The aliens started at my house, or that’s what they told me. They probably told the same story to lots of people.

At first they just ate all my stuff, not my food just anything wood. They said they loved cellulose, and then pushed everything off my desk to eat it. I had to sit with them all day until my girlfriend came home from work. She would pick up two-by-fours on her way home and the aliens would go out to the garage and eat them while we embraced like kidnapped victims back with their family.

“I can hear them laughing about how bad the wood is and how stupid we are,” I said, not letting go of the hug.

“How did today go,” my girlfriend Susan asked.

“We were watching the church scene in ‘Pocahontas’ and they started to ask about Jesus.”

“Oh God, what did you tell them?”

“You never did tell us,” They all squacked as they came back in the house. “So what is Jesus?”

“He is…” Susan started, seeing I was tired of answering them. “He’s the son of… He’s our creator and God.”

They all laughed with their insect faces and saw dust around their mouths. “Your God is a dude, are you serious? Our God is a whole planet, and not even our planet. He’s a separate living planet that has awesome powers and tons of money.”

“Well Jesus is our God, but he also has a father who is like everything.” I found myself explaining a religion I barely believed in, like making out with a co-worker when the Earth is about to explode.

“What kind of powers does he have,” they asked.

“Like all the powers I guess.”

“Make him move that couch.”

“He doesn’t do stuff like that.”

“Milty,” they all yelled out at once, “move that couch.”

And the couch moved, all the way to the middle of the room. And then, on command, the TV moved. And so did my bills into the toilet, and the toilet flushed when requested, and then Milty agreed the toilet should be pulled out and thrown out the window.

I felt like what the Native Americans must have felt like when they saw the Puritans with their giant boats, big guns, and Gods who obviously loved them more.

“Can your God make you poop your pants,” one of them asked me.

“No,” I said, fed up and able to see where this was going.

And Milty was asked and my bowels answered. I couldn’t think of anything to do but remove myself from the situation in my head. I thought about my girlfriend, and how I was glad she was there, even if I pooped my pants. I thought about Milty, a god who had the time and focus to put his powers towards my intestinal embarrassment. When did Jesus ever make me poop my pants?

And that’s when it hit me how I was going to survive further embarrassment and almost certain alien apocalypse.

“Tell me about Milty,” I said. “How can I get him into my life?”