Central, PA—It seems my region of Pennsyltucky has been invaded by aliens.  Not men from Mars, not arsenic-thriving Mono Lake Monsters, not illegal aliens from Mexico.  These are the most nefarious invaders of em’ all, Southern Gas Workers.

The heart of Pennsylvania is, apparently, rich with gas deposits—not the Pokey McDooris variety, the more harnassable kind (sorry).  At first, all was well as people in my rural-type community were getting paid close to a thousand dollars an acre just to sign away the gas rights to their land.  Of course, if anyone struck gas a percentage of profits would be earned as well.  This added a short term boom to the local economy, which I personally capitalized on by downing plenty of gas co. funded beer.

“I hear tell you got your gas check, farmer Fred.  How about buying another round there, Sparky?” 

You see, most large land lots around here typically have a 300 dollar hunting cabin or trailer parked on them, which you can’t see from the road through their auto graveyards, of course, but they’re there all right, theoretically.  But now local farmers and families with land were carrying around wads of cash for the first time since the first Yuengling deposits were discovered in the Appalachians.  Just imagine people with names like Sheepy, Beef, and Scooper walking around with rolls of Benjamins.  It certainly helped out the local jerky and beer entrepreneurs.

Small groups of men then started coming into the area to set up testing devices to apparently check where underground gas deposits were located (the readings on Pokey’s ass were off the chart).  I actually believe this whole thing is a farce.  Most of these guys are Texans here to scout out our women.  They must have somehow discovered our secret.  You see, most of the women around here are pretty good looking, approachable, and many are about as complicated as bubble gum machines, although mine usually ends up rolling around the floor a lot.  The gum balls…what did you think I was talking about?  Find another metaphor, Winslow, I’m a busy man. 

Then the drilling started on every front.  We’re back to gas again, geesh, perverts.  Workers showed up by the hundreds, digging gas lines, destroying roads, polluting water, driving up rental rates to the point normal people can no longer afford apartments, and most importantly they were drilling, yep—wait for it—our women folk.

Now when I say that some women around here are kinda…well, there’s two types, over easy and hard boiled.  So, to a 6’2″ good looking, skinny, hard labor muscular, smooth talking, money to blow, southern accented, gas worker type, it’s like shooting dish in a—I could use another one of them metaphors, Winslow.  Thanks. 

Unfortunately I’m a short, middle-aged, beer-bellied, over-hyphen-using, balding-fella without the burden of anything resembling political correctness, which is why we can have this frank discussion today.  AKA, I’m only a little bit better looking than the average Discordian. Oh, and easy, to me, means shelling out cash by the pint, and then picking up the room tab over at the Super 8. 

These southern aliens are harvesting our women by the droves, and pitching woo with them at every bar, motel, and traveling camper around.  They’re taking them to fancy Hotels to do their adulterous coitusessness.  Even with their stocked wallets, Beef and Sheepy don’t stand a chance.  Dave Atsals and his Operation Motel 8 plan can forget it.

These aliens are alone, and lonely even though many left their wives and kids to move to these rural “boom” towns.  Booms happen here now when someone F’s up.  These are decidedly worse than the Pokey McDooris variety.  Wife and kids at home apparently do not bother their local single women expedi-tit-ions.  That’s a pun; they happen. Damn a semi colon now too.  I better wrap this up.  Bottom line, we normal fellas, even ones with extreme wit and e-zine-blogging prowess, are shit out of luck. 

But I have a plan—a sneak attack of sorts.  It involves a one way bus ticket to Texas.  I hear the women there are lonely and their husbands are sending them lots of money home.  See you at the Motel 8.  We’ll leave the light on for ya.