The Shitbird was on a roll tonight.
"Listen, right now they're out there, crawling over your daughters, impregnating them with their dirty sperm." He laughed low and weird. "Oh yeah, your own daughters. Where are they tonight? Out with their friends, you believe that? No wonder you're sitting at home wide awake in the middle of the night. You're unemployed."
The canned music rose up, some kind of dingbat waltz, military drums, rousing violins. Cheap filler music. The Call of the Shitbird.
Commercials: Buy land in the desert, only $1,000 an acre, miles from anywhere (and electricity). No money down. Herbal supplement stops the urge to smoke or fart. Heat your home with common garbage, free kit explains everything. Make hundreds on the Internet, start today, $19.95 shipping and handling.
The music again, and the Shitbird's cough.
"Big show tonight, big big show tonight. Tonight's the turning point. You need to get off your rear end and STOP THIS INVASION. Government won't do it. Government's IN ON IT. You want to stop it, you stop it by your own hands, using your precious freedoms as set --"
Gurgling, more coughing, sound of skull crashing on the console.
The Shitbird was right. You could even hear those space monsters spitting out his teeth.