—A Follow-Up to the Obvious Alien Invasion You’re All Ignoring— Humans of Earth, lend me your oddly-shaped auditory receptors. The other d...
—A Follow-Up to the Obvious Alien Invasion You’re All Ignoring—
Humans of Earth, lend me your oddly-shaped auditory receptors.
The other day, Barry dragged me to the DMV. Now, why the puppet needed to be there is irrelevant—I don’t drive (imagine me at the wheel, hollering about Saturn’s ley lines while swerving into oblivion). Barry claimed it had something to do with staying “in compliance.” Compliance with whom, I asked? He muttered something about state gods and overdue fines. Classic.
Anyway, the DMV was ripe with its usual chaos—souls slumped in plastic chairs, clutching ticket numbers like talismans, while the smell of despair and printer ink hung in the air. But amidst this bureaucratic purgatory, I noticed him. Bald. Beige. Immaculately still.
For seventeen minutes, the man-shaped thing remained statue-like. Then, in one fluid motion, he rotated toward the woman beside him and asked, “Do you prefer the dry crunch or the wet crunch of lettuce?”
A pause. She blinked rapidly, like a buffering webpage. “What?” she croaked.
“I have catalogued seventy-three acceptable responses to that question,” he replied. “You selected none.” And then he blinked. Horizontally.
Folks, I’ve seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers more times than I care to admit. I know an extraterrestrial plant-pod hybrid when I see one. But here’s the kicker: does it even matter if Mr. Lettuce Enthusiast hails from Zeta Reticuli or, I don’t know, Wisconsin?
Because, let’s face it, humans already act like aliens. Y’all queue up for five hours to save 35 cents on toothpaste. You scream “WHO’S A GOOD BOY?” at a spaniel but won’t say hello to the neighbor you share a fence with. You willingly purchase devices that spy on you 24/7—then thank them for telling you the temperature.
Aliens don’t need to infiltrate. They just have to blend in.
You ever wander into the garden section of Home Depot at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday? Terrifying. The invasion is already happening there. I saw a woman gently misting a plastic ficus while whispering, “Grow strong, my sweet prince.” A man in cargo shorts caressed a wind chime and murmured, “This is the way.”
And don’t even get me started on pie lines. I watched a teenager mouth the lyrics to a song that wasn’t playing. Another blinked too slowly—like a lizard coming out of hibernation. Nobody ate the pie. They studied it. Like zoologists on a field assignment.
So, there I was at the DMV, deciding it was my duty—nay, my privilege—to alert humanity. I vaulted onto the counter, pointed a trembling finger at Mr. Dry Crunch, and bellowed, “HE’S ONE OF THEM!”
Dead-eyed, he stared at me and replied, “I am from Wisconsin.” The woman beside him nodded solemnly. “Checks out,” she said.
Well. Maybe not an alien. Maybe just Midwest. Fine line.
But here’s the real takeaway, Earthlings: whether it’s Eau Claire or Europa, the strange is already here. And you’ve invited it in. With open arms. And a coupon book.
My advice? Stay suspicious. Blink vertically. Ask loved ones how they like their lettuce. And if they reply, “I do not consume chlorophyll with intent,”? Run.
—Dale T. Doll
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