I asked their leader, a tiny fellow named Gorblab[1], what possible interest my garden could hold for interstellar travelers such as themselves. He just smiled, gave me a sly look and kept on pruning my petunias.
This air of mystery which they keep about themselves is annoying enough, but what really burns my goat is that they won’t give me a lift to the market. Here they are, with a spaceship that can travel the inter-galactic void but when I mention I’m running low on Cream-o-wheat[2] all I get are vague excuses like “quantum velocities are not to be used in planetary gravitational wells.” Whatever that means.[3]
I guess I should count my blessings. Fairies would have been worse. The nuisance of their constant buzzing and humming would interrupt my naps and their incessant giggling would rankle me like fingernails on a chalkboard.[4] Can you imagine bending down to sniff a lovely flower and finding some pixie’s bare bottom staring up at you from the center of the bloom?[5]
So, I tolerate the spacemen in my solarium. I have been and will remain a good host. But I fear for the world’s farina supply.
[1] At least that’s what I think he said. It’s kind of hard to understand these little fellows sometimes. I don’t know where they learned to speak English.
[2] They eat this for every meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner and late night snack.
[3] Hell, if it means I have to pay for the gas I’ll do it.
[4] Let’s not even speak of their deep seated disregard for decorum with their blatant nudity.
[5] Contrary to popular belief pixie bottoms are not sweet smelling.
I am Karl Fogsen. Thanks for reading.
