I didn’t come to conquer Earth. I came for the cows. And I stayed for the burgers.
Word is, folks first spotted me flying over Kansas in my ’93 ride — yeah, with Saturn plates — humming some Killers tune, scanning cattle with a look that mixed hunger and pure damn lust. Even the freakin’ Illuminati can’t explain it.

I ain’t the usual Hollywood alien. No laser beams, no planet takeover plans, and no tentacles (at least not yet — though after all the butter I slather on, who knows?). My thing’s the grill, juicy meat, toasted buns, and man... the cheese. The cheese is a whole other level.

‘Cause let’s be real, burgers are serious business. They can’t be left in the hands of some clown with shoes bigger than his taste buds, rocking a name so bland and ridiculous… I mean, seriously, who names themselves Donald? I better not say more or I might get deported. Meanwhile, those jokers distract the world with fake-ass smiles and fries so perfect it’s sketchy as hell. Me? I fire up the real flames and drown everything in butter like there ain’t no tomorrow.

After years of low-key abducting — or as I like to call it, “borrowing cows for culinary purposes” — I decided to stop hiding. Snagged myself a chef’s jacket, got a cow tattoo on my left cheek (you’ll never see it), and launched Martian Bite, where I cook how I live: no permission asked, with a black glove on, ‘cause we don’t play around with flavor here.

Now I run my kitchen with an iron fist, serving burgers so damn good NASA slapped ‘em with “interplanetary object of interest” status.

Scared I’m gonna abduct you? Chill, I’m just after your taste buds.