The aliens communicate with me by speaking into a handheld credit card processing unit, which then prints out the translation onto long strips of white paper.
Our flight to Mars is navigated by an autistic boy with oddly balloon-like legs. He is obsessed with accented letters. He is delighted when I introduce him to the circonflexe.
We hear that the aliens are landing in Toronto. This is pretty close, so we decide to leave town. I try to get our family into the station wagon, but people keep getting back out of the car, for stupid reasons. It is like playing Whac-A-Mole. It is so frustrating. I mean, THE ALIENS ARE COMING.