I went to the door to see who had the nerve to ring my bell at the dinner hour. Had to be either one of those door-to-door meat salesmen or Mormons. Either way, I figured if I gilloolied their knees my neighbors would thank me.
Turned out someone thought Halloween was early this year. "Come back in October," I told them. "I haven't finished inserting the razor blades into the apples."
"We seek a representative of your species," the female said. I could tell she was female because she was drooling as she gazed at me. "We must decide if your planet is salvageable."
I considered sending them to the president, but that would have doomed us all. "I'm your man," I said.
"The value of a species lies in what it produces in the arts. Painting, music, literature..."
I could tell we were in trouble. The only painters we cared about were the long-dead ones, rap was our top-selling music, and the only books anyone read nowadays were ghostwritten celebrity memoirs. We were doomed.
Then it hit me. I brought them inside and fired up my computer. "Our greatest art form," I said, "is the short film. Have a look." I played the Evil Editor Saturday Film Series movies, including the ones that hadn't even been released yet.
They were entranced. They laughed, they cried, they made me play them over and over. And in the end, they spared us all.
Lucky for us I didn't let them get a look at the slush pile in my office.