Previous Article - X-Entertainment - Next Article --- By Matt - 7/20/'02

E.T. wasn't the only freak from outer space to travel millions of light years just to taste the sweet peanut buttery goodness of Reese's Pieces. To some, they're just little globs of candy. To others, they're the world. And it's difficult to argue with such an extremist opinion about something as trivial as candy when you consider just how good Reese's Pieces really are. They're deceptively popular. Everyone loves RPs, but nobody ever really talks about it. It's like one of those subconscious things. But go to any birthday party, and look at what's eaten up the quickest. It's not gonna be the Mary Janes or the Dots or even the licorice - it's gonna be Reese's. So we can't fault space aliens for making such a long journey. You can only buy Reese's Pieces on one planet, and there's no way we can deny the rest of the universe a candy so great.

You all know what E.T. looks like, so today we'll focus on that other alien - the only other UFO on whom we've established positive photographic evidence of - this is one martian who understands the power of confectionary sugar. You might remember him, you might not, but it doesn't matter much anyway since the thing bought so much Reese's Pieces on his last visit, he probably won't need to come back till the mid 2080s. By then it's probable we'll all be dead, but absolutely definite that they'll be marketing Reese's Pieces colored in Shocking Electric Blue.

It all started at some old guy's general store. Even fifteen years ago, this place was outdated. The only thing the man really went out of his way to restock was milk - everything else just sat on the shelves for years like this was a dilapidated food museum, and he was the curator. In truth, he was just too set in his old style ways. Times were changing. The customers wanted more from their supermarkets and delis, but Old Man Curator for the life of him couldn't figure out what he should be doing differently.

He hadn't had a customer in days, if you don't count the guy who faked an asthma attack just so he could run out the store without paying for half a pound of Old Man Curator's famous honey-glazed turkey. So, when he sees the general store's doors fly open, he's ecstatic. Finally, a customer! Him and Ma Curator won't have to get second jobs or donate plasma after all!

But something seemed a tad off. Usually the silhouettes of oncoming customers didn't look so...otherworldly. Old Man Curator didn't think much of it, though - his sight isn't what it used to be, and as a general exercise, he spends most mornings getting hammered. Dim lighting and cataracts are other factors, too. OM Curator sees no reason to get the shotgun, at least not yet anyway. Why scare off the only potential customer you've had in a month on the extremely off-chance he's a space alien? Economically speaking, it'd be a huge mistake. And at his age, OM Curator can't afford to make huge mistakes without people throwing around words like 'senility' and 'hospice' as an accompaniment. He'll just have to wait this one out.

As the mysterious being draws closer, OM Curator finds himself a little more nervous than he'd like to be. His human customers typically don't have blue skin - except for that one time when the rowdy city folk stumbled in. They were in town for a NY Giants game, all naked and painted in the team's colors, and our friendly Curator was forced to deal with several inferences that he was dating, married to, and/or fucking his cousin. OM hasn't been too fond of city folk since then.

But just as the Curator gets lost in a sea of disheartening memoria, the mysterious customer makes his presence known. He's a space alien, and more importantly, a space alien with money to burn. Can the Curator look past his own prejudices and make the sale before it's too late? Let's find out.

The alien speaks in a strange, foreign dialect. We're not sure what he wants. I guess he could be asking the Curator to be taken to our leader. I dunno, if that was me, I'd definitely pretend to be the supreme ruling dictator of Earth. It's not because I want to fuck with aliens, it's just that I know they're more likely to do me a favor if they think I run the show. My softball team could really use an extra-terrestrial cleanup hitter.

Old Man Curator desperately tries to decipher the alien's needs, and just by chance, finds himself offering up a small bag of Reese's Pieces. There's several reasons for this. Firstly, it worked in E.T., so why would it be any different now? More importantly, the Curator isn't sure how aliens go about eating food. Who knows if they even use their mouths? He can't very well offer up pot roast - who knows if it'll offend him? You don't want to piss off an alien, the chances remain high that they're carrying ultimate nullifier rayguns. Why then, would you offer this candy over everything else? Simple. No matter what digestive processes this alien uses, this has to be the safest bet. After all, there's no wrong way to eat a Reese's.

Will the alien take the bait? The fate of mankind at large depends on it. Now is not the time for the Curator to worry about the currency exchange between Earth dollars and Saturn dollars. Now is the time for diplomacy. Who knows, maybe the government will throw OM one of those leftover Purple Heart awards for his troubles.

You know what I like about Reese's Pieces? If you just shake the sealed bags, they double as really cheap maracas. When the novelty wears off, you can eat the whole thing and claim that you've got 'music in your soul' to all who'll listen. That's a whole lot of plus sides for a measly 79 cents. I doubt the alien would want 'em for that reason, but it'd be a terrific visual if he started shaking them while singing Buster Poindexter's Hot, Hot, Hot. Corellian Calypso?

And the alien likes it! Reese's saves the fate of humanity...again! Old Man Curator couldn't be happier. Actually, he'd be a little bit happier if the alien paid for the candy. But all things considered, things couldn't have turned out better. Our friendly UFO happily gobbles up the Reese's before looking lovingly towards OM, as if to say: 'Thanks for the candy. I had planned to eat you but this is even better.'

Just as mysteriously as he arrived, the alien returns to his ship. Well, we're not really sure he's headed towards his ship, but it'd make more sense than having him skip to the nearest bowling alley or pizzeria. Will we ever see him again? Probably not, Reese's didn't want to become a one-trick pony with this space alien crap. Pretty soon kids were gonna assume that Reese's was strictly for aliens, in the same way beer was strictly for adults. I'm not kidding - for years I wouldn't eat any type of stew because I was positive it was only for dogs. So yes, the alien is gone - this time for good. We'll all miss him. The only other place you might've seen him is in comic book advertisements, but aliens-in-print as opposed to the real thing is really scraping the bottom of the barrel if we're talking about passable consolation prizes. Bye, Alien. Take good care of yourself.

Ma: Who was that?
Curator: I'm not sure. I think it was that sick kid from down the street.
Ma: What did he want?
Curator: Reese's Pieces.
Ma: Interesting. I didn't hear the register drawer open.
Curator: I kinda gave it to him for free.
Ma: What in tarnation? Pa, that money coulda bought us chicken feed for weeks.
Curator: Don't worry. I lifted his wallet when he turned around.
Ma: Okay good. How much loot we get?
Curator: Well, there's no cash. But there's gotta be at least fourteen ounces of plutonium here. We could just feed that to the chickens.
Ma: Oh, we can't. They're still reeling from the effects of last night's dinner.
Curator: You're the one who said chickens were cannibals!

- Matt
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Related Links: E.T. Movie Review - Santa Claus vs. The Martians