What About The Moon?

Sorry it’s been so long since I could post one of these! I give you, my sad attempts at humor!!! Yay…..

 

What About The Moon?

By Phoenix B. Meadows

“Cows aren’t boring,” he said, rolling his single, silver-green eye for emphasis.

The other waved a hand that was mostly tentacle. “You, are boring,” she replied.

He couldn’t object to this statement. Their last two hundred and sixty-seven dates had been on earth, doing, you know, the normal: seeing movies while disguised in the skins of different human celebrities, stealing cows from farmers (because who doesn’t like to watch humans run around waving their little arms and screaming in frustration? Bilzon 9O2 thought it was very romantic—his girlfriend did not.), and deatomizing circles in fields, then watching the humans try to find patterns in them beyond the starter deatomizing stencil set that came with every inter-space ship since the early 60,000’s, every bit as standard edition as the DIY dissection-kit-for-morons—after all, human is one of the softest materials on this, that, or any other planet. They’re just so darn squishy. It’s utterly irresistible.

Bilzon 9O2, or Bilz, as most people called him—since calling a friend by his creation number is in no uncertain terms, awkward—thought many things though. Most of them did not earn his girlfriend’s seal of approval, and so he thought them too quiet for her to hear. Though sometimes she would suddenly round on him and shout, “I heard that!” He was fairly certain she couldn’t though, since most of the times he’d been thinking about whether he wanted brains or pepperoni on his pizza—it’s a hotter debate than pineapple, don’t judge him. Or do, he probably won’t give a farting tiddlywink what you humans think.

Right now though, Bilz was finding himself in a rather tight spot. His girlfriend didn’t want to do any of the things he could think of, and she positively hated his cramped and cluttered inter-space ship for anything other than to get from point A to point F, so that seemed to skip over corny make out sessions.

She stomped a tentacle. “Bilz? Are you listening to me?”

He blinked, and realized he’d been looking off into nothing. “I… um.” His stuttering, seemed a good enough answer.

“You never listen to me, Bilz!” She shouted, stomping her tentacles in a little wave.

“Platypus,” he said, hoping the pet name would calm her. “I always listen to you.”

This, was not true. In fact, Bilz spent most of his time automatically toning out her voice once it hit a certain octave. Of course, this is not the thing you say to your girlfriend who is many times your size, has three times as many limbs, and a temper as big as a full grown male African elephant.

He smiled placatingly in a show of his small, baby sized teeth.

Her gaze bore into his eye, and he resisted the urge to blink. “Okay, wiseguy,” she snapped, “what’d I say then?”

Bilz paused, mind running over the possibilities. He landed on either complaining about him, or one of her friends—who seemed more like targets than friends to him, but he only had one eyes, so maybe he was missing something—as the most likely of the dozens of options.

“I’m not good enough for you,” he proclaimed, because she always seemed to enjoy it when he told her how much better she was than everyone. “You need a nice strong Vvizen, not a shrimpy Ghiilz like me.”

Her tentacles writhed in pleasure. “Vvizen are hot.”

“They are,” he agreed. “So hot, like a nuclear implosion.”

The grin she gave was positively terrifying. “Maybe I’ll dump you then, find myself one of them.”

Bilz knew she wouldn’t, she just enjoyed the thought, and his reaction to it. So he dropped to his knees. “No, please. Please, you know I need you, Platypus. Who else will tell me what to do?”

She looked down at him as he wrung his hands in an exaggerated manner.

“Oh fine,” she said finally. “You need someone to do it. Get up.”

Already with the orders. He stood though, and she let him hug her and kiss the tops of her front two tentacles. Once, he’d kissed the other side, and they’d had to go to the doctor to detach it from his lower lip and chin. The entire thing had been a humiliation that Bilz was loathed to repeat—even the doctor had laughed at him.

“Lets keep it simple,” he suggested. “Lets just have a picnic on the moon.”

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