When the aliens finally arrive, the first thing they'll do on Earth is stop at the QuickieMart to refuel the spaceship. And when they head inside for a slushee, the first thing they'll see is a magazine rack revealing a truth we earthlings take for granted: American celebrities alone bear the responsibility of repopulating the planet.
The aliens might have trouble grasping the popular magazines (you know, because of the tentacles), but the covers will suffice. BUMP WATCH! Angelina Jolie -- Pregnant Again?! A Baby Came Out of Christina Aguilera! J. Lo's Belly Appears Twin-Sized! Katie Holmes Inseminated with Scientology Sperm! Halle Berry Places Hand on Womb! Gwyneth Paltrow and Gwen Stefani Produce Darling Blondes! Jennifer Garner is a Really, Really Good Mom! The aliens will make guttural coos at the tiny, adorable celebrity offspring. They will marvel at the post-baby shape of the women in their fine gowns, even if the "red carpet-ready lovelies" don't have long-stemmed googly eyes, which, on their planet, is the mark of true beauty. Lacking evidence to the contrary, they will surmise that Earth women become pregnant on their own.
Famous fertility splays across glossy four-color spreads, like bodies lined up on rows of Communist delivery tables. Maybe that's next for photogs on the baby elite beat. Scoop! "Crowning" Hollywood's New Royalty at Cedars-Sinai!
Oh, we've had hints this was coming. But it will take an alien reading the gossip rags while unsuccessfully maneuvering a slushee straw into one of his mouths to clue us in: the most famous of the species serve as incubators for a nation. The rest of us watch with bated breath, refreshing our OMG ! entertainment page for the latest in-utero updates. Sure, there's a war on. And we know about the historic election, okay? Rebuilding, change, blah, blah, blah. But who can concentrate on Afghanistan when there's a rumored post-breakup Vaughniston bun in Jen's oven?
To be sure, non-celebs still may procreate. Some societal circles actually encourage these births, splotchy and hemorrhoidal as they may be. But whereas celebrity pregnancy is effortlessly airbrushed, the unfamous suffer in comparison beneath fluorescent lights. Young and alone, some have to pick up extra shifts at the Wal-Mart, even though the doctor said "Stay off your feet." But the doctor never said, "I'll pay for your child care," so it's off to Aisle 17 to reorganize light bulbs.
Other Average Janes try for babies with uncooperative bodies. Welcome to the world of "insurance forms" and "fertility treatments" and "claim denied." People, where's the sexy glamour? Not in warming a vial of sperm in one's sweaty palm before a nurse shoots it up the old birth canal. Two grand on the Visa for a 20 percent success rate? That's no way to populate a country. If celebs need a clinic's services, the magpie mags keep it hush-hush. No need to dull the glow of pregnancy perfection. Besides, the unlucky leading lady is stimulating the economy with cash.
Pregnant celebrities don't get sausage ankles. They don't toss up their breakfasts -- not due to morning sickness, anyway -- when they hear the words "spinach smoothie." They still attend premieres, perhaps in gowns a bit more tent-like than before, but with spectacular cleavage, glossier hair, and makeup more flawless than any corporate drone obsessively calculating her maternity leave. (Bo-ring!)
No doubt the aliens will wonder who'd ever sign up for such a weighty task. Some young starlets stoically accept the challenge after viewing a particularly moving and inspirational film: You Carry the Hope of a Nation Inside Your Uterus, screened on Saturdays at 7 and 9 p.m. in George Clooney's home theater. Too bad for the paparazzi magnets who not only missed the film, but failed to read the SAG membership fine print. Following a 2001 referendum, the title of "procreation ambassador" came with the dues. (Details were spelled out on the salmon-colored handout, between the paid flier on Scientology and coupons for Spago.)
All this might make our intergalactic travelers a little sad. On their planet, births take place in pods. Small clutches of family and friends gather to celebrate without cameras or bright lights. If flashbulbs existed on Zoltar, they'd blind the little ones' beady orbs. No, there's only the ecstatic parental counting of thirteen webbed toes, thirteen waving tentacles. Nobody chases anybody down the street. Nobody hides behind dark glasses like a suspect en route to arraignment.
But the aliens aren't on Zoltar anymore. They've been to other galaxies. They've heard of L. Ron Hubbard. And someday they will land in QuickieMart USA , home of the slushee and other tasteless American obsessions. Before long, the magazines will hypnotize them. The alien leader will gaze at a cover featuring Angelina Jolie, America's goddess of redemption and reproduction, and telepathically communicate to his companion, "I swear I've seen her before."
"You wish," the other will retort. "You must be thinking of Katie Holmes." |
