“Hello?”
“Is this the director of NASA?”
“Sadly, I always wanted to be a baker.”
“Roll around on the floor.”
“Sorry, I’m tired of that. I’d rather do jumping jacks. I find those much more fun now.”
“Do that.”
“What time is it? 3am? I still have a few hours, why not?”
Jack jumping resumed for the man responsible for faking the moon landing. He was still paying for cheese that it took. After jumping and jacking for a few, he felt that he needed to lay down. Indeed, even this great man required rest, especially after a pajama staining workout. Oh, and a spaceship crashed into the room. The spaceship’s door popped open.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have that many Quips at the bar.”
“Yeah, I hear ya, man. I can’t handle more than… wait… you’re an alien, right? What’re the gas prices out there?”
“Too damn high, those Gompers need to open their anti-matter reserves up. Wait, I have a reason I came here?”
“Me too, I think it was something about jack jumping.”
“No, wait… no that wasn’t it. I’m here to call the President.”
“Oh, that guy needs to loosen up. I just wanna sniff some socks sometimes, but no, I gotta send stuff into space.”
“What’s his number?”
“1-800-I’m-The-President”
“Good year.”
“Nah, I feel that we shoulda stayed farming instead of making stuff in those… factories? I just can’t live with the fridge anymore. Makes stuff way too cold.”
“I hear you, I think coming down from the trees was a big mistake. Yes, hello, is this the president?”
A man was snoring in his office. The dredges of being the single most important person in the democratic world was really getting to him.
“Hello sir. There is a call for you.” It was a particularly nasal monster. Sorry, looked into the dictionary for once, it’s called a “secretary.”
“Gu-huh? What?” A playboy magazine fell off his face.
“A call, sir.”
“Bring them in.”
“Sir- “
“I can’t stand another sound from you, blow your nose.”
A man with a cart came wheeling in.
“Your meal, sir.” He lifted the silver dome and there lied a ringing telephone. The President picked it up.
“Hello? No I don’t want girl scout cookies. Wait, do you have Smiddles still? Yes, I’ll take three boxes.”
“Sorry, guy, I’m an alien.”
“One of these days, they’ll knock I’m sure.”
“I can feel you there. Listen, I have a very important message.”
“What’s that? Last time I heard that, something was being taken seriously. That just can’t work in this story.”
“Don’t blow it.”
“All right.” He hanged up.
“I prefer my phone calls medium rare.”
“Sorry sir. I’ll try and meet your needs for next time.”
After taking this call, the alien sat down in the Director of NASA’s favorite chair and turned the TV to channel two.
“First contact everyone! Alien says: ‘Don’t blow it’ and hangs up. What about the cost? We go to our economist-”
He switches the channel
“-So, what does this mean for humanity Dr. Egbert?”
“It means, that given a lot of money, that we could possibly not blow it. Also, don’t let your cats out alone. Always make them bring some tin-foil- “
He switches again.
“-I swear, those aliens are racist! Have you ever heard of an alien abducting a duck?
Me neither. How can they do this- “
He turns off the TV.
“Wow.”
“Yada yada, fake news, yada… hey, we’re going on a trip.” The Director sniffs a sock.
“I mean, I gave some pretty good advice, right?” He’s dragged into a car.
“If you’re a news network nowadays, you need someone to rag on for views. Otherwise, all you got is real news.”
The Director adjusts his rearview mirror.
“Where are we going? I’ve got other advice to give to fledgling empires y’know?”
The Director starts driving, shaky at first. He doesn’t really stop being shaky.
“Wait, let’s try something else first.”
“Like what?”
They park at the destination. A rather run-down bar with a neon sign and composed solely of brick from the outside. Also, it doesn’t smell too good from the outside.
“We’re gonna have a drink real fast. Then probably more even faster.”
“Fine, I’ll give your human alcohol a try, probably better than nothing.”
“If nothing isn’t better, I’ll be a goner.”
They sat down at the bar.
“Two beers please. Here’s some of your tax money.” He places some money, presumably for the drinks, except it’s way more than just two beers. The bartender stares for a bit, then hands him two beers.
“Let me tell you something, spaceman. The reason we’re sitting here instead of space.”
“Because you took me to get a drink?”
“Because we’re thinking of the future. No one on this planet ever really thinks of the future excluding their taxes and death.”
“How sad.”
“Yeah, I think we’re the only ones about anymore who think about humanity heading to space. Everyone’s too wrapped up with whatever to care. I swear we forgot that we used to dream of the stars. Now all we ever dream about is the cookies from Papa Johns.
They spend the night drinking and pass out on the floor.
I know what you’re thinking. Just kidding, I couldn’t have a clue, I don’t know who you are. The point remains, there are 102 words left in this story minimum, so I had better have something more to write about.
Maybe about how we come back from our silly little squabbles? Go to space, colonize, and join the great, wide galaxy in their wars and meals.
Maybe that never happens, we bomb ourselves into oblivion, forgetting so easily the words of the only Alien we ever met. Don’t blow it.
Maybe I have no idea and it’s crazy to assume some kid writing a story would have an idea.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
We cannot say anything for certain. After all, we only have five senses, and a rather big brain, but we could just go to space? Maybe that’s worth it, right?