When My Family Hosts an Alien

Gately Green

With all the kazillionaires going to space and Congress looking into UFO/UFP's I have started to consider the real possibility of humans hosting an alien program. Much like the exchange student situations we Earthlings are familiar with. I figure this will happen sooner than later.

After extensive research I consider myself somewhat of an expert on extra-terrestrial customs and mannerisms. Having binge-watched hundreds of hours of sci-fi dramas and read countless aliens romances (all in the name of personal enrichment mind you), I will finally be given the opportunity to put my knowledge into practical use. 

According to my calculations, there will be three species in the program. The god-like Nordics, strangely attractive alpha-ish Reptilians, and the Greys.

Each alien seeking a broader understanding of life on Earth will be placed with a human host family. There will be countless applicants offering themselves to our celestial neighbors. I assume most will be the readers of previously referenced sci-fi romances because they know, as I do, most aliens are seven-foot tall males, with few to no females on their planets, all dominating but sensitive with forearmed sized phalluses. 

Most host families will seek a Nordic or Reptilian, assuming they will be full of badassery and sex appeal. Since my family is struggling middle class, slightly unattractive, and loud, we will be left host to a Grey. 

This is how I envision the whole scenario playing out. 

We meet our temporary alien family member at the new galactic spaceport which used to be a Super K-Mart. 

The inter-universe cultural enrichment program paperwork says our expected arrival's name is Pezsalvichnosalasmith. We try to write it beneath "Welcome" on a neon green poster board. The letters start out neat and clear but began to cramp and turn down the more we add. Since none of us can say the name without destroying the pronunciation, our new addition agrees to be called Pez.

Pez declines their own room, just needing a corner in the living room. Pez erects a sort of pop-up tent in that corner where they fall into a noisy snoring sleep mode every third day for eight full hours. 

Pez sits at the table with us for meals and slurps a paste the color of their skin from packets. It's really gross.

None of us are sure if Pez is male or female. We aren't even sure if there are genders on Pez's planet, and it seems rude to ask. 

The Norwegian aliens turn out not to be sex-gods after all. In fact, their true passion lay in baking. They flood Instagram with pictures and stories about their continuing mission to perfect sourdough bread. 

They are united in a multi-world campaign to have Mary Berry declared a living saint. Thousands undertake pilgrimages to her home, moving the last several miles on their knees. All the while carrying their perfect loaf in their hands, hoping for her blessing. 

Unfortunately for Mrs. Berry, her property, constantly filled with baked offerings, has become a feeding ground for vermin. On a live broadcast, a BBC reporter describing the situation is swarmed by pigeons from the sky and rats from the ground.

The Reptilians prove just as disappointing for many a horny human. They seem compelled to seek out abstract causes. In my area, the Reptilians have taking up catfish rights. They knock on our doors early Saturday mornings, asking if we have heard the good news; catfish are sentient and entitled to equal representation. 

Each catfish restaurant is picketed, and any who patronize such places are pelted with hush puppies. 

Pez is hard to get to know. They are quiet, and we feel we are a great disappointment to a grey's expectation of our species. Aside from watching Star Trek with us and laughing heartily, nothing we share with them seems to be of interest. Pez doesn't seem to have the strange obsessions or quirks of their galactic counterparts either, well, not at first anyway.

My husband and I take Pez to a bar for some human experience. We expected they would feel out of place in the dim light, loud music, and barstools as tall as themselves. Pez surprises us when they climb up the barstool, try a dozen different shots, dance to Ice Cube, and have their long fingers on a beautiful woman's thigh within an hour. 

After the first trip to the bar, Pez is constantly downing so much Jäger they always smell like digesting black licorice. 

My husband and Pez begin to spend all their time together. They troll the Nordics on social media, taunting how pigeons and rats are the only living things willing to eat their sourdough loaves. 

They go on fishing trips, get drunk and throw what they catch at the picketing Reptilians. And if they don't catch anything, the two of them bombard the demonstrating catfish rights activists with leftover bait.  

The two of them get matching infinity tattoos. They play Minecraft for hours on end, building strange block worlds. 

I come home early one day to hear giggling and tussling in Pez's sleeping tent. My husband and the small grey alien roll out of it locked in playful wrestling.

They start missing family dinners. The pair gain many pounds on a quest to sample all the po'boys in the New Orleans area in the name of exploration.  

Then, just when I begin to question why my husband has started asking me to shave his back, the intergalactic program has come to an end. 

Pez leaves their sleeping tent and belongings behind, choosing to use baggage space to smuggle cases of Jägermeister off-world. 

Back at the repurposed Super K-Mart, we bid farewell to Pez. They give each one of my children a quick squeeze goodbye. My husband drops to one knee and clings to Pez in an embrace that lasts so long it becomes uncomfortable to watch. 

When the two part from each other, I squint, seeing tears in my husband's eyes. Pez gives a hard smack to my behind and chuckles, saying gangsta rap made them do it. 

Then Pez is gone. 

My husband sits in the pop-up tent and doesn't eat or speak to us for several days. I offer him a po'boy trying to tempt him out of the tent. That only causes him to burst into tears. 

Poor thing, he really misses his friend.

Six months after Pez's departure, I feel life is normal again. Then, my poor husband comes home from work complaining of a runny tummy and general guttural pain. He is in such discomfort I become worried and rush him to the E.R. 

There are about a dozen other men doubled over, wailing in pain throughout the triage and waiting room. 

As I look for his insurance card at the intake desk, my husband begins to scream and rips off his shirt. His belly button suddenly peels back in a disgusting display and out slithers a grey-human hybrid. 

Luckily, shortly after my husband gives birth and is recovering at home, there are a host of lawyer commercials on television. Each ad appeals to the men who became pregnant through no fault of their own. We retain one attorney’s services and are still waiting for Pez's child support.