The Soup

Who would have thought that a simple trip to the grocery store for my wife would have resulted in this? All I can say is, I'm never buying any off-brand anything again. Especially not soup.

Wanda had asked me to pick up one item: a can of Cranston's Cream-of-Mushroom soup. Her brother and his family were scheduled to arrive that evening, on a rare weekend visit, and she was determined to make her famous "Magical Mystery Casserole" for dinner. Cranston's Cream-of-Mushroom is the 'mystery' ingredient.

But the Shop n' Save didn't have Cream-of-Mushroom. I scoured the shelves, I even dug back behind the other cans of useless non Cream-of-Mushroom flavored Cranston's soups, but no. They were out. When queried as to the status of the Cream-of-Mushroom situation, the slack-jawed manager shrugged and muttered "Delivery Tuesday". The barely legal checkout girl he was half-heartedly flirting with with flashed me a bright, ingratiating smile and asked "Do you want us to call you when it comes in?" I shook my head and walked back to the soup section to see if there was another brand that might pass muster. Mission impossible, I knew, but I wasn't about to go home empty-handed.

When the aliens come to get me this Saturday, I'll tell them that. That I didn't want to go home empty-handed, and that's why I fell for their little ruse, opting in the end for a can of soup with a label remarkably similar to Cranston's, except that instead of saying "Cranston's Cream-of-Mushroom", this can proudly displayed the words: "Crayfish's Queen-of-Muffin Soup".

"Queen-of-Muffin" is clearly not the same thing as "Cream-of-Mushroom". I could have chosen any of half a dozen other brands of mushroom soup instead. But the label looked almost identical, and my hope was that maybe Wanda wouldn't notice the actual words on the label and would just use it anyway, blissfully ignorant of the fact that it wasn't Cranston's, and somehow it would magically taste the same.

Because the label looked the same.

I know. I panicked.

But to my surprise this stupid strategy actually worked. Wanda added it to the casserole without even looking. And though it didn't taste like her usual "Magical Mystery Casserole", it actually tasted better. It was almost orgasmically delicious. The dinner guests were beside themselves. Wanda was bemused, but obviously pleased, and everybody had a great time.

And that was when the doorbell rang. Apparently "Queen-of-Muffin" is the actual name, in an actual alien language, for actual aliens who are here to take over our planet. Who would ever in a million years have imagined that the name by which they call themselves, when written out in their own alien print, looks exactly like a random combination of words from the English language? Of course it's pronounced completely differently, and it means something else entirely in their language, "Triumphant Despoilers of Quadrant 59, Sector 8 of the Nebulon Star System", or something to that effect. But to an English speaking Earthling it looks exactly like "Queen-of-Muffin".

The only permission needed, apparently (according to intergalactic federation rules or whatever), for them to initiate the conquest of this planet was for a native inhabitant to willingly accept and eat some of the food they brought. Knowing that their appearance would give them away if they showed themselves (the one who came to our door was eight feet tall and covered with downy yellow feathers, something like an anorexic Big Bird except that his face sported three large, iridescent compound eyes), they opted instead to manufacture cans of soup that looked exactly like Cranston's Cream-of-Mushroom, except with the name of their people on the front (why? I dunno, I guess it would have been cheating if they'd made it look exactly like Cranston's, according to federation rules blah blah blah...), and snuck it onto the grocery store shelves. And I was the first doofus to buy one.

Like I said, I panicked.

So now the aliens are coming to our house, this Saturday, to take me to a victory ceremony. They've destroyed several major cities and obtained the surrender of all governments in a matter of days, and now, apparently, it's Miller time. Wanda and I are busily straightening up in preparation for their visit, trying to put our best foot forward. She even had me clean that dirty window in the basement that nobody ever sees.

The one who came to our door, Bleebok, tells me the festivities are going to be epic. He says their beer tastes even better than their soup.

I'm not sure how to feel about all of this.