Remi Treuer writes: “Why do I get the feeling that this whole Kissinger thing was just an elaborate ruse to make Oliver North a more palatable candidate for the job?”

I think if we ever discover alien life existing on the outer edges of our galaxy — and if television has taught me anything, it’s that we will — then we should seriously consider naming it Bob. That’s right. Bob. Bob’s a good name, a strong name, and it fits pretty easily on those “Hello, my name is” tags you can buy at most any local store. There’s not a bug-eyed extraterrestrial in the cosmos who wouldn’t be proud to have it, that’s for sure.

In my life, I have known many Bobs — not least of all Bob Thomerson, my freshman college roommate, who changed my life one night when he introduced me to a mixed drink he liked to call the “Flaming Drano”. Basically, it was just drain cleaner set on fire with a twist of lemon, but at the time it seemed exotic, almost magical, and if the subsequent trip to the hospital to have the entire contents of my stomach pumped was the price of that magic…well, then so be it, I thought. So be it.

I met other Bobs in college and after that, but what I’m really interested in now is meeting Bobs from other planets. I think that when our extraterrestrial brothers and sisters — and may I just say, hellooo, ladies! — finally arrive, we should have at least one or two piles of nametags ready to go. I think the aliens will appreciate the effort and they’ll be less likely to enslave the human race aboard their intergalactic mothership. And, if worst comes to worst, we can still always bargain by giving them Canada. After millions of light-years of travel, they’d probably be easily distracted by maple syrup and some flapjacks. Flapjacks, I predict, will become the new intergalactic currency of the stars.

But getting back to my original point — the imminent Bobification of weird-ass space invaders through the use of conveniently purchased nametags. Or rather, calling aliens Bob. I realize now that I pretty much exhausted everything I had to say about this in my first paragraph, and that I’ve really just been rambling since then, for which I blame both the stupidity of my original topic and that second Flaming Drano, which I should have known better than to drink and which has shot my short-term memory straight to hell ever since.

Did somebody mention flapjacks?

Speaking of which — and this is a terrible segue, I know, but beggars can’t be choosers — my fourth “Trousers Talk” column (1, 2, and 3), this time on the subject of sandwiches:

Want to know something? I like sandwiches. Not just any sandwich, of course — I hate tuna fish with a fiery passion, for instance, and pimento loaf, while quite tasty, gives me a rash — but overall, I think the basic idea of sandwiches is pretty keen. You’ve got a piece of bread, something on top of that, and then another piece of bread rounding out the mix. It’s a simple, can’t-miss concept, like over-the-counter drugs, under-the-counter pornography, or the steam-powered orangutan.

Sandwiches are really something. They’re the meal by which all others should be judged and found wanting. A bowl of soup? I don’t think so. A garden salad? Please, don’t make me laugh. Sandwiches are where it’s at. If used properly, there’s nothing they can’t do. They can help build a bridge to a brighter, less hungry tomorrow, a social utopia where bread, succulent meats and cheeses, and the occasional dab of Dijon mustard or mayonnaise collide in a kaleidoscope of flavor.

I like to keep at least three sandwiches nearby me at all times, perhaps wrapped in wax paper and stuffed down the front of my pajamas, or perhaps tucked inside a knapsack slung over my shoulder as I whistle a merry tune. I like whistling merry tunes. That doesn’t make me any less of a man, no matter what they might say about me behind my back at the office.

I like sandwiches, and that’s all there is to it. There’s nothing strange or sexual about it, and I certainly don’t need to see any company psychiatrist, thank you very much. I’m as sane as the next fellow — and even if that next fellow is the company janitor, Melvin, who once removed the metal plate from his own skull with a rusty lug wrench just to show the invisible elves that he could do it, that doesn’t change the fact that sandwiches are really swell. If anything, I think it proves the exact opposite, since Melvin was never too fond of sandwiches to begin with, and his doctors have kept him off solid foods since the lug wrench incident. Elves, too, are notorious for their bad advice. I think, if anything, we should focus more of our attention on this wondrous food called sandwiches, and I don’t think I should be penalized for discussing the intense pleasure I derive from them on company time.

But that is exactly what’s happened. I was recently asked to take a few weeks of “personal time”, to “clear my head”, or they would “call security”. But don’t think I’ve let it get me down, no sir. I’ve used this time off as an opportunity to research sandwiches and all their miraculous properties. I hope I can demonstrate that my love for them is not unfounded, and that I am at least as sane as Melvin and his invisible elves.

Did you know that sandwiches were named for John Montague, the Fourth Earl of Sandwich? I’ve been told that’s someplace in England. The story goes that he was a gambler who never liked to leave the table, so he ordered that meats and cheese served between slices of bread be brought to him. That way, he could eat with one hand and play cards with the other. What he did with his feet, history does not tell us. Isn’t that always the way?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a sandwich to make. Research like this is hungry work.