. My cat, Phillipino Whatsit the 3rd was playing with the electric outlet.

I put the VHS tape on, expecting a great program. I’ve been here before, I know I’ve been here before, It’s all too familiar. It’s been thirty years, but Alf is finally making a comeback. Here, with me. The jazzy eighties intro played and it took me back to a nostalgic era back when everything was simpler. Alf was crying. He was a hairy alien, not unlike your parents that birthed you asshole. Birthed your asshole. There’s a phone ringing in my head.

“Alf, have you been going through the laundry again?” It was that father character, you know, you remember him. Don’t you? Alf smiled. “No, but I ate your wife’s pussy out last night!” The audience laughed very loudly. “What the fuck is wrong with you!” It soon became clear that Alf had been masquerading as a Spanish gardener in order to acquire free food and housing while evading the border police. “What the fuck is this!” They opened their fridge to find that several dead cats had been gutted, killed. Their throats had been slit, their eyes were bulging out and their disconnected teeth glistened. “I’ve been killing your cats and eating them!” He giggled. While Alf normally ate cats regularly on the show, it was never fully addressed that he had a serial killer method of gutting and consuming them.

“I’m getting the shotgun.” The father walked out of the room and the camera man accidentally sent the camera reeling to the left. “I have sex with the cats before I eat them!” Alf snickered and his glass eyes popped out, revealing hollow holes. The puppet was falling apart. You hear a shotgun blast as the Alf puppet skitters into the other room. “DON’T TOUCH HIM!” The father screamed. “THE ALF HUSKS ARE MULTIPLYING!” Indeed, several alf-shaped husks were producing tiny Alfs that were crawling all over the place. Alf began to bleed red jelly all over the floor as the mother and daughter screamed at the sight of this…thing that was crawling around the apartment on its knees. Alf seemed to have tiny, centipede like feet that were dragging the puppet around the floor. They were disheveled.

“FEED ME.” He squealed. “FEED ME!” This is how all diseases work. They build your trust to infilitrate your system before they multiply and kill the host. Several audience members had left and the director kept yelling cut while the Alf puppet slowly devoured the cast and cat corpses.

The scene immediately cut to the family, who were encased in a massive glutenous red jelly. The Alf voice whispered. “This is the central nervous system of the host body.” They weren’t moving, in fact. Their eyes were glassy, hollow. They were dead and the Alf stomach was slowly sucking the nutrients out of their body. I felt nauseous. “Let’s play Jeopardy!” Alf yelled while the body slowly digested them to nothing. The skeletons lay there as the outro music played. This wasn’t the Alf that I knew. It was supposed to be a family friendly program for friends and family alike to enjoy. But I’d gone too far. I’d spent my whole life collecting the Alf. I suddenly heard some party music, like the kind you’d hear in a shitty eighties lounge, and a picture of alf smiling was shown.

My cat, Markus Portwell was going through the garbage cans looking for delicious tuna when a familiar face appeared by my window. It was Alf. I don’t know how he got here. He was actually driving a van and he had delicious candy in his hand. He was eyeing my cat now, licking his lips. He strolled naked into my living room and smiled at me. “That’s a nice cat, you’ve got there, Byron.” He said. My name wasn’t Byron. “You’ve got a very nice feline there, BENJI!” He yelled. My name wasn’t Benji either. “BETTER BUTTER THAT BITCH UP BENTLEY!” He yelled. My name wasn’t Bentley and I wanted him out of my house. It now occurred to me that the front three letters of my gamestop tag on the floor had been obscured by a napkin and he was trying to guess my name to freak me out.

“Fuck shit dick ass.” He said, leering at me. I wasn’t sure what the alien was trying to communicate. “Suck my spaghetti string noodle dick.” I picked up a chair and broke it on his head, snapping his neck. The suit ripped open, revealing that there was simply a midget inside. I had killed a midget. I buried him in a ventriloquist dummy case and started to make some eggs, as it was 7 AM now and I had been watching Alf all night.

It was then that a familiar voice appeared. Alf? God? Alfgod? “No, I’m really here.” He said. “And I know that you can’t always see me, or here me, but I am always here. Watching over you, making sure you are okay. I sent my son to you earlier, I know you think it was a midget, but it was my son. And you killed him. But it’s okay. I forgive you. Listen, and I mean really listen, Breadsticks, we’ve got a problem in this world. We’ve fallen into a deep state of depression and moral decay. We’ve gone too far, I am highly offended by all of this sinning. Too many people are masturbating, and I want you to get some gardening sheers and cut all of their penises off, starting with your neighbor.”

I simply wasn’t buying it. He said that he would heal my missing teeth before sticking two chiclets in the frontal cavities and vanished. “You can’t see me.” Alf whispered. “But I will always be watching you. I will be watching you shave, shower, eat, sleep. You are the aliens, John. We populated this distant planet a long time ago in the hopes of finding a clean vessel to take back to our home world. But you are not the individual we seek to accomplish here John, James, John. Jim, no, you are the aliens.

And then…he handed me the Book of Mormon. Yes, friend, chilling as this revelation may be. Alf is a Mormon. “I’m not just Alf, I’m Joseph Smith from Kolob.” A third eye emerged from the Alf suit, which was not actually a suit, but actually an Alf. He handed me the holy undergarments, a pair of soiled underwear with “Alf” scrawled across the Haines tag. I- I didn’t know what this was supposed to be. He said he was leaving, but he was just standing outside my window, staring at me, shaking a little. “You don’t see me, right?” The audience laughed rather loudly, except that this was real life, and no studio audience was watching me.

“They’re waiting for your Sermon, Joseph.” Alf said, and winked at me.

I cleared my throat and looked out at the audience. Someone had carved out 2/3 of my breakfast nook and filled it with shitty Alf puppets. “What the hell, that nook cost thousands!” I yelled. There was no studio audience, it was just a tape recorder left behind some puppets.

I went into the back alley and heard my neighbor snickering. I picked up some gardening shears and cut his genitals off. My god…the prophecy foretold.

The Alf suit drifted up into the heavens in a bright, sparkling beam of light as its internal organs fell out like delicious fruit punch with fish guts in it. I gave the puppet a middle finger and yelled “fuck you” before the ship crashed into the side of my house and exploded into a million tiny Alf vesicles that crawled into my skin.

I could feel them crawl into my mouth as I ate my eggs. They went into my throat, into my intestines, and multiplied. They crawled up through my central nervous system, shimmied into my blood stream and danced in my Alf Alf. You may think I’m crazy, but Alf. They fused to my spine and crawled behind my eyes while they started swimming like pig worm trichinosis. They have fused to the vessels and control the host body. I picked up the Book of Mormon Alf Mormon. I had so much to show the world. My crooked centipede legs skittered across the living room as I invited some Jehova’s witnesses in. Oh, I had so much to show them…Alf fuck alf fuck. Alf.

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