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Beans About It“We’ve come to annihilate your species and take over the Earth,” the extraterrestrial, who appeared out of nowhere in Richard Carrington’s kitchen, told him. Carrington, startled by the unexpected arrival of the alien, jumped and let loose with a strangled cry as some beer splashed out the top of the open can and made its way onto the front of his dark blue pajamas. Luckily, Lois didn’t hear him and come charging downstairs. “You certainly look like something from another planet,” Carrington said, regaining his composure. His stomach growled, and he felt a brief pinching pain in his lower abdomen. He tried not to be too put off by the alien’s diamond-shaped eyes with the purple glow or its three grotesquely long nasal cavities or its enormous cranial area or its unnaturally tiny slit of a mouth from which a black, lizard-like tongue protruded with annoying regularity. “You need not concern yourself with my appearance,” said the alien. “Instead you would be wise to tell your people to get their affairs in order.” “What are you talking about?” “Spiritually, I mean.” “I’m confused. What do you expect me to do?” “You’re the national security advisor for this country, are you not?” “Yes,” Carrington confirmed. “So isn’t the imminent extinction of your species a matter of national security?” the alien demanded to know, its tone becoming somewhat less mechanical. “I suppose. But I’m used to dealing with terrorists, not ugly monsters from another galaxy.” “Again with my looks,” mumbled the alien. “It’s true, as we’ve noticed, that your species is fixated on appearance. Beauty ads, weight-loss programs, tailored clothing —" “You aliens never get it right,” interrupted Carrington as he sipped his beer. It was 3 a.m. He had a habit of sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night and drinking a brewskie. It helped him get back to sleep. Given the appearance of an extraterrestrial life-form in his own kitchen, however, Carrington doubted he would sleep any more tonight. “What do you mean we never get it right? We never get what right?” Carrington thought about his son, Sean, who was a doctor in Minnesota. As a young boy, Sean had devoured science fiction literature. Over countless dinners, he’d talked endlessly about stories he’d read. In so many of them, an alien — a single alien — would appear before a human being — one human only — and warn the person of wide-scale extermination. “You’re not going to get anything accomplished this way,” Carrington told the alien. “I may be powerful in my own way, within government, but I can’t get anywhere warning the human race about its looming demise. Whomever I talk to will think I’m nuts if I claim I’ve learned this from a Star Trek character homely enough to sour milk.” Again Carrington recalled Sean and the times the two of them had watched episodes of the original Star Trek series on TV. Carrington had hated the show, but he’d suffered through it in order to spend time with his son. Exactly whether it had been quality time was a detail Carrington questioned. Thinking back, though, Carrington realized the alien in his kitchen — in particular, the size and shape of its head — resembled the noggins of the aliens on a Star Trek two-parter; from the rear, the heads of those creatures had been shaped like — well, like human rear ends. In other words, he was discussing human extinction with an ass-head in the middle of the night in his own kitchen. Since the ass was on the back of the invader’s head, Carrington gave him a name: “Listen, Backass —" “Backass?” Carrington’s gut grumbled some more. He was full of gas. He and his wife, Lois, had enjoyed copious helpings of homegrown green beans for dinner the previous evening. For the sake of politeness — not to mention to avoid embarrassment — he struggled mightily to hold the gas in. “Yes, Backass. It’s what we humans call a name. You didn’t give me yours, so that’s what I’ll call you.” “Given your race’s linguistic limitations, you would find my name unpronounceable.” “Then Backass it is.”
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