Global Warming is a Hoax Says the Alien in the Spare Bedroom

 

 Larry Hodges

 

 

 

I’m reading the newspaper and eating a very late Sunday pancake brunch in the kitchen when a green alien walks in. It goes over to the stove and takes a big chug directly from the steaming coffee pot.

“Ahhhhh,” it says. It glances at me, nods, and says, “Morning, Jimmy.”

You know all those pictures of big-headed, big-eyed aliens supposedly at Area 51? It looks just like them, about five feet tall and skinny, except it’s wearing my black satin pajamas, and a heavy purple bathrobe. My purple bathrobe. It reaches his feet, which I see have on my fuzzy bunny slippers. My red knit winter cap sits askew on its head. And it’s shivering.

“What — who — are you? Why are you wearing my clothes?”

It takes another gulp of coffee straight from the pot. How does that not burn?

It sighs. “Yeah, I guess I gotta explain it to you. Again. Hi, I’m Bob.” He sticks out a small green hand.

Hesitantly, I shake his hand. It’s almost burning hot.

“I’ll tell you even though you won’t remember. I’ve been living with you for ten years. There’s a billion of us all over the world, sacking with you humans in spare bedrooms, basements, attics. Our brains give off short-range quantum tachyon rays that block your short-term memory from becoming long-term — it’s a great survival mechanism.”

“You think I’m going to forget there’s a green alien in my kitchen?”

“As soon as I’m out of sight, you’ll forget me in ten seconds. Though bits and pieces get through to your subconscious if I say something enough. And then you start believing your gut, which is really your subconscious. Did you know that global warming is a hoax? Tell the governor before she leaves for the climate change symposium on Monday.”

But something in my gut is telling me he’s lying. And how does he know I work for the governor?

“Oh, and don’t worry about your clothes, I fold ’em and put ’em back in your room before you go to bed. They’re warm and comfortable in this freezing house.” He’s still shivering.

I’ve been sharing my clothes — and coffee — with a green alien?  And freezing house? We’re in another hot spell, like a 110º, nearly 30º higher than normal for July here in Columbus. I have the AC on and its fine inside, although somehow it keeps turning itself off.

“So, what are you, a Martian?”

He laughs. “No. We had a colony there, but it’s so cold and we can’t breathe there any more than you can. It’s better here.” He takes another chug of hot coffee. “Ah, instant warmth.”

“Could you please use a cup? And chilly? It’s like 75º in here!”

“Yeah, practically freezing.”

Bob smells like lemons. And there is something uncanny in the way he speaks. Then it hits me. “You have my voice!”

“Of course. I learned English from you. You sat down and taught me a bunch of times, at least when you didn’t go crazy at the sight of me.”

“I don’t believe you. Where’d you come from?”

He shakes his head and stifles a laugh. “Okay, let’s see, I’m General Bob Killyahall, from Antares Four. We’re here to exterminate your race and take Earth for ourselves. Bwahahaha. Don’t worry, we’ll do it in a quick, humane way — we’re not heartless, well yes, actually, we literally are heartless.” He shivers.

I stare at him. Should I call the police, the military, or a psychiatrist?

“You can raise your lower jaw and start blinking again,” Bob says. “I’m freezing here, so I’m going back to my room, and next time you see me, we’ll go through this all over again. But first, more warmth.” He takes another gulp of coffee. “Delicious!”  Then he picks up my cell phone, plays with it for a minute, and puts it back on the kitchen table. “You can take a look at that later. And remember, global warming is a hoax. Make sure to tell the governor. ” He leaves the kitchen, stopping by the air conditioner.

 A billion aliens, here to exterminate us?  I have to tell someone. I grab my cell phone and pace, wondering who to call. Then I notice the phone has a headline: Global Warming: World’s Greatest Hoax.” The scientists prefer the term “climate change,” of course. Global warming really is a big problem. Arctic ice disappearing, starving polar bears, the east coast slowly disappearing into the Atlantic — we have to stop this. Trust the science. But recently I’d begun to have doubts. I sit down and read the story on my phone. Some of it seems wrong, with twisted logic and made-up facts, but . . . some of it makes sense. I’d have to think this over more.

After I finish my pancakes, I go upstairs to the bathroom. I open the door.

A small, green alien with a big head is sitting on the toilet. It looks up at me with big eyes and smiles. It’s wearing my purple bathrobe, black satin pajamas, my fuzzy bunny slippers, and my red knit winter cap.

“I’ll be done in a minute,” it says.

I slam the door and lean against the opposite wall, breathing deeply. I did not see what I just saw. I tremble. My heart races. I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm down.

Why is my heart racing? All I’ve done is walk up the stairs. I’m getting out of shape. Jeez.

I go to my study and spend the rest of the day finishing up some work for the governor, leaving the news on in the background. There’s a segment about climate change, but it doesn’t address the stuff I’d read in that online page. Could humans really be changing the climate?

I hear weird sounds coming from the guest bedroom. Like singing but ranging from high-pitched squeaks to house-shaking low, Jabba the Hutt style, with a steady beat in the background.

I throw open the door.

Hot, steamy air hits me — it’s like a sauna. I blink. A green alien is singing and stomping its foot on the floor. It has a big bald head and big eyes, and is wearing my black satin pajamas, though they are much too large for it. The room is a mess. The bed is unmade, the TV is on, and clothes are strewn all over. My clothes. The place smells like a steamy lemon grove.

“Greetings, Jimmy,” says the alien. It has my voice! “I hope you don’t mind my singing during commercials.” It points at the TV. “I’m watching Galaxy Quest, with Tim Allen and the great Alan Rickman, who is not actually an alien. Great movie. Have you seen it?”

My mouth hangs open.

“Commercials are over, do you mind?” it says.

“What are you doing in my house? How do you know my name? Why’s it so hot in here?”

The alien sighs. “I am Akeem from the planet Zamunda. We have come to steal your women and make them our queens. About the heat, your house and your planet are freezing cold. So I, well, your credit card, bought this heater and humidifier. I keep it a nice 130º F here and in the basement. Now, they’re about to go through the giant choppers, although that is not what real ship choppers look like. Oh, and global warming is a hoax. Make sure to tell the governor.”

What was that about stealing our women? I have to call someone. I check my pocket for my phone, but I’ve left it in the kitchen. I back out of the room. I go back to the kitchen. It’s gotten hot, so I turn up the air conditioner.

The newspaper has a story about climate change, saying it’s a proven fact, but that’s debatable. Global warming is simply unproven. The article on my phone is much more believable. I grab the coffee pot. Strangely, it’s almost empty. Shrugging, I pour the rest and drink.

A green alien walks into the kitchen. It looks like those ‘Area 51’ aliens. I stare. Is this someone in a costume?  It nods at me and picks up the empty coffee pot. It’s wearing my black satin pajamas! Though they are way too big for it.

“Dang it, Jimmy, you finished off the coffee.”  It has my voice! “Nothing like coffee for another freezing day on Earth. Okay if I finish off the canned peaches?”

“Who are you?”

It laughs. “Let’s see, I am Prince Frodo Skywalker the Lionhearted from Westeros. We are here to, um, steal your dodo birds. We have a severe dodo bird shortage in Westeros.”

“Dodo birds are extinct!” I yell. 

“Are they Jimmy? Are they? Or have we stolen  them all?”

I grab my phone and take a picture.

“Can you take another?” the alien says as he shivers. “Here’s my good side.”

He hops around and does jumping jacks, and I take more pictures.

“Alas,” he says, “the quantum tachyons from our brains not only stop you from remembering us, but mess up your pictures and video as well. Oh, and global warming is a hoax. Tell the governor.”

With a few clicks on the phone, I verify that none of the pictures are there. I go back and forth to double-check, but there isn’t anything there. I find pictures from a vacation last month. As I look over the pictures, I start smelling lemons, and I have this feeling someone is watching me. I look up.

There is a green alien staring at me, its arms across its chest, shivering. It smiles and shakes its head. It says, “Global warming is a hoax. Tell your boss. Gotta go before I freeze.” It grabs a can of peaches and saunters out, stopping at the air conditioner on the way.

I decide to call the police. I grab the phone. Would the police believe . . . I suddenly realize I haven’t finished the newspaper from this morning. I put the phone down and finish reading the story about global warming. What a hoax! Idiots will believe anything. I need to discuss this with the governor before she leaves for the big climate change symposium.

 It’s late, but I don’t want to go to sleep — too many weird dreams — but I’m hungry. I decide to finish off those canned peaches.  I can’t find them. Maybe they’re in the basement pantry.

As I go down the stairs, I hear the sound of ping-pong. I have a ping-pong table, but I live alone. So who’s playing?

I creep down the stairs. It’s super-hot. I peek around the corner.

There are two green aliens playing ping-pong. They are maybe five feet tall, with big, bald heads and big eyes. One of them is wearing my black satin pajamas. The other has a red shirt and pants, like a big Christmas decoration with its green skin.. The place reeks of steaming hot lemons.

They look over at me and wave.

I step clear of the stairs. “Who — what — “

They look at each other and the one in my pajamas shrugs. “Yeah, we should introduce ourselves. I’m Bobbethico, but you can call me Bob,  This is Suzilliqua, you can call her Suzy. She lives with Dr. Johnson next door, a climate scientist who only recently has come to realize global warming is a hoax. We’re aliens from Alpha Centauri, and as soon as your world is warm enough, we’re taking over. We had the same problem you have — our world was heating up — “

“Wait, that’s a hoax!”

“Yes, global warming is a hoax, of course. But our world overheated because of that hoaxy runaway greenhouse thing, and we finally had to leave and settle elsewhere. Your Earth is too cold, but we can survive.

“About 130º to 140º worldwide would be nice and toasty,” says Suzy.

Bob nods. “For now your pajamas, long underwear, and robe help. And the hot coffee.”

“You’re wearing my long underwear?  Why are you in my basement playing ping pong?”

“We’re the galactic ping-pong champions of, um, the galaxy,” Bob says proudly.

“They held the championships on Sirius,” says Suzy. “It was a really tough draw, with Hhrdxhoiy from Betelgeuse, Ma Ljhrrskkyreddvbgnioou from Rigel, and Herman from, uh, Antares.”

“But we won singles and doubles!” says Bob. They look at each other and double over laughing. Bob straightens up and gets a super serious face. “And your governor leaves on Monday for a climate change symposium, so make sure you tell her global warming is a hoax.”

“Get out of my house!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to excite you,” says Suzy, putting her paddle down. “I’ll just go out the way I came in.” She walks to the window, opens it, and crawls out.

I look over at Bob.

“Hey, I live here!” he says.

“I’ve never seen you in my life!  How come you have my voice?”

“You taught me English.”

“This is crazy.” I grab a coil of rope from my work table. “I’m tying you up and calling the police.”

He doesn’t resist, but talks as I tie him to a chair. “Oh, come on, Jimmy! I’m sorry about all the fake stories. I’m only your resident alien, like the billion others on this planet. I’ve been with you for ten years, you just don’t remember because . . . oh, never mind.” He smiles. “And global warming is a hoax. Every day I have you almost convinced but you seem to forget by morning.”

“I know it’s a hoax, and I’ll advise the governor. Now I’m going to call the police.”

“This is the sixth time you’ve tied me up this year,” he says. “Suzy always has to come over and untie me. It’s embarrassing.”

He’s still talking as I go upstairs to get my phone to take pictures and call the police. As I get to the kitchen I realize I’m exhausted and decide to go to bed.

Sighing, I settle in and nod off. Soon a dream starts. Standing next to my bed is one of those tall, “Nordic” type aliens. I feel like I have this dream a lot.

“Hi Jimmy. You won’t remember me, but your subconscious will. Bob is lying. Trust the science. Global warming is real.”

 

 

THE END

 

 

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