The dig into the affairs of the third planet is productive. The inhabitants called this orb Earth. They are obsessed with writing. Writing is god and a person named Evil Editor headed their cult. They worshipped fables and fantasies and practiced co-authorship between beginnings and endings.
The last entry asked the "age-old" blue-collar question we found last week. You will remember it as: "You Can't Fix Stupid." It seems that a guest at a holiday dinner decided to be helpful when a water main broke. Yes, dear Grggyx, plinik of my eyes, they deliver water through pipes to hovels called houses, eat scorched animal meat and boiled plants. Disgusting, isn't it? Anyway, this guest tied the washing machine drainage hose to faucets above the laundry tub. We don't why or what this is but it was done to mitigate the loss of water. She never told Granny hostess about it. Subsequently, when Granny washed linens (Possibly the woven fiber of a flax bush made for wearing with cashmere sweaters), not knowing the hose was out-of-place, the water spilled all over the floor; an action born of mis-underestimatings and miscommunications, a boo-boo.
We think her name is Goofy-Ass-Dipshit but some of us think Goofy-Ass-Dipshit is pejorative. Some believe it an endearment. Only future translations will tell. Half the translating team is believes "hasn't the brains God gave a turnip" isn't endearing. This isn't the Elle effect I told you about in last week's message. McPherson's cultists hold that bimbos have brains beyond pink undies, boobs and Chihuahuas. As the Earth philosophers say "from clods to clods in 3-generations."
And so dear Grggyx, love-child of my mid-penile-lump, I return to a computer chip from space. We hope to restore a world now dead a million years old and thousands of light-years distant.
All my klorpnak,