🪐 《Smooth of Ass, Full of Grace: Transmission from the Alien Rectory》 🛰️

I finished Alec Baldwin’s book and saw God weeping into a SAG-AFTRA contract made of wet felt. My ass, once a forest of ancestral shame, now glistens like the chrome belly of a reptilian ambassador. I shaved it not for vanity—but for clear satellite uplink.

Do you understand? The aliens don’t land for the hairy.

At 3:11 AM, I was woken by a dream inside a fax machine: Baldwin’s face stretched across five dimensions, screaming lines from The Hunt for Red October while lactating plasma subpoenas into a Denny’s booth.

I knew then—the reconnaissance vessel is watching.

I knelt. I oiled. I whispered every Baldwin monologue into my bidet and flushed in the four cardinal directions.

The tiles vibrated. A voice in my molars said:

“Smooth your crevice, son of Adam. The probe is selective.”

Outside, the neighbors burn VHS tapes and chant “Beetlejuice” into microwaved chalupas.

The squirrels have badges. The raccoons have lawyers. I have only my Baldwin scripture and a single peeled grape.

The Rapture is not theological—it is dermatological. Prepare your sphincter accordingly.