It’s the radioactivity. It inebriates them.
Something about what we call the weak nuclear force, that shy, unglamorous cousin of electromagnetism, distorts their hyperdimensional minds. They gather around our nuclear facilities like barflies at a saloon on a wet Friday night – and they get lit.
This explains the erratic flight paths that radar operators describe with such baffled precision. The sudden altitude drops. The inexplicable loop-de-loops. And the numerous crashes. Need I say more?
Moving at the velocity of awe in our world of rue, they must know how this story ends.