First of all, thanks in advance for the sex, honey. I'm sure you appreciate me agreeing to see a marriage counselor with you. I only went to one session, and had to leave 20 minutes in to check on a very important pizza order, but I think you'd agree that all of our problems are gone now. After all, me not pulling out my phone during the session shows a level of growth I think you'd say was impressive if I ever wanted to ask you.

Now that our union is perfect once again, it's only fair that you repay the favor. Honey, I would like to take you on a freight train to Pound Town with ALF himself as the mad engineer. It's something I definitely would have brought up with our counselor if I didn't have to make sure those idiots at Domino's gave me the thin crust I asked for this time. Based on the look on your face, you're more than familiar with my ALF-based fantasies. "Now isn't the time," you'd say, or, "We're having dinner with my family." Well, this time your aunt isn't around to say, "Did your husband just say something about his crank being turned?" And not just because she's dead.

Now, I have no desire to have sex with ALF himself. For one, ALF and his kind reproduce by budding, and his sole cloaca is for waste only. Believe me, I asked the creator and even though I interrupted him at dinner, he answered every question and even asked me for money. Plus, I believe ALF is a pure, holy creature, one not chained to the base sexual desires of our lowly species. Honey, what I'm proposing is much simpler, and even wholesome in a way: we simply imagine a hypothetical situation where our lovemaking somehow saves ALF from being taken in by the authorities.

Now, I've thought a lot about this. You know all of those "business meetings" that have kept me at work all hours of the night? Well they were lies--lies to save our marriage. For weeks I have been sketching diagrams, mapping out the logistics, and commissioning a custom, life-size ALF mannequin from our friends in the Etsy community--and don't worry, you won't have to touch it. No, nothing weird like that. I'll just prop him up in the closet where he'll stand watch with those eerily realistic eyes of his. It's like ALF is right here in the room with us during one of our most intimate moments!

You're probably wondering what could be more exciting than ALF presiding over our sexual congress. Well, I'm happy to tell you it gets even better when I call the cops. I've rehearsed the script down to the letter, and what I'll tell them is that a woman roughly 5'5" and with auburn hair is on drugs and holding an entire family hostage with a series of increasingly sharp knives. That's when the roleplay begins. Given that the nearest police station is roughly 12 minutes away, we have that much time to make the most passionate love of our lives. In those fleeting moments, I will be Willie Tanner, the begrudging patriarch who took in NBC's beloved ALF, and you will be his wife... I think her name was Beth. And our goal will be to convince the encroaching authorities that an eyewitness actually saw a middle-aged couple rekindling their love for each other and not a comical alien stumbling around comically in search of a cat.

This situation may seem dangerous, but I think you'll agree that the added threat only makes it hotter. And in all of the various outcomes I've determined, none of them end up with me dying. I'll finish in about seven minutes, which will leave us five minutes to clean up, clear our heads, and send you in front of the big window in the living room, where you'll wave your hands frantically until the police realize you're harmless. While you're explaining the big misunderstanding, I'll have pulled the ALF facsimile into bed to spoon with him--purely to keep your side of the bed warm, of course. And if anything were to happen, I'll keep ALF in that bed forever as a tribute to you. Be a real shame.

– ALF Husband

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