by Brian Clark

White House chief of staff Bob Brown enters the Oval Office and settles into a chair in front of President Busby’s desk. The president folds his arms and takes a deep breath.

“OK, Bob, I’m waiting. Do you have an explanation? Why was I not informed?” the president asks sternly.

“Um, well, sir, it seems there was a mix-up over who was supposed to brief you. As a result, no one did. You see, the State Department, Homeland Security, the Defense Department and the Agriculture Department all thought they had jurisdiction in this matter.”

 “Wait a minute,” the president says. “Why would the Agriculture Department brief me about an alien landing?”

“Well, sir, these creatures look a little like … well … vegetables. Broccoli to be more specific.”

“Oh great. I hate broccoli.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just think about the vastness of the universe, Bob. There must be billions of other worlds out there. And what happens? Goddamn aliens land during my watch and they look like my least favorite vegetable.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Well, that’s hardly your fault. But I am still upset about finding out about this on Fox News, even if they don’t have pictures of them yet, just their spacecraft. I mean, Fox is already calling for some kind of space wall. And they say the aliens should pay for it.”

The president sighs and looks out the window. “And now these aliens want to meet with me?”

“Yes, Mr. President, they arrived at the White House about an hour ago.”

“And you say they’re vegetables?”

“No, sir, they only look like vegetables. They’re actually fully functioning animal life forms like us. We know, for instance, that they have a digestive system that’s similar to ours.”

“Really. They only landed a few hours ago, Bob. What, is that the first thing they told us?”

“Well, sir, it was kind of crucial information. You see, it has to do with how they communicate.”

“How they communicate? What do you mean?”

“Um, well, sir, it seems that a virus swept their planet several generations ago and destroyed their vocal cords. So they had to come up with another form of communication. So they learned to … ahh…”

He looks down at the floor.

“Yes, Bob, learned to … what?”

“Learned to communicate using the sounds created by the controlled release of air from their … ahh … anuses.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Well, Mr. President, speaking plainly … um … and at the risk of sounding vulgar … um … they’re fart-talkers.”

There’s a long pause.

“Bob, I’d like you to take a look around you. I’d like you to remember where you are. This is the Oval Office. I am the President of the United States. Together we make decisions here that affect the fate of the country, sometimes of the world. This is no place for jokes.”

“It’s not a joke, sir.”

“Let me make sure I understand this. So what you’re saying is, these guys use flatulence to talk? So on their home planet, if two aliens pass in the street, it’s ‘toot-toot, how are ya?’ Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, they wouldn’t be aliens on their home planet, but aside from that, yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

“OK, well, what does the Pentagon think? Are they convinced these guys are peaceful?”

“Yes, sir, although there was a bit of an incident early on. A general from Andrews was the first senior official to meet them. When the aliens started talking, he took it as threatening action, so he did one of those combat rolls and drew his sidearm. Funny, the rest of the soldiers with him thought the aliens were just a little gassy after a long flight. Too many peanuts, maybe. Anyway, all’s well that ends well.”

The president’s phone buzzes and he picks it up. “Yes, Marge. What? Who’s here? Professor Von who?”

“Oh yes, Mr. President, it’s professor Eric Von Gablehausen, a linguist at Georgetown University,” Brown says. “Please have Marge send him in.”

“Send him in,” the president tells his secretary.

A rumpled old man using a cane enters the Oval Office and takes a chair beside the one Brown occupies in front of the president’s desk.

“Mr. President, I have been asked to brief you about what I’ve learned about the aliens’ form of communication,” says the professor.

“You know, professor, I kind of half expected you’d have a German accent,” the president says. “I guess it’s all the movies I’ve seen.”

“I understand, sir. But I’m from New Jersey.”

“Oh, that’s great. Sorry for the interruption. Carry on.”

“Anyway, Mr. President, I’ve only spent a short period of time with our visitors, but I’ve managed to figure out the basics of their speech. You see, all sounds of speech — ours, theirs, everyone’s — are produced by moving air. The aliens have merely learned to control the air produced by their gastrointestinal systems in order to communicate. So they can vary the pitch, the volume and the rhythm to produce the desired sounds. They employ various types of plosives and fricatives. Not surprisingly, Mr. President, they make extensive use of what sounds like the unvoiced linguolabial trill.”

The president rolls his eyes, obviously baffled by Von Gablehausen’s technical language.

“Look, professor, I just have two questions. One, do you understand what they are” — the president pauses to make finger quotes — “saying?”

“Yes, sir.

“And two, can you speak to them using their form of communication?”

“Well, Mr. President, some of my colleagues are willing to give it a try. They’re filling up on beans right now to give them some staying power.”

“Is that a joke, professor?” the president asks.

“No, sir. You see, beans are filled with sugars known as oligosaccharides and—”

“Thank you, professor, I don’t need a lecture on digestion, too. But it occurs to me, you might let the vice-president try to talk to these guys. He’s always been kind of windy.”

Von Gablehausen and Brown exchange glances.

“Mr. President, I think it would be best to keep the vice-president out of this,” Brown says.

“Oh God, what did he do?”

“The VP already had a brief meeting with the aliens. We thought it best to have him meet with them before you do in case they were …”

“Were what, Bob?”

“Well, I think the term we used when I was a kid was silent but deadly.”

“And were they?”

“No, sir, but there was what I guess you would call a diplomatic incident. You see, when the aliens began to speak, the vice-president, um …”

“Spit it out, Bob.”

“Well, he giggled, sir. And the aliens, I guess they recognized it as laughter, and they were offended. They got rather loud and angry. Trust me, sir, you don’t want to be in the same room as them when they get mad.”

The president groans. “So now what, Bob?”

“Sir, I think it’s time for you to meet with our guests. Professor Von Gablehausen and his colleagues will serve as interpreters. And I think I should warn you, the aliens do seem to be, pardon the expression, long-winded. They’re insisting on briefing you on the long history of their planet.”

“Couldn’t I just get the Reader’s Digest version?”

“Apparently not. In fact, sir … well … it gets worse. The aliens say that protocol requires that before you meet with their main delegation that they send in their … um … choir.”

“What?! Choir?! Oh my God! How many?”

“Looks like about 30 or so, Mr. President.”

“Thirty! And all of them … singing, so to speak, in this office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, OK. Go ahead, Bob, send them in.”

Brown heads towards the door.

“Oh, just one more thing, Mr. President.”

“What is it, Bob?”

“I’d crack a window.”