Invasion of an Alien Species

Aliens have invaded my office. Two of them. Things are not the same!

Until their arrival, my office flourished in chaos. Men are anarchists at heart and thrive in disorder. Ask any woman, especially a wife. Aliens disrupt the unstructured order of men.

Men are basically slobs at heart. I remain under this indictment after almost 45 years of marriage. Women howl, “Why would any woman put up with…?” But all women know the answer. They, too, are surviving a similar fate with a slovenly live-in. I have to give my wife credit, however, for her perseverance. She’s still sane and remains determined to organize an unkempt mess of a man.

It serves no purpose to argue with alien species. I’m discovering the wisdom of my father’s advice, “Son, there are only two ways to convince a woman of anything. And neither one works.” Men, listen to this advice: don’t waste precious time trying to come up with novel ideas. There’s no way to justify our untidy existence. Nothing works, short of death.

Back to the aliens’ invasion. These two prefer to travel in pairs, it seems. My office life, which I prized for its chaos, is now in disgusting order. I can find nothing. It’s a disgrace to have an orderly office. Leon is my termite man. He says Dick Tracy predicted such an invasion from Venus sometime in this century. He says that my office is the perfect Petri dish due to its disorder. That boy’s been drinkin’ his own juice.

You think I’m jokin’? Listen… you hear ‘em? Aliens are among us, everywhere. I’m being invaded. They’re talking in the other room. I open the door, they shut up. They give me a malicious stare, as if to say, “Beat it, buster. Why are you invading our space?” I protest, they shout me down. They’re even inside my computer, having access to my email secrets. They’re everywhere!

They seem to prefer invading the privacy of men. They’re stealthy little demons. These weird creatures stake out strange spots to incubate. Dog’s tongues, pocket change and movie seats are no comparison to their creativity of invasion. Today my Social Security check arrives. I open the envelope. A voice says, “I’ll take that.” Aliens are all around us, men. Open your eyes.

My assistant is a prayer warrior. She’s called that because she carries armor against all forms of malevolent fiends. She claims she can actually see germs and angels. Says I resemble a certain insidious strain. She prays for everything, including door knobs. Why doorknobs? I ask. She says doorknobs are dangerous. I sometimes feel safe in her aura. But she refuses to pray for my predicament. Says she thinks the aliens are female angels. She just ain’t right!

Last week I show up for work, open the door and enter my office. A strange atmosphere greets me. The air vibrates with electricity. I pause, listen. Sounds of vague voices waft through the stairwell. Aliens are always talking. My nose twitches, sniffs the air. What, perfume? What’s perfume doing in a man’s escape cave? I check the bathroom. It’s not Lysol.

I approach the stairs carefully, tiptoe up and peer into my office. The chaos is missing. A year’s accumulation of newspapers, magazines, Starbuck’s coffee cups, five pair of running shoes and stinky workout clothes. All gone. My heart sinks.

Their talking immediately ceases. Laptops hum. Four eyes stare at me. It’s an eerie atmosphere. I manage to blurt out, “Who are you, and what have you done to my poor office?” They just smile. I ask, “Why have you done this? Are you aliens? Did my wife send you?” They order me to sit down. I do.

They explain they’re actually angels, sent to deliver me from myself. I tell them I can’t remember asking for any angels, that I like my sloppy self. They tell me I’ll come to love perfect order. Now I know my wife is involved. “Where’s my Clint Eastwood autographed poster?” I demand. We replaced it with your wife’s picture they say. It gets worse, but that’s another story.

Men, take my advice: Beware of hiring women posing as angels. But if you must, learn to leave the lid down.

Bud Hearn
January 20, 2011