My fellow-citizens of the moon,
Today marks fifty years since we narrowly avoided annihilation. On July 20, 1969, we were invaded by humans from Earth. We take time every year to remember that day so that we will never be caught off guard again. What did they want? Why did they come? Why did they just jump up and down for a bit and then leave? We may never know.
First came one human, then a second followed. Our scouting report told us that a third human stayed behind in the spacecraft. This must have been the most important human, since they clearly wanted to keep him safe. He must be very famous back on Earth—everyone probably knows his name down there.
Their arrival was, to put it mildly, a big surprise. Humans had been down on Earth for hundreds of thousands of years, but they had always kept to themselves. They never even came by to say hello, like a normal neighbor. Folks come from Saturn all the time, just to hang out and watch TV. And they have a way longer ride back home.
At first, we thought this was a peaceful, diplomatic mission. Perhaps they were finally coming by to say hello and watch TV. (We have great TV shows.) But usually when someone comes over to say hello—well, they say, “Hello.” Instead, the first human delivered a message so cryptic that our scholars are mystified by it to this day.
“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” How can a step also be a leap? What a weird thing to say.
To make things more confusing, the humans made no effort to communicate with us. They acted like we weren’t even there. They seemed a lot more interested in our rocks and dirt. Those idiots—they have rocks and dirt on Earth! What they don’t have is a comfy, low-gravity couch. Have you ever watched “The Bachelor” while sitting on a couch in one-sixth the Earth’s gravity? Try it—I bet you’d give your final rose to the couch.
The humans spent a few hours jumping up and down, driving a clunky car, and putting our dirt into some little bags. And then it happened: they planted their flag. Or, to be more specific, one of their flags. They have hundreds of flags, because they have a hard time living together.
But it was at that moment, when they shoved their flag into our dirt—it was then that we knew they had come here not to hang out and watch TV, not even to say hello. They had come for war.
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They planted their flag, got back in their lunar module, and rejoined the most important human in their spacecraft. And then they left.
We assumed that they were going to get reinforcements. There are billions of them down there, after all. But they had an odd way of fighting—other humans returned a handful of times over the next few years, always in pairs. Each time, they’d do the same thing: jump around a bit, drive a clunky car, take some dirt, plant a flag, and leave. It was almost as if they simply enjoyed the act of declaring war.
Then, after a few years, they stopped coming altogether. We had won! We had valiantly defended ourselves from an extraterrestrial attack, just by waiting—our favorite method of self-defense.
It’s been more than four decades now since the last humans left. Their flag remains here to this day, and we leave it up as a reminder that we must remain vigilant, for at any moment they could come back to claim what they believe to be theirs for the taking.
Will we be ready? Will they catch us unawares? What did they do with our dirt? Will they finally bring more than two people and take over our home? If these questions frighten you, remember this: We control the tides! We light up the night! We have comfier couches! We are moon citizens, and we will never give in!