Mount Rushdeath

It was beautiful, and the insects appeared to play us our song, the trees seemed to bow, the rocks, even, to rise at our approach.

I took a picture of our Honeymoon in paradise, little suspecting the horror that awaited.

Behold, the breathtaking Yosemite valley:



One comes to the top of Glacier Point by a narrow, twisting, treacherous road. But the view is spectacular. The tears of awe could fill oceans.

If only they'd known.

I submit to you the pea in our mattress, the new clothes of our emperor, the bear of our Honeymoon:



Like an ancient-day Mt. Rushmore, the Alien has already left his mark on our pristine landscape. Notice the beady eyes and block-a-chock teeth.

This queen in stone must be obliterated.

But reader, the horror does not end here. Submitted further - the foil to my simple paranoia, the mac of alien cheese, the toe-curl to the Rushdeath orgasm:



"What the fuck are you?", it seems to growl. Mirror lake reflects only the white-hot body of a scorpion and the echoing laughs of special operation soldiers. Half Dome itself has sacrificed its face to not have to view the unholy visage of our overlords.

I learned an interesting fact while visiting the museums around the Yosemite Valley. Yosemite means "sometimes they kill."

Mostly they come at night. Mostly.