Recently, Kyle, a longtime friend of mine purchased a 2018 BMW 3 Series Gran Turismo from BMW Cincinnati. Admittedly, the 3 Series is the most accessible BMW you can get your hands on, but it’s still a near-fifty thousand dollar investment. Eager to show off his new acquisition, he pulled in front of my house and beeped the horn, summoning me outdoors to behold its splendor. And while my internal response fell somewhere along the lines of “meh”, I feigned excitement in order to bolster his newfound sense of pride. This, of course, was a mistake.
Why? Because, now that he drives a BMW, I should no longer think of him as my friend. I mean, sure…he looks like my friend. He sounds like him, as well. But I’ve read enough works of fiction involving uncanny doppelgängers, evil clones, and alien invasions, to know that it’s not him. That’s right…with every fiber of my being I know that he’s just a pretentious BMW cultist who happens to be wearing a flesh suit, stitched from the remains of my late friend.
How can I be so sure? Well, after I’d given the car a courtesy walk-around, I looked up at him and he said, “You know what BMW stands for?” I shrugged in ignorance. He grinned. “Broke My Wallet!” then burst into uncontrollable (and completely unfathomable) laughter.
Now, everyone knows that ‘Dad Jokes’ are the calling cards of evil twins. Sure, old episodes of Star Trek want you to believe that it’s a goatee, but no…the only way of knowing for certain if someone you care about has been replaced by an evil twin is a noticeable new proclivity towards the telling of ‘Dad Jokes’.
Despite her refusal to accept that she might now be sharing her life with a camouflaged lizard creature, my friend’s widow Trina was willing to confirm his newfound sense of pun-infused wit.
“We were at the dealership and were talking about getting some dinner afterward,” she explained. “He then asked if I’d heard about the restaurant on the moon. I said, no. He then told me how the restaurant had great food, but no atmosphere.”
“The next day, I went to the hair salon. I came home and our son Evian asked me if I got a haircut. Before I could answer, Kyle said, ‘No, she got them ALL cut.”
“Then we took the Bimmer out for a spin and, as we passed by, he pointed at a cemetery and said, “You see that place? People are just dying to get in there.”
Apparently, these were just a few examples of the kind of humor he was now filling days with. Such forced attempts at humor, combined with the acquisition of a pretentious car that forces owners to submit to the rule of the hive mind, were all the proof I needed. Kyle was dead; and in his place was a reptilian invader getting from Point A to Point B in a car I’ll never be able to afford, married to a girl who turned me down back in ’04.
You might just think I’m jealous, but I’m not. I promise…you’ll understand when the lizard people come for people that you love (and use mind control to make them buy a BMW).
