Poor Mr. Husband. Or, Mr. Crabbypants, as I prefer to call him lately. For some reason he has a problem with me discussing Carl Fucking Sagan at length and in great detail immediately after doing the No-No Dance. Man, it’s not my fault. He’s the one who brought up alien abduction as we were laying there cuddling.

I think I’m like a lot of people. If I’m interested in something, I will research it until I’m satisfied. Carl’s popular books are so cheap at bookstores they are just impossible to resist.

I know that Saganism is a phase that many fourteen-year-old-boys go through, and then move on from, but I was never that boy. I was reading science fiction and gaffling my mother’s Stephen King novels (gloating every time I made it past her steadily-moving bookmark). So this is like a breath of freash air for someone who has been fairly credulous her whole life.

Still, Mr. Husband is disappointed in me. This is the man who owns Fifty Years of UFO History and everything Graham Hancock ever wrote.

Last night:

Mr. Husband: “So you think that all those millions of people who say they got abducted, never did?”

Me: “Well, yeah.”

Mr. Husband: “Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Me: “Yeah, okay, but don’t you think that this sort of thing would be international news? Why would the government be trying to hide it? They’d have an excuse to bring back Star Wars.”

Mr. Husband: “I think that if enough people believe it’s true, maybe it becomes true.”

Me: “Wha? Carl says-”

Mr. Husband: “Zip! It!”

Me: “But…”

Mr. Husband: *reaches for pillow and holds it menacingly over my head*

Poor, credulous Generation Y. I think the “Y” stands for “Yeah, okay.”