But I'm a CREEP, I'm a weirdo

Because it fills our hearts with lurve, it's another edition of "Fuck You, Alien," based on the Nobel Prize-winning FU, Penguin.

You know how when you leave a potato sitting on your kitchen counter too long, things start to grow out of it? I’m getting that vibe from Mr. Creeping Terror here. First off, which fucking end of you am I addressing, the front or the back? Because it’s really hard to tell with the way you’re, um, designed. You look like someone took a Horta rug monster and slapped a big piece of celeriac* on it.

And I’m guessing from your size it’s probably best to keep you away from booze. You look like the shambling, shuffling type - and that’s when you’re completely sober. Am I right? If you got good and liquored up you’d probably be wrecking laundry hangings, hootenannies, and community dance halls from now until the cows come home. (Which begs the question, WHAT the fuck are those cows DOING? But that’s for another time.)

So just creep on out of here, Mr. Terror. Keep your mitts/tentacles/cephalopodal arms/whatever to yourself. Don't swallow any people, or let people jump into your mouth, and there won’t be no trouble.

* Google it, I’ll wait…SEE, I told you!


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