Attack of the Superions
By Michael FowlerThe Superions are here. They are among us now. They are supersmug. They are hypercritical. Supercilious doesn’t begin to describe them. To regain our dignity, we must fight to the death against their unrelenting snootiness.
“Is that all you earn?”
“What did you marry her for?”
“Gee that’s a nice sweater.”
“Who da man?”
Tall slender Superion walks into our government office. Greenish pallor on him. Nose out of joint, pursed lips, jerky nods of the great green cranium. Here to assess our mail sorting operation in case they decide to take it over. His irony kills.
“Listen up!”
“Get a bonus this year?”
“Can you sort any slower?”
“Gee that’s a nice sweater.”
The mother ship hovers over all our major cities. There’s only one ship, we know that from infiltration that cost ten lives, but it appears over Washington, Moscow, Paris, London, Beijing, Kabul, Baghdad, Lima, etc., all at the same time, day and night. Our top scientists say: Hmmm. Each version has a giant dayglow rendition of “the finger” painted on, so that the ship flips the bird to our greatest metropolitan areas without remission.
And their voices, dripping scorn and rapping like Eminem, come over our radio bands.
“What a fabulous little town.”
“Have running water do you?”
“Hey manu mana manu, wha’s up?”
“Think fast!”
It turns out some of the worst jagoffs we’ve been working with for years were advance scouts. Ted in building services, who responded to our requests for a new copier with “Why, you have that much work?” and to reports of a leaky fire sprinkler with “Don’t you have an umbrella?” is one. Jim in quality control, who burned out our printer doing reports for his own unit and said, “Did you expect me to walk to the printer downstairs?” and who expects us to use an illegible employee evaluation form, saying, “If I can read it, you can,” is another. All over the globe they reveal themselves fearlessly once the attack is under way while we sit helplessly thinking, “I should have seen through them.” Their remarks seem twice as deadly now.
“You know you’re really not as good as I am.”
“Can you comprehend simple instructions?”
“Gosh that’s an interesting tie.”
“Isn’t that right, Bud?”
Psychological research proves that the way to deal with haughtiness is not to show fear, for that only invites renewed attacks. Nor respond in kind, since that escalates the incursion out of hand. Rather, the thing to do, at least in theory, is to ignore the invasion, and simply look at the invaders as if we refuse to comprehend their nasty attitude. The way this fails to work burns us up.
“I know you hear me.”
“Got lockjaw?”
“Who da man?”
“Listen up!”
The mother ship or ships have so far proved impervious to our attacks. Our jets and missiles have no effect. Our radio and microwave jamming devices: ditto. We watch in despair as our bombs and rockets explode harmlessly in the sky. We listen in rage as the rap comes down.
“Was that an attack?”
“Hey manu mana manu, wha’s up?”
“Oh, I think you got me that time…Not!”
“Isn’t that right, Bud?”
We finally decide to fight fire with fire. We put a comedian on the airwaves. He calls them green hockey pucks. He tells them if they were really superior, they’d prove it on the tennis court. Finally he mentions they aren’t scoring with earth chicks, who mistake Superions for limes. The response is immediate and devastating.
“Where’s the punch line?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“When does the headliner come on?”
“Think fast!”
My buddy Chris comes into my office panting, his blood high. He’s killed one, he thinks. He brained Buddy Target, a known Superion in payroll, with a fire extinguisher. Buddy shriveled up after he conked him, Chris says, like the wicked witch of the west in water. But then he might have got up and walked away, Chris isn’t sure. I shake my head sadly and say, “What were you thinking, Chris? Buddy works here and now I have to file an incident report. This isn’t the way.” Then we hear Buddy over the intercom.
“Someone combed my hair funny.”
“Say Chris, do you have anything for a headache?”
“You guys knock me out.”
“Hey manu mana manu, wha’s up?”
At an emergency town council meeting lawyer Scott McGinn says, “You folks don’t know what you’re facing. There’s nothing you can do. They’re superior in every way and you don’t have the brains to resist.” He begins to turn green as he talks. Police Sergeant Tim Wilson, in attendance at the meeting, notes the change in McGinn and announces, “Folks, I believe we have a Superion here.” He leads off the smirking McGinn who says, “I’ll be back.” Next meeting, he is. So is Sergeant Wilson, and we have never seen a man look so pissed off. We don’t know what words passed between them.
Nothing can be done to stem the Superion tide. Soon they are marrying our women, some of whom even appear to love them. Their offspring are known as dorks. After months of waiting, I am finally invited to a Superion wedding.
“Who sent you an invitation?”
“Friend of the bride, groom, or neither?”
“You couldn’t buy your way into the reception, pal.”
“Who da man?”
By now we’ve pretty much surrendered. We even think we deserve them. Those who don’t keep their mouths shut.
Michael Fowler ain't afraid of women but he is shy of hosses. He lives in Cincinnati, Ohio.