Photo provided by Felix Grant, who actually found these aliens in his dishwater... the poor man.
I blame this on Harold. I tell him to buy the "earth friendly" dish soap, but instead that cheapskate knucklehead goes for the knock-off brand, and look what I get. Aliens in my dishwater. On Earth Day, no less.
They have no manners, these aliens. Right in the middle of scrubbing I hear, Take me to your leader... blah, blah, blah... As if I couldn't possibly be the head of this household. And here I am, elbow deep in bacon grease and alien heads. You'd think I have nothing better to do than give Earth tours to illegals.
I'll tell you what, if Harold knows what's good for him, he'll keep his rear end planted in that La-Z-Boy of his. When I get my dishpan hands on him, he'll be wishing he lived on Mars.
"Marcy, where's the remote?" he has the nerve to shout from the living room.
"I don't know, Harold!" I says. "Why don't you check Uranus?"