If an extraterrestrial mind control parasite
fell from the sky to Netflix and chill with you, what would you do? These three friends thought stranding themselves
out in the boonies would make for the ideal girls’ weekend, but they didn’t count
on an interplanetary party crasher sliding into their DMs. Now they’re stuck catering to a needy lump
of rancid flesh with telepathic pickup lines, and that’s not the worst of it. Turns out this thing’s got big plans for
their fertile young bodies, plans that put the entire human race in jeopardy. I’m going to break down the mistakes made,
what you should do, and how to beat the Body Invader in THE SEED. After Ubering out to the Mojave desert, long-time
besties Heather, Deirdre, and Charlotte arrive at Heather’s family vacation home to spend
the weekend killing brain cells and staring up at the sky. Call it whatever you want, D. We all know the real reason you’re here
is because none of your Instafamous ilk can stand being around you long enough to invite
you to any of their middle-of-nowhere mansion parties. Seriously, though, this place has Project
X written all over it, and not one of you could find anyone else willing to tag along? Must be a “birds-of-a-feather” type situation
going on here. Speaking of which, let’s meet our three
contestants, shall we? Kicking things off, we have yoga instructor
and human doormat, Heather. Ugh. Her dad owns this place, but in case you forget
she’ll bring it up anytime someone sneezes too hard or a space armadillo lands in the
swimming pool. As we’ll find out, she does really well
in a crisis, just as long as it doesn’t involve being assertive or making decisions
of any kind. We’ll give her a starting survival assessment
of “paralyzed chipmunk.” Next on the chopping blo… I mean list is the insufferable influencer,
Deirdre. Yeah, and would you believe it if I said she
was launching her own makeup line? She’s pretty much co-opted this entire experience
to use as fodder for her social media presence, and there’s not a single person on earth
that’s gonna stop her. Here’s hoping all that extra backbone serves
her well when the puppy dog eyes come out. We’ll start her off at “blind raccoon.” Finally, we have the unplugged pet store wagie
Charlotte: Then get off my channel, luddite! Anyway, her total lack of social media pretty
much makes her the anti-Deirdre, but don’t let that fool you into thinking she’ll be
the voice of reason on this voyage. No, she’s got a bleeding heart that’d
make PETA blush, and here in about five minutes it’s practically gonna burst out the front
of her chest like Alien. We’ll call her “mortified penguin.” And, that’s the line up. Which of these winners do you think will ultimately
make it out alive? Let me know in the comments. The girls get settled in ahead of tonight’s
festivities. Apparently, they’re in the perfect position
to watch the greatest meteor shower since Chicxulub. Eventually, night time rolls around and the
light show clacks off, but right away things take a turn for the worse; the wifi went down. Now how are we supposed to share grainy, out-of-focused
pictures of the night’s sky with thirsty dudes online? Plus it turns out the cell service cut out
too. Good thing we didn’t leave ourselves totally
dependent on summoning a ride from many miles away. Oh, wait, that’s exactly what we did. Whoopsie. Whatever, I’m sure it’ll all straighten
itself out eventually. Time to knock back some margaritas and reminisce
about the good old days, ya know, back when Heather was totally spineless, Deirdre was
really mean, and Charlotte was overly sensitive. At some point the conversation devolves into
a “this is how the world works” speech by the person who spends all day taking pictures
of herself. However, just as she’s getting to the moral
of the story, the cosmos takes a shit in her pool. Wow, that was a close one. A few feet towards the house and Deirdre’s
next post would’ve been in the obituaries. What the hell is this thing anyway? I’m no geologist, but I’m pretty sure
meteorites don’t float. And why is it leaking? Naturally, Heather’s more concerned with
her dad’s reaction to the mystery goop spilling out into the pool than the fact her friend
nearly wound up on a LiveLeak video, ya know, cause obviously it’s their fault mother
nature picked here and now to hack up an oyster. Using the pool skimmer net, the girls fish
the strange blob out of the water and plop it down on a towel to protect the hardwood. Yeah, might want to grab something more substantial
to put it in like a plastic tub or a garbage can. Also, for the love of god, PPE! We have absolutely no idea what this thing
is, so there’s no telling what could happen if some of that squid ink squirts into your
eyes. Oh, or we could just huddle around it with
our mouths open, and make wild assumptions about what it might be. Actually, never mind, you guys. It sounds like Deirdre might have cracked
this one wide open. Ever hear of Boeing bombs? Some meteorshower this turned out to be. However, using her keen powers of observation,
Eliza Thornberry discovers a face right where the space peanut should be. Apparently, we’re looking at some kind of
chicken fried armadillo… that fell from the sky. Hey, someone might wanna check my math on
this one, but I think that makes it an alien. I mean, how else could you explain this thing
hurtling through the atmosphere? Besides, it doesn’t look like any armadillo
I’ve ever seen. Yes, of course, and the resulting progeny
was so malformed and grotesque, papa bear set it on fire and drop kicked it into the
stratosphere. Jesus, you’re supposed to be the smart one. Well, regardless of whether it’s ET’s
pet rat or a distant cousin of Man-bear-pig, this thing has biohazard written all over
it. We should probably stay as far away from it
as possible until we can get Mike Rowe to come haul it off to Tyson Foods. That said, since we’re already hovering
over the potentially disease ridden carcass, might as well snap a quick photo so we can
look back on this moment and laugh when its species takes over the planet. Huh, that’s weird. Looks like now our phones aren’t working
at all. I wonder if it has anything to do with our
new best friend. Oh, well, might as well go back to slamming
down shots of tequila instead of working out how to inform the rest of society about what
may be the single greatest discovery in human history. NBD. The next morning, the girls wake to find the
comms situation hasn’t improved, and without even a landline they could use to call for
help, they’re basically completely hosed if something goes terribly wrong. The good news is, Deirdre was able to get
one final live stream out before losing service, so about 800 of her followers know who she’s
with and roughly where they are. At least this way, the cops will eventually
be able to piece together their location if a missing person report gets filed. Of course, by then, they could very well be
feeding buzzards out in the sagebrush, especially since there’s no telling how many of those
800 thirst lords own a windowless van. I think the best option right now would be
to load up on water and sunscreen and hoof it back the way we came until we either find
cell service or someone to give us a ride back to town. Besides, we should probably get someone to
address the rotten space junk stinking up the backyard. Speaking of which, it seems our little bundle
of joy has disappeared. Oh, and look there’s some drag marks leading
off into the backyard. Awesome. Yeah, it’s time to leave. Anything that falls from outer space and doesn’t
die can’t be trusted. Besides, with a slug trail like that, we could
be dealing with a full blown Slither invasion if one of us gets got. Oh, nevermind. Deirdre found an ancient war stick we can
use to stave off the Flood infection forms. What? No, the safe side would be using all the remaining
liquor at our disposal to burn the entire estate to ashes and never coming back. There is absolutely no reason to go looking
for this thing, especially if there’s any chance of it still being alive. Whatever. Knock yourselves out. Maybe even split up while you’re at it. Following a brief search, the girls find the
newly unraveled armadillo monster face down in the grass, but just as they’re about
to issue a few safety smacks, a surprise visit from one of the locals scares them half to
death. It seems our luck might be changing. This acne-ridden mouth breather, Brett, is
here to do the landscaping, and judging by the fact that he’s here and not a sun bleached
skeleton on the side of the road, he must have some kind of transportation. Yes, finally, one of you grows a brain. Let’s just hope he drives something with
more than one seat. Otherwise, we might have to nominate someone
to bring back a ride for the rest of us. Oh, my god, forget about the thing. You realize, even if it’s gone you’re
still stranded out here without cell phone service. Priority number one is getting back to civilization. Once we get that sorted out we can send someone
out whose job it is to do that job. Besides, the meteor shower is already over. I’m sure there are plenty of trust fund
babies back in LA that’ll let you hold your trashy freaking photoshoot beside their pool. No sense hanging around this dump waiting
to get rained on by more space vermin. Playing to their strengths, the group sends
Heather to timidly approach the young man and ask him for his help removing the gremlin
from the backyard, but they didn’t count on him being such a shrewd negotiator. The way he sees it, critter gitter doesn’t
fall under his job description. Yeah, it’s called the U.S. Department of
Fish and Wildlife. For real though, this is entirely unnecessary. Brett’s phone somehow seems to be working
just fine. How about instead of haggling with him to
do something he couldn’t care less about, we ask him to lend us his phone for a five
minute call to fish and game and have this mess sorted out at the taxpayers’ expense? Plied with cash and the promise of a link
to the upcoming photoshoot, Brett goes to check out the mystery meat, which he immediately
realizes is no armadillo, ya know, cause he has at least one working eyeball. Naturally, he sees this development as grounds
to renege. Yeah, probably a smart move. Photos of scantily clad women aren’t exactly
difficult to come by these days, and it’s gonna cost a lot more than $150 to buy yourself
a new body when the Blob over here starts eating you alive from the inside. However, before he can walk out on the deal
completely, it turns out there actually is something they can offer him that’s apparently
worth the risk of contracting an alien supervirus. Way to take one for the team, there Charlotte. Although, I gotta say, for his role in this
operation, that still seems a little light. Kinda makes you wonder if he didn’t already
run this racket on any of the other luxury mansions in the area. I mean, that’d be quite a grift for the
industrious teenager: chucking extra crispy critters into swimming pools and then extorting
the owners for their removal. Having received his payment, Sideshow Bob
grabs a tarp and a shovel and goes to hold up his end of the bargain, only it proves
a bit more difficult than he might have initially realized. Come on, dude, put your back into it. This thing’s the size of a cabbage patch
kid. How heavy could it possibly be? Good thing Charlotte’s not around to see
you struggling to move this thing. I think you really have a shot with her. How about instead of taking this thing all
in one go you put that keen business intellect to good use and hack it apart with the shovel. I mean, it’s already dead, right? Oh, crap, or not. Can’t say I blame pizza face for hauling
butt out of there. No amount of kisses is worth sticking around
to figure out what got that thing kicked out of the Muppets. Kid’s have good instincts. We’ll give him a survival rating of “rapid
goat.” Now, as you could probably imagine, seeing
the guy you just paid to drag off what you think is an armadillo sprinting away like
the place is on fire is probably a good sign something went horribly wrong. Maybe instead of standing there watching him
slowly disappear in the distance, you should try and go after him to figure out what’s
got him so worked up, ya know, in case mama flying toad bear just swooped in to collect
her missing child. Throwing caution to the wind, the girls round
the corner to find the R.O.U.S. writhing around in the hot SoCal sun. Ugh, what a looker. I can already hear Charlotte taking this thing’s
side like it isn’t homelier than a mud fence. She’ll probably be blowing raspberries on
this its stomach by sundown. Anyway a debate then ensues between Charlotte,
who wants to enroll it in preschool and Deirdre, who knows that sometimes dead is better. Naturally, Heather abstains because of course
she does. Besides, her primary concern is still her
dad taking her allowance when he finds out they had an alien crash land in the backyard. He’s not mad; he just wishes you used better
judgment. Yeah, gotta go with Regina George on this
one. The spud must die. It sickens me. You’re goddamn right I want to kill it. The question is how? For all we know, flying rat bears are protected
under the Migratory Birds Act, so if we’re gonna bash its face in with a war club we’d
better be prepared to bury it in case the feds come knocking, and poison, as Deirdre
suggests, is right out. I’m not staying close to that thing long
enough for it to breathe deep from the bag of visions, nor am I gonna massage a bottle
of sleeping pills down its throat. Nah, I think the best option is to just LEAVE
IT THE HELL ALONE and let the Mojave do its thing. After all, we still have to figure out how
we’re getting out of here. Eventually, a compromise is reached, from
Heather of all people. The plan is to just haul it away from the
house on the tarp and leave it in the shade. Let Jesus take the wheel. Hey, I like where your head’s at, except
think bigger. Let’s leave it a Rubbermade trash can full
of water, and then drop it in. I mean, if we can lift it, damn! What, does this thing crap dark matter or
something? After working themselves to the point of exhaustion,
the girls successfully move the thing a good ten yards closer to the house before giving
up and leaving it out in direct sunlight. Yeah, something tells me a bowl of water isn’t
going to cut it here. Oh, well, it doesn’t seem too upset about
it, especially since you’ve just given it a front row seat to your OF shoot. Seriously, does no one see Boo-Boo Bear grinning
ear to ear right now? Whatever. Nothing to do now but get bombed out of our
minds in triple digit heat and take lewd photos of one another. Hmm, kinda strange the digital camera works
just fine but all three of your phones won’t even open to Settings. Weird. With today’s festivities concluded, everyone
settles in to sleep it off. Well, almost everyone. Old Rufus decided now’s a perfect time to
start screaming its head off again. God, what’s it want now? We already gave it a nice patch of grass to
die on. Why can’t it just shrivel up like a Schnauzer
in a hot car and let us get back to our lives? Oh, and guess who answers the call of duty. Don’t worry, you little hemorrhoid, Charlotte’s
coming to cater to your every whim. Yeah, but not before dragging Heather out
of REM sleep. Way to make your misplaced compassion everyone
else’s problem. I’m sure we totally won’t regret helping
it later on. Don’t you just love it when your friends
wake you up in the middle of the night so the two of you can schlep a three-hundred
pound naked mole rat across the lawn? Yeah, me either. Good on Heather for telling her where to shove
it. Maybe I misjudged her. Left to her own devices, Charlotte heads outside
intent on hauling her precious ray of sunshine into the house solo. Yeah, better lift with your legs. The three of you could barely drag this thing
across the ground. How do you expect to…oh, I guess it’s
super easy now. Great. Conservation of mass be damned. It’s almost like the universe wants you
to lug this disgusting lump into the living room. But, wait, young Charlotte’s just getting
warmed up. Now she’s gotta feed the thing. Hope it’s not after midnight, although I
honestly can’t see it getting any uglier. The next day, Deirdre awakens for her morning
protein shake only to find the empty bottle laying next to the sleeping dog rat. Hmm, I wonder who put that there. Jesus, you could have at least tried hiding
the fact you fed it to the thing. I mean, she already wants to beat its brains
in with a club. Something tells me this didn’t change her
mind. Seething with rage, she drags Charlotte out
of bed to rub her nose in the mess she made. Hey, now, don’t be too hard on her. I mean she had a good reason, right? It was crying. Good. I freaking hate this thing. Let it cry. It’s this style of parenting that leads
your children to grow up strangling people in truckstop bathrooms. Besides, do you speak space goblin? For all you know this thing was asking you
to shovel the top of its head off and put it out of its misery. It seems Heather’s also had enough of Charlotte’s
inane nurturing, especially knowing her dad is gonna blow a forehead vein when he finds
out they spilled protein shake on the floor. She orders her friend to get rid of this thing
once and for all, but before Charlotte can even get it off the ground, the runt comes
completely unglued in an ear splitting conniption. Yeah, that’s it. I’m getting the stick. It’s time to say goodbye to Dobby, folks. Sonic attacks are where I draw the line. Oh, but it was just defending itself. Muh, animal rights. Nope, don’t care. It should have found a less annoying form
of self defense. Unfortunately, it seems Deirdre’s lost interest
in splattering this thing across the floor. Then again, Heather might literally kill the
next person to screw something up in her Dad’s house. Either way, she sentences Charlotte to hitchhike
her way to town so they can call in Cesar Milan to come whip this thing into shape. According to Heather, there’s a reclusive
old lady living nearby they might be able to catch a ride with, and being the good friend
that she is, she volunteers to go along for the ride, so the two hop in the Polaris and
head down the road. Oh, yeah, turns out they’ve had a fully
operational UTV they could have used this whole time. Why am I not even surprised? I mean, if it were my butt on the line here,
I would have used that thing yesterday morning when we realized there was still no cell service,
or maybe when our little house guest chased off the gardener. Oh, that’s right. We had very important partying to do. Hmm, why does that sound familiar? I wonder if they’re related to Cary and
Tia from C.O.R.N.. Actually, on second thought they’re probably
related to DeDe. Upon reaching Edna’s old homestead, they
find a seemingly operational pickup parked out front, but no sign of anyone inside. Oh, well, nice of her to leave the door unlocked. I’m sure she won’t mind if we totally
invade her privacy and go poking around the war room. After all, the kind of people that keep stuff
like this in their living room are generally pretty laxed about security. Unfortunately, it seems the landlines out
here aren’t working either, and with no indication as to when the homeowner might
be back, Heather decides they should just leave a note on her table and head back to
the house. Except, why would we do that? We’ve got the UTV, don’t we? Let’s just take it down the road we came
in on until we find the nearest town. A Polaris RZR like theirs can go well over
a hundred miles on a single tank of gas, and if they’re low, well then screw it. Find a length of rubber hose and siphon some
gas out of the pick up. Might as well look around for keys while we’re
at it. Given we’ve got a demon from hell resting
comfortably in our house, I’d say the situation warrants an “ask forgiveness later” approach. On their way out, Charlotte calls out a day
planner with the night of the recent meteorshower heavily circled. Yes, of course, and maybe to celebrate she
fired a mutant bear cub out of a howitzer into our backyard. Sure, maybe it’s nothing, but it’d be
worth at least snooping around a bit in case we find something useful. I mean, I’m not expecting to find a full
on anatomical drawing of the creature in her notebook–that’d be crazy–but maybe we’ll
find some information on why the cell signals are down. Besides, are we really in that much of a rush
to get back there? Meanwhile, back at the house, Deirdre’s
reached her wits end with Baby Sinclair’s nonstop bawling. If only SOMEBODY hadn’t validated its cries
for attention and turned it into a needy little brat. Side note, why on earth would she want to
be left alone with this freakshow. Crying’s one thing, but I’d expect it
to start running around like Chucky the moment we took our eyes off it. Sure, it may look harmless now, but that might
just be what it wants us to think. Realizing there’s nobody around to stop
her, Deirdre decides that now would be a good time to put junior down once and for all. She uses her special partying skills to whip
up a strychnine margarita, but before she can deliver the fatal dose, a sudden glassy-eyed
glance from the target stops her dead in her tracks. Oh, great, psychic armadillos, as if Deathclaws
and Night Stalkers weren’t bad enough. I admire Deirdre’s decisive use of her alone
time with the monster, and poison was probably the only way she could get rid of this thing
without catching an earful from her overly attached girlfriend. However, it does force her to get way closer
to this thing than I’m comfortable with, although it’s not like she could have expected
an overgrown prairie dog would have mind control powers. Sometime later, Heather and Charlotte return
to find an extra chill Deirdre casually floating around in the pool. They break the bad news about not finding
anyone that can help, but it seems in the short time they’ve been away, she’s become
entirely at peace with the idea of being stranded indefinitely alongside a screeching rat bear
monstrosity. Wrong. It is objectively uncute. That’s a red flag if I’ve ever heard one. But Deirdre’s drastic behavioral changes
don’t stop there. Apparently, lounging around doing nothing
all afternoon really works up an appetite. As her friends look on in disbelief, Miss
Instamodel frantically wolfs down everything in sight before heading straight outside and
vigorously jazzercising out in one-hundred degree heat. Problem is, she’s so prone to episodes of
bizarre behavior, Charlotte and Heather just assume it’s either all the party favors
they’ve been taking or yet another one of her characteristic nervous breakdowns, although,
it’s not like either of them could ever imagine she was brainwashed by a sentient
wood chuck. Speaking of which, Charlotte thinks it might
be easier to keep around if it didn’t reek like last week’s road kill. I mean, it’d be even easier to keep around
if you burned it alive at the stake, but what do I know? Sure, whatever, let’s give baby a bath,
ya know, cause it didn’t shriek like a freaking banshee the last time you tried to move it. I’m sure it’ll have no problem with you
hauling it over to a tub of water. God, I bet your apartment is packed like a
petting zoo with all the unlovable, reject animals no one wants to buy at the pet store. As for Heather, the thought of her dad walking
in and finding drink rings on the coffee table is more than she can bear right now, so she
tells Charlotte to knock herself out. Oh, boy, do I have bad news for you. It’s gonna get a lot weirder, starting here
in just about thirty seconds. That night, Heather wakes up to something
strange going down in the living room. Just go ahead and take whatever you had in
mind and toss it right out the window. Upon rounding the corner, she finds Deirdre
writhing around in a massive pool of strawberry jello spilling out from Snuffles’ abdomen. Well, I guess that explains why it was so
heavy. Hey, maybe instead of standing there staring
like it just ran your credit card, you might want to consider running away before a Thing
tentacle drags you screaming across the floor. Unfortunately, before Heather can tear them
both a new one for ruining the carpet, the master of ceremonies zonks her out with the
same Jedi mind trick it used on Deirdre, drawing her out of her clothes and into the cuddle
puddle without even stopping to buy her dinner. Yeah, no way YouTube’s gonna let me show
you what happens after that, but rest assured it’s the most disgusting thing we’ve covered
since the Human Centipede. I’ll leave it there. Anyway, the next morning, Charlotte comes
out into the living room to find the awesome possum’s missing. Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t immediately
break down in tears at the thought of her precious little hellspawn crying out for attention
with no one around to coddle it. Outside, Heather and Deirdre are sprawled
out enjoying the sunshine like it’s not day three of being stranded out in the God-forsaken
desert. As for Tickle-me Elmo, they figured he’d
be a lot more comfortable sweating it out in Deirdre’s bed. Yup, that checks out. With that mystery solved, Charlotte attempts
to steer them back towards the matter of escaping this hellhole, but her friends would rather
sit around and wait for the Magic Conch to sort things out on their behalf. Sure, pretty easy to do when your primary
source of income stems from booty pics and teaching people to touch their toes. Then again, it should be obvious to anyone
with a pulse that they’re both acting wildly out of character. Besides, even if they did tuck into the Keith
Richards grab bag a little early this morning, Charlotte’s spent enough time around them
baked to the gills to recognize this. And it all started shortly after she brought
Mr. Bigglesworth into the house. Hmmm. Whatever the case, there’s about a million
litter boxes that need cleaning at the pet store tomorrow, so Charlotte asks if she can
take the UTV back over to Edna’s to try and find the truck keys. Along the way, she makes a stop at the presidential
suit to check on her best bud. Well, it does look more comfortable. What’s wrong Charlotte, is the honeymoon
over? If that thing gives you the creeps at all,
just remember this is all your fault to begin with. You just had to go cooing over this thing
like it was Baby Goddamn Yoda, and now the only other people around for miles are caught
up in some kind of jacked up pudding harem. *Sigh. All right, let’s see if Edna ever came back
around. Charlotte arrives back at the shack to find
everything exactly how they left it the day before, and there’s still no sign of the
big dog or the old lady. After a quick search of the truck fails to
turn up the keys, she heads inside the house to make one more pass through the hermit's
belongings. Man, no keys in here either. It’s almost like she doesn’t want random
twentysomethings taking off in her only mode of transportation. Eventually, Charlotte makes her way to the
desk and finds Edna’s old notebook. Yeah, looks like nothing but a bunch of chicken
scratches and stoichiometry problems to me. Oh, except, what’s that? It’s an anatomical drawing of the Care Bear
we’ve been bunking with. Crazy. Should probably toss this book in the RZR
to show Heather and Deirdre. Of course, at this point they're both probably
too wacked out of their minds to even comprehend what we’re showing them. Just then she notices light pouring in through
a pair of tandem bullet holes in a nearby wall. Putting on her CSI hat, Charlotte runs around
the exterior of the house until she eventually finds Edna leaning against the wall, only
she’s not looking so hot. Damn, both barrels. I guess she really wanted to die. Wait, why are you running away? I promise she’s not gonna bite. Besides, if she was so freaked out about this
thing she ate a buckshot sandwich, we should probably snag that side-by-side and any extra
ammo she’s got lying around. Something tells me we’re gonna need it. Oh, and by the way, if you’re still interested
in finding those truck keys, I’d say here’s your opportunity. I mean, unless Edna swallowed them before
doing the deed, they’re probably just sitting in one of her pockets, although it’s not
like we actually need the truck to make it back to town. Either way, we probably shouldn’t bother
swinging by the house. Heather and Deirdre seem quite content with
rotting in that multi-million-dollar dump, so I say we cut our losses and send animal
control to work the place over with flamethrowers once we make it back to civilization. Eh, whatever. You already know she’s gonna go straight
back to the house. How else could we have a final showdown with
the wombat and its pair of bridezillas? Upon reaching the swimming pool, Charlotte
attempts to relay what she saw at Edna’s cabin, but the gravity of the situation doesn’t
seem to be getting through to them. Ha, not as sad as you’re gonna be here in
a couple minutes. Finally, Dr. Goodall makes the connection
between her friends’ aloof behavior and her latest charity case. Taking absolutely no precaution whatsoever,
she heads down into the guest room to politely ask the rat beast not to go forward with the
brutal enslavement of the entire planet, but one look from young Cassanova leaves her swooning
at the foot of the bed. However, little does the creature realize,
her unusual lack of TikTok-induced ADHD makes her immune to the full effect of its power,
allowing her to break free of its grasp before it can roll out the red carpet. Now armed with the knowledge of what they’re
really up against, Charlotte grabs the war club and a blindfold and heads back into the
room to work this thing over like a SPAM pinata. Haha, nah, she actually goes right back outside
to talk it over with her clearly indoctrinated friends. Yeah, if that’s how she feels about it,
it’s a pretty safe bet you’re no longer on the same team. Charlotte tries telling them they need to
call someone to deal with this nightmare before things spiral further out of control. Ya know, it’s only what we’ve been trying
to do for three days at this point, but now she’s super cereal. It seems Heather and Deirdre have other plans,
however. The two of them want to take this thing on
tour. I mean, just look at that face, that charisma. That’s your next Dramatic Chipmunk, right
there. Sorry, Charlie, these ladies are seeing dollar
signs, and they’ll be goddamn beat to hell before they let you ruin their hot new business
venture with your granola-eating garbage. Of course, that is if this little horror show
doesn’t ruin it first. See, that’s what happens when you don’t
Like and Subscribe. Yeesh, that extraterrestrial morning sickness
hits different. Hey, but don’t worry now, Charlotte’s
here to gingerly wipe away the black stuff from your eyes with a washcloth. See, all better. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell
you this, but your friends are way beyond glow up at this point. Should probably focus all your effort on the
source of this disaster, ya know, after you find yourself some kind of weapon, preferably
fire based. Honestly, it would probably be best to just
toss a molotov cocktail in the guest room and then light the whole place up with whatever
gasolene is left in the RZR. Oh, or you could just walk right in there
completely unarmed and try strangling it to death. Yeah, go ahead and look it dead in the eyes
while you’re at. It’s not like it literally just did that
to mindjack you like one minute ago. Realizing it’s lost its charm, Gizmo hits
the panic button and summons its pair of pregosaurs to lay a big hurt on Charlotte, only they
just kinda boop her against the wall before immediately leaving the room. Huh, that was nice of them. I’m not sure why it didn’t have them grab
a kitchen knife or something on the way. I guess, it’s more of a lover than a fighter. Naturally, upon waking up, Sigourney Weaver
stares straight into the hollow eyes of death yet again, which of course results in her
getting mind-linked. However, this time it takes the opportunity
to clearly spell out its really gross plan for world domination before spitting her back
out like before. I dunno, I guess it wanted to brag or something. Whatever. As if we needed another reason to kill this
thing. Can you wrap this up already? We’re going on three separate bedroom confrontations
with this crud ball. Knowing now what must be done, Charlotte makes
a quick trip upstairs to retrieve the war club from its resting place. With no one around to get in her way, she
returns to the belly of the beast and ends Furbie’s whole career with a series of well-placed
smacks. Thank God. I was running outta things to call it. It’s not over yet, however. She still needs to hunt down Heather and Deirdre
before they can start this crap show all over again somewhere else. Good thing they’ve pretty much ignored the
UTV this entire time. Seriously, though, as many times as they’ve
all blown off their best ticket out of this place, I’m surprised Charlotte didn’t
just go chasing after them on foot. Oh, well. Their loss is our gain, and with the first
of her fleeing friends in sight, Charlotte stomps on the gas and goes for the splatter. Too bad it wasn’t enough to kill her though. Oh, no, you’re gonna have to get out and
settle this like Bible times. Just remember as you’re smashing your best
friend’s brains in that this all could have been avoided had you just let the stupid freaking
rat monster cry itself to sleep on the lawn. Unfortunately, running over pregnant women
voids the warranty on most recreational vehicles, and with another superspreader still on the
loose, it looks like we’re stuck saving the human race on foot. The good news is they pretty much went the
exact same direction. Kinda stupid of them to put all their eggs
in one basket like that. Whatever, it’s not like they could move
all that fast anyway with all the extra cargo. Despite easily being able to use her forward
momentum to drive that club through the back of Deirdre’s skull like it was a chicken
egg, Charlotte decides to square up on her opponent and settle humanity's future in a
trial by combat. Not sure why she just stood there waiting
for Big Mama to straight up truck stick her, though. The resulting struggle nearly ends with Deirdre
on top, but eventually Charlotte’s able to retrieve the club and put her in the dirt. Yeah, better hurry up with that coup de grace. You never know when a passing motorist is
gonna happen by, tragically misread the situation, and feel totally justified in smoking you
with a .30-06. Oooh, yeah, just like that. Nice shooting, Tex. You just doomed the entire human race. Totally unphased by the rancid black goop
all over her, the unwitting accomplice in mankind's destruction scoops Deirdre up and
heads back to his truck, probably to take her to the nearest all-female college. Except, wait, could it be. Yes, it turns out Ragtime Cowboy Joe couldn’t
center punch a human-sized target from fifty yards away with a scope-sighted rifle. Gotta get those reps in people. Apparently, Deirdre wasn’t too impressed
with that pathetic display of marksmanship either. Nothing says “thank you for saving my life”
quite like total disembowelment. Not a smart move on her part though. Now there’s no one to stop us from picking
up that rifle and telling her about the rabbits. That is if somebody would hurry up and squeeze
trig already, damn! Do you not see the squid arm? You’re gonna get earholed just like last
time! Oh, thank god. With the last of her friends face down in
her own spaghetti sauce, Charlotte takes a moment to appreciate the valuable lesson she
learned about killing. And with that, it’s finally over. Or is it? In the end, only Charlotte made it out alive,
but had we taken the first opportunity to head back into town once we knew there was
a problem, we almost certainly could have made it out of there before the little love
machine regained consciousness. As for the rest of the meteors we saw coming
down, these things aren’t exactly bullet proof, and without any way of moving around
on their own, half of them are gonna be eaten by coyotes before they even have a chance
to download Tinder. When it’s all said and done, I think THE
SEED was Beaten. Moral of the story, always practice safe…whatever
that is. Alternate: Moral of the story, if it falls
from the sky, make sure it's dead.
