Have you heard the one about the four old broads that crash land on a desolate ice planet, only to discover that the inhabitants can turn them back into spring chickens?
It’s true. My best friend has been hooking up with a big purple alien and you can’t argue with the results. After three nights with her new boyfriend, she looks fifty instead of eighty-five. And she’s getting younger every day. Now another alien is offering me the same option. Even though Squoot is the shortest guy in the tribe, at six foot, he still towers over my four-foot-ten. And if double thumbs and giant antlers are your bag, he’s a cutie-patootie. I’m on board with getting younger, but he insists that Harmonance, the mystical force that rules this planet, has chosen me to be his mate. According to Squoot, guys here on Planet Oog live to make their women happy, but after thirty years in the Marines and another twenty running my local USO, I know this for certain: men only want three things from women: sex, babies and someone to clean up after them. But the joke’s on him, because he can count me out of that deal.