The Wasatch Behind: Why aliens don't contact us
Since the 1940's there have been thousands of UFO sightings around the world. Hundreds of people claim to have seen little green men from outer space and dozens more claim they've been abducted.
I never laugh. I've seen alien beings on the streets of Moab, Salt Lake, and Park City, so I know ET is out there. The question is, why are they here, what are they doing, and why don't they contact us directly? Uncle Spud has given this a lot of thought, and here is a quick synopsis of his theory.
Somewhere on a mountaintop in the land of fruits and nuts - that's California for those of you who haven't been there yet - there is a whole bunch of satellite dishes aimed at outer space. We are listening to hear any hint of radio traffic from another planet. So far, so good. We haven't intercepted any ET signals, yet.
But think about it. Since before the 1920's we've been broadcasting radio signals into the sky, and TV has been scattering beams into the cosmos since the late 1940's. Those electronic impulses go forever into interstellar space. Somewhere out there, endless reruns of Mash and I Love Lucy are polluting the airwaves of distant galaxies. Surely, little green men are listening to our radio chatter and watching The Simpsons on alien cosmo-plasma TVs. They have certainly tracked the radio beams back to good old mother earth, so they know where we are. They know who we are, too, because we've told them. All they had to do is tune in. From monitoring our radio and TV signals they know that the most important things in our lives are Mighty Putty and Maxi Pads, and we have a strange disease called E.D. that can only be medicated when the moment is right.
Imagine that first little ET scientist to pick up our radio signals. I see him in his white smock and thick glasses, breathlessly telephoning his supervisor to tell about finding radio waves from a little blue planet deep in the wilderness of intergalactic space. With great interest the alien scientists pour over those early radio messages, a tangled network of Morse code dots and dashes. Could it be the emergency locator beacon from a downed spaceship? But then, just a galactic nano-moment later comes a voice on the airwaves: "Can you hear me now? Ã¯Â¿Â½Hello Mr. Marconi, can you hear me now?" And soon thereafter come full episodes of Amos n' Andy, Fibber McGee and Molly, and The Grand Ole Oprey. The aliens dispatch spaceships to see what all the commotion is about. Surely someone is in distress.
The alien first responders arrive in just a light year or two. Unfortunately, the first spaceship to reach earth crashes near Roswell, N.M. when its guidance system is jammed by radio signals from Gene Gelesnick's Polka Hour on KPUT radio out of Tulsa, Okla. The other spaceships switch to FM. The aliens have orders not to make contact with the lesser life forms here on earth, but only to observe and report back.
The ETs have been here since 1948. They observe and take notes. They have a big space station somewhere under the arctic ice pack. Heat from their stardust-powered generators is warming the arctic waters, melting glaciers, drowning polar bears, and raising ocean levels worldwide. Vapors from their stardust-powered spaceships are warming the atmosphere. They've cut a big hole in the ozone layer so they can better call home, and they dump their intergalactic septic tanks over BLM wilderness areas where the solids become cryptobiotic soils.
It's a tough job being an alien earth-observer. The little green men put in long hours. They observe, record, and try to be tolerant and non-judgmental. When they take a day off, or when they get bored, they make crop circles, mutilate cattle, or kidnap a weirdo or two. Sometimes they fly past commercial airliners and wave, or zoom over Mexico City and flash their lights.
Why don't the aliens land on the White House lawn and introduce themselves? We don't know for sure, but we can always guess. A few years ago someone put a sign in the lower bathhouse at the Plateau Mine that said: "Don't be nice to the bathhouse man. He will follow you home."
Maybe it's something like that.