The robotic alien wakes up on earth in the not too distant past and falls in love with pop culture garbage after toking up with some local hoodrat. It is having such a good time, high as shit, with a Crunchwrap Supreme in one tentacle and a jumbo cup of Surge in the other, that it never wants to go back to where it came from. But all this mass culture intake is starting to jumble its brain circuits. Nevertheless, it manages to stagger from party to party, flip from channel to channel, and as the strange dubby bass and hip hop beats penetrate into its outer casing, the bolts start to loosen and it clangs and tumbles apart. Lost in blissful video game scenes, cut up and anachronistic, it dies smiling wide, extremely disoriented in a pile of White Castle boxes, with iridescent shades shielding the bleating sun from its alien sensory receptors. Only 500 copies pressed, so grip this enchanting alien soon before the CIA tries to cover up the mess.
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