Dickheads

The phone rang, jarring the President awake from his slumber mid-snore. He groaned, looking at the time, and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”1

“Mr. President,” said the urgent voice on the other end of the line, “we’ve detected an unidentified spacecraft approaching our atmosphere.”2

“Wait a minute.” The President rubbed his eyes. “Who is this?” “It’s NASA, sir.”3

“Oh. Well, how much time do we have before they arrive?”4

“Three days, sir. Maybe four.”5

“All right,” he yawned. “Time to break out the welcome signs again.”6

“Very well, sir.”7

The President hung up, rolled over in bed, and instantly fell back asleep.8

+++9

Martin was late for work again. Luckily, no one noticed. Everybody was too busy watching the news coverage of the alien landing. He pushed through the crowd around the television at the receptionist’s desk, glancing at it as he passed. Rachel was standing in front of a small, metallic spaceship. The camera panned to show a massive crowd of people gathered around the barricades, holding up signs (one of them read “ALIENS R AWSOME!”) and waving excitedly. “Tom,” she was saying, “we’re coming to you live from Washington D.C. to welcome these new extraterrestrial visitors. They have not exited their ship yet, but we are expecting first contact at any moment now.”10

Paul was sitting at Martin’s desk with his feet propped up, watching the same news broadcast on the computer monitor. Martin dropped his briefcase onto the floor and waited, tapping his foot loudly. Paul grinned up at him. “Look, Rachel’s on TV.”11

“I know. She’s on TV everyday.”12

Paul spun around in Martin’s chair. “They’re about to open the spaceship, man.”13

“I know,” said Martin. “Get out of my chair.”14

Paul obliged but stayed to hover over Martin when he took his seat. “I wonder if these guys will look any different.”15

“Doubt it. They all pretty much look just like us.” Martin minimized the broadcast window, opened the document he was working on, and began typing. Paul grabbed the mouse and maximized the news window again. Martin glared at him. “Can’t you watch this at your own station?”16

“You don’t wanna watch your own girlfriend’s news report?” Paul reached over and turned up the volume.17

“Tom, it looks as if there is some activity coming from the ship!” Rachel was practically screaming over the increasing noise of the crowd. “I think... yes... yes, I think the hatch is opening!”18

The door of the ship hit the ground with a dull thump, and the noise level in both the broadcast and the office dropped suddenly as everyone held their breath. Martin broke the silence with a loud sneeze, but to his annoyance, nobody bothered to bless him.19

A man stepped out of the ship. There was a collective gasp from the women of the office. Rachel dropped her jaw and her microphone, both of which she hastily picked back up. The camera zoomed in on the alien, who looked just like any other Earth man, only taller, darker, more handsome, and, strangely enough, dressed in a tuxedo and top hat. With long, confident strides, he made his way over to her, took the mic hanging limply at her side, and smiled dazzlingly into the camera. One of the office girls fainted.20

“Told you he wouldn’t look any different from us,” said Martin.21

The alien began to speak. “Hello! I am the leader of the Bratwurvians. We are from the small, humble planet of Bratwurvia, located in the far northeast corner of the Zort galaxy. Very lovely to meet you all!” He bowed, doffing his hat, and two small, strangely familiar-looking antennae flopped down the sides of his head.22

“Holy shit!” said Paul, scrambling to turn up the volume as far up as it would go. “That guy has tiny dicks on his head!”23

It was true. The alien’s antennae did look uncannily phallic. All the men in the room, including Martin and Paul, burst into uncontrollable laughter, and the women glanced back at them in disgust. Onscreen, Rachel stared blankly at the alien.24

“You speak English here, correct?” he asked kindly.25

“W-welcome to Earth,” she finally stammered, leaning over to speak into the mic that he was now holding. “And what is your name, sir?”26

“Dickheads!” said Martin. “That’s the perfect name for ‘em!” “Oh, how rude of me,” said the alien. “I am George.”27

George the Dickhead dominated the news world for the rest of the day. “I love babies!” George said on the Channel 3 News, scooping up a tiny child that a starry-eyed mother was holding out to him from the sidelines. “And I love changing diapers!” On the Channel 4 News, he stood inside an IKEA store, grinning and exclaiming, “We have stores such as these on Bratwurvia, too! Furniture shopping is so much fun, do you agree? Color coordination is one of my many hobbies.” On CNN, he was shown lifting the front end of a sedan several inches off the ground with one hand and seemingly little effort. Women swooned and fanned themselves dizzily, as if they were in some sort of intergalactic Jane Austen novel.28

All day, the news stations kept re-airing these same interviews over and over, but the girls didn’t seem to mind. They stayed glued to the nearest television set or computer monitor, scattered in a few small clumps around the office. Every once in a while, especially when they replayed the moment George took off his hat, a storm of titters and excited whispering could be heard from them.29

Martin managed to ignore all this, until lunch break came around. He’d run out of milk that morning and, because he refused to eat dry cereal, had completely missed the most important meal of the day. Due to this, he was particularly hungry and cross by noontime.30

“Where d’you want to go for lunch?” asked Paul. “Shut up,” said Martin.31

With Paul trailing behind him, Martin went up to the receptionist’s desk to inform her that he would be taking his lunch break and to direct any calls to his mobile phone. She wasn’t there. He peered over the cubicles around the32

room but could only see the tops of the occupants’ heads. He assumed she was part of one of the female head clusters, but there were several of them and they were all many feet away. Martin huffed with impatience, and his stomach made a loud noise.33

“Jeez,” said Paul. “You must be starving.” “Shut up.”34

The receptionist’s telephone began to ring. Martin spanned the room, expecting to see her rise to answer it, but even as the phone continued to cry plaintively, nobody moved. Five... six... seven rings went by. On the eighth ring, Martin picked up the receiver and slammed it back down.35

“Where the hell is the receptionist?!” he bellowed. The clicking of the keyboards and clanking of the copy machines suddenly ceased, and the room became silent as everybody (except the head clusters) peered over their cubicles toward the receptionist’s desk. The only sound that could be heard was the faint echo of George’s voice from various positions around the room. (“Housework? On my planet, the men do all of the chores! Women are much too precious for such menial tasks....”)36

Martin’s stomach made another loud noise, and he began to blush. He opened his mouth and began to apologize when it happened. A collective giggle suddenly rose from the head clusters and the tops of their heads began to bob and move around at an accelerated rate. Apparently, the top hat had come off again. Martin’s blush turned from a rosy hue to a sickly purple color.37

“Let’s just go,” said Paul, eyeing his friend’s face and ushering him out the door.38

The day went downhill from there. The waitress at the café they went to brought out the wrong order three times before Martin finally surrendered and ate the dish that was put in front of him. It wasn’t at all what he had ordered, but he hoovered the plate clean in record time and didn’t give his taste buds long enough to do their job anyway.39

Unfortunately, the dish turned out to contain massive amounts of peanuts. Martin puffed up approximately twice his width and became several shades of red darker, resembling something like an angry tomato. In the emergency room, the fat, wrinkly nurse quickly injected him with an EpiPen. Then, distracted by George’s smiling face, she stabbed him with another one before he even had time to protest. The extra adrenaline succeeded in40

bringing down his swelling, but it also made him believe that he was about to have a heart attack for many harrowing minutes.41

Paul called into the office for Martin (it took several tries, as the receptionist was still unavailable) and drove him home. Martin’s heart was beating at a normal rate again, but he was worn out. He looked at the time, remembering that Rachel would be home by then, and took comfort in the knowledge that she would take care of him. He tried to call her in the car but her phone seemed to be turned off, so he left a message asking her to make him some chicken noodle soup.42

“Sorry about your day, man,” said Paul, patting him on the shoulder.43

Martin shrugged away Paul’s hand. “Damn Dickheads.”44

Rachel didn’t pick up when he tried her number again, so he was relieved to see her car in the driveway. He muttered his thanks to Paul and went inside. The living room lights were off, which probably meant that Rachel was taking a nap. Martin yawned and began to drop articles of clothing on the ground as he ambled to the bedroom. By the time he reached the door, he was in only his boxers and socks, and there was a trail of clothes that marked a path behind him.45

“Wake up, Rachel,” he whined as he opened the door. He scratched at the little hairs on his slightly beer-ish belly. “I don’t feel—”46

Martin stopped mid-scratch, as Rachel screamed and hid herself under the covers. George stared at them both, back and forth, with a puzzled expression and made no effort to conceal his extreme nakedness. An awkward silence hung in the air for several seconds.47

“Hello!” George said, after it became clear that no introductions were going to be made for him. “I am George. Very lovely to meet you!”48

Martin fainted.