The Blue Potato Alien Incident: A Christmas Tale [Story #7]

The Johnsons were having a perfectly normal Christmas dinner when the tiny flying saucer showed up. It streamed down the chimney and through the crackling fire; it swerved around the carefully decorated Christmas tree, over the nativity set, and around several ceramic reindeer that Patricia Johnson kept on display (a new deer every year—she was up to about 45 of the jumping, kicking, frolicking, kissing statues).

The four members of the Johnson family stared wide-eyed and gaped-mouth at the little saucer as it came to a halt right between the Christmas ham and a basket of biscuits on the table. But, like any good Midwestern family, they didn’t scream or cause a fuss—they just sat quietly until a miniscule hatch door dropped into the biscuit basket and two aliens scuttled down the gangplank.

“Greetings earthlings,” one of them said, crab-walking toward Jason, the youngest of the bunch. When Jason didn’t reply, the alien turned to its counterpart and whispered loudly, “Why aren’t they responding? We were told to say that when we met them.”

“Well, it’s a bit cliché, i’n’t it?” Jason said, looking down at the alien duo. They resembled something like tall blue potatoes with a couple little arms poking out of their bulbous bodies. A set of crab legs supported their bodies and thrummed on the table when they stood still.

“Cliché, he says?” Alien One pouted. “We should have thought of something original. No matter.”

“Ahem,” Howard Johnson cleared his throat and caught the aliens’ attention. “I’m sorry to ask, but what are you doing here? Showing up in the middle of Christmas dinner, skittering over our biscuits. Bit rude, isn’t it?”

“Howie!” Patricia scolded. “Where are your manners? They’ve likely had a long flight from…wherever they’re from. Why don’t you offer them a plate and a glass of hot cider?”

Howard blinked at his wife. “Well, dear, I—uh…”

“Quite all right,” Alien Two held up a forked hand. “We don’t eat your kind of sustenance. Our preferred food source is scathing sarcasm and methane gases.”

“Ha!” Julia Johnson said from across the table. “Jason’s got plenty of both.”

“Does he?” the slit in Alien Two’s face curled up into something like a grin. “Maybe a snack later, then. Right now, we’d best get down to business.”

“Business?” Howard raised an eyebrow. “What business could you possibly have here?”

“We’re trying to understand what this Christmas thing is all about. We’re researchers, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“So, if you don’t mind, we’d like to start asking you some questions.”

“Ask away,” Patricia said warmly, “and if you change your mind about that plate of food, let me know. Howard makes a delicious creamed corn that you simply have to try.”

“Right,” said Alien One. “To business.” It pulled out a tiny box from some cavity in its body and pressed a button. “December 25^th,” it said to the box, “6:30 in the evening. 124 Shepherd’s Lane, Lakefieldton, Minnesota, United States, Planet Earth, Solar System 152935, Milky Way Galaxy, Local Group 92457, Laniakea Supercluster, Universe 31117094.” Alien One scanned the room. “Test subjects chosen for their normalcy. Upon cursory inspection, this appears to be the case. An average family by all accounts.”

“Hey now!” Howard squirmed in his chair. “We’re not that normal. We’ve got esoteric interests and…”

“Oh you’re quite wrong about that,” the alien said cheerfully. “You lot are as normal as it gets. Average by all accounts. Smack dab in the middle of all our scales. Now where was I?”

“Just getting to the questioning bit,” Alien Two reminded its counterpart.

“Ah, yes. Let me jump right in.” Alien One held its box between its own little body and that of Patricia Johnson. “If you’d please, ma’am, will you explain the relevance of this Jolly Saint Nick character to this whole affair?”

“I—um,” Patricia hesitated. “He brings good little children presents and wears red and has eight reindeer.”

“Fascinating,” the alien said, moving its entire blue potato body. “Only the good ones, eh? And how does he relate to your Christmas muse?”

“Christmas muse?”

“Yes, this Jesus fellow. How does he relate?”

“Ah,” said Patricia. “I’m—uh, not sure that he does. The idea of Santa Claus just adds a bit of fun to the whole thing, you know? Like bunnies at Easter.”

“Hmm. Okay. And the pine tree in the corner?” Alien One turned to Julia. “How does that fit into the whole scheme? Many pine trees where this Jesus fellow is from?”

“No, dummy. He was born in the desert.”

“Julia! Your manners.”

“Sorry, Mom, but everyone knows that.” Julia shrugged. “I guess we decorate Christmas trees because it brings light and Christmas cheer to everyone. It gets awfully dark in the wintertime.”

Alien One nodded. Alien Two scuttled forward and grabbed the box. “My turn,” it said, turning to Howard. “I’ll ask you this next one, if you don’t mind. Why do you slaughter pigs and put them at the center of your feast table? Is it a sacrifice to the Christmas muse?”

Howard hesitated. “Well, no. That wouldn’t make sense, would it? Jesus was brought up in the Old Testament traditions, so he didn’t eat pork, did he? Or shrimp cocktail, I suppose,” Howard glanced down at the shrimp tails on his plate.

“Hmm,” Alien Two said. “But do you suppose this Saint Nick fellow would approve of Christmas ham and shrimp cocktails?”

“I—uh, I suppose he wouldn’t mind much. German, wasn’t he? At least I think that’s where the Santa Claus legend began…”

“Okay, very good.” Alien Two turned to Jason. “Here’s one for you, young earthling. Where do all the miniature people fit in? You know, the ones surrounding Santa Saint Nick?”

“They’re called elves. They’re the ones who make the toys. But only for the good children. The naughty ones get lumps of coal.”

“Fascinating.”

The evening carried on like this. The aliens would take turns asking questions; the members of the Johnson family would take turns answering them. After nearly two hours, Alien One turned to the family and said, “I think we have what we need. Many thanks to all of you. I’ll send you a copy of my report once it’s written. A very Merry Christmas to you all.”

The pair skittered into the flying saucer and zipped away, over the Johnson’s cat (who’d been watching the aliens suspiciously from his cat perch and was now trying bat the saucer down with rapid swipes of his paw), past a mound of discarded wrapping paper, and back up the chimney.

The Johnsons sat, blinking at each other for several seconds. Finally, Patricia said, “My, the creamed corn has gone stone cold. How ‘bout I heat it up?”

***

Normalcy found its way back into the Johnson family. They kept the blue potato alien incident to themselves and went about their respective businesses—attending school, commuting to work, attending a variety of dull committees and clubs. After a few months, they forgot about the tiny alien researchers…until a letter arrived on their doorstep.

The address was so long it filled up the entire envelope and ended in Universe 31117094.

Jason opened it first and pulled out the contents: A one-paragraph research summary. It read:

FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF OUTMODED CUSTOMS AND BIZARRE TRADITIONS OF HUMANOID SPECIES

Christmas is the embodiment of a centuries-long struggle between the dark forces of one, Jolly Saint Nicholas (alias Santa Claus, alias Kris Kringle, etc., etc.) and the light forces of one, Jesus Christ (alias Lamb of God, alias Redeemer of the World, etc., etc.). Using his minions to promote a culture of consumerism and greed, St. Nick rampages across the globe, striking fear into the hearts of children everywhere as they wonder if the red-clothed ogre will deliver them a gift of coal or a symbol of rampant Capitalism (usually in the form of a cheap plastic figurine or an electronic doodad). So great is the human race’s fear of this white-bearded devil, that they leave offerings of dairy liquid and sweetened dough to appease his indefatigable thirst for wonton consumerism and chaos. The counterforce of this dark menace is Jesus, a newborn child who is usually found surrounded by donkeys, camels, and various robed people (Wiccans? Druids?). We can only surmise that they are forming a protective wall around the child so that the reindeer-riding menace does not snatch him out of his cradle. Many families attempt to capture the positive forces that this Jesus character represents by decorating sacred pine trees with lights, but the wrapped gifts under the sacred pine—symbols of Santa’s dark dominance—often undercut the entire notion. Furthermore, the humanoids seem to dwell very little on the conflicting symbols of the bizarre Christmas holiday. They prefer to happily eat ham, buttered biscuits, and various sugar doughs (often bedecked with another coating of sugar, for good measure) as they listen to seasonal music and drink sugar-egg beverages.

END OF SYNOPSIS. DETAILED REPORT TO FOLLOW.

Jason stared at the paper for a couple seconds. He shrugged and set it on the table. “Sounds about right.”

Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, marketer, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.