was a greasy looking thirty-something who stood in front of a map of New England clothed in the standard neon orange suit that only weathermen and porn stars dared to wear in public.
“Well Ken, I just have two words for you. Brrrr and more brrrr. It’s so cold I found a polar bear going through my trash this evening and it doesn’t look like this front is going away any time soon. We’re looking at temperatures that are well below seasonal until Friday at the earliest…”
Paroophoron did his best to tune out this inane chatter. Like all aliens, there was almost nothing he hated more than watching the news on Earth. Having a person yammer at you for several minutes about the temperature is frowned upon in most advanced societies throughout the universe. In fact, doing away with weathermen is actually listed by the high council of Framacon VIII as one of the forty-six prerequisites that a civilization must meet before it is granted permission to engage in intergalactic travel.
As Paroophoron’s eyes drifted away from the television set, they came to gaze upon another large, metallic object sitting in the far corner of the room. From his point of view, it was an improvement upon the TV for two important reasons. First, it depicted no weathermen whatsoever. In fact, Paroophoron had the distinct impression that, had he asked it, the machine wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what a weatherman was. The second and perhaps more relevant point was elegantly conveyed by the friendly letters adorning the top of the large silver box: ATM.
Paroophoron glanced over at Eric to make sure that he had not been seen. Although presumably alive, Eric showed no overt signs of this fact, much like Al Gore. Paroophoron crept towards the bank machine, ducking behind a row of chairs while he fished for his credit card in one of the voluminous pockets of his trench coat. When he arrived at the ATM console, he carefully slipped the card into the open slot. The machine thought for a moment and then beeped. Paroophoron’s eyes scanned the room ensuring that the noise had not drawn unwanted attention. Satisfied that Eric was still wholly incapacitated, he turned back to the ATM and waited for the money to come out….Nothing.
He waited again.
Not a single bill emerged. Abandoning caution, he gave the ATM a slightly impatient kick. No money was forthcoming. He was about to kick it a bit harder when he saw the message displayed on a screen that he hadn’t noticed before.
Please enter your 4 digit personal identification number
Paroophoron’s eyes narrowed. In all of his 100 million years, he had never even heard the term ‘personal identification number’. His wife took care of the banking. He thought for a moment.
“What number could she have picked? It could be anything…absolutely anything.” Despair began to set in. After wracking his brain for several minutes without coming up with anything, Paroophoron just decided to take a shot. Scanning the keypad, he decided on the first number: 1. Then, he chose a second: 1. Feeling that he was on a roll, he selected a third number: 1. And finally, without thinking twice: 1. He stared at the screen.
****
Press OK to continue
Having made peace with his guess, Paroophoron pushed “OK”. The ATM again thought for a moment and then beeped.
Thank you EPOOPHORON please select a transaction
Finally, one piece of luck in this night from hell, Paroophoron thought smiling to himself. Still, just how the little alien had been able to guess Epoophoron's ridiculous password was somewhat of a mystery to him. He had done nothing more than select the numbers that he would have chosen for himself and he had been remarkably lucky. Or so it would seem. In reality, it is a cosmic oddity that all non-Earth dwellers, no matter where they are from, always choose the numbers 1111 as their bank codes. They all feel a bit silly about it at the
“Well Ken, I just have two words for you. Brrrr and more brrrr. It’s so cold I found a polar bear going through my trash this evening and it doesn’t look like this front is going away any time soon. We’re looking at temperatures that are well below seasonal until Friday at the earliest…”
Paroophoron did his best to tune out this inane chatter. Like all aliens, there was almost nothing he hated more than watching the news on Earth. Having a person yammer at you for several minutes about the temperature is frowned upon in most advanced societies throughout the universe. In fact, doing away with weathermen is actually listed by the high council of Framacon VIII as one of the forty-six prerequisites that a civilization must meet before it is granted permission to engage in intergalactic travel.
As Paroophoron’s eyes drifted away from the television set, they came to gaze upon another large, metallic object sitting in the far corner of the room. From his point of view, it was an improvement upon the TV for two important reasons. First, it depicted no weathermen whatsoever. In fact, Paroophoron had the distinct impression that, had he asked it, the machine wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what a weatherman was. The second and perhaps more relevant point was elegantly conveyed by the friendly letters adorning the top of the large silver box: ATM.
Paroophoron glanced over at Eric to make sure that he had not been seen. Although presumably alive, Eric showed no overt signs of this fact, much like Al Gore. Paroophoron crept towards the bank machine, ducking behind a row of chairs while he fished for his credit card in one of the voluminous pockets of his trench coat. When he arrived at the ATM console, he carefully slipped the card into the open slot. The machine thought for a moment and then beeped. Paroophoron’s eyes scanned the room ensuring that the noise had not drawn unwanted attention. Satisfied that Eric was still wholly incapacitated, he turned back to the ATM and waited for the money to come out….Nothing.
He waited again.
Not a single bill emerged. Abandoning caution, he gave the ATM a slightly impatient kick. No money was forthcoming. He was about to kick it a bit harder when he saw the message displayed on a screen that he hadn’t noticed before.
Please enter your 4 digit personal identification number
Paroophoron’s eyes narrowed. In all of his 100 million years, he had never even heard the term ‘personal identification number’. His wife took care of the banking. He thought for a moment.
“What number could she have picked? It could be anything…absolutely anything.” Despair began to set in. After wracking his brain for several minutes without coming up with anything, Paroophoron just decided to take a shot. Scanning the keypad, he decided on the first number: 1. Then, he chose a second: 1. Feeling that he was on a roll, he selected a third number: 1. And finally, without thinking twice: 1. He stared at the screen.
****
Press OK to continue
Having made peace with his guess, Paroophoron pushed “OK”. The ATM again thought for a moment and then beeped.
Thank you EPOOPHORON please select a transaction
Finally, one piece of luck in this night from hell, Paroophoron thought smiling to himself. Still, just how the little alien had been able to guess Epoophoron's ridiculous password was somewhat of a mystery to him. He had done nothing more than select the numbers that he would have chosen for himself and he had been remarkably lucky. Or so it would seem. In reality, it is a cosmic oddity that all non-Earth dwellers, no matter where they are from, always choose the numbers 1111 as their bank codes. They all feel a bit silly about it at the
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