Romulans In The Bakery

Yesterday, my to-go order for chicken salad from the corner bakery was taken by a Romulan.

Nope, it wasn't an early Halloweenie get-up; his deep-set eyes, straight black hair, over-arched eyebrows, and funny frontal forehead ridges were more obvious than the upper bunk accoutrement's of a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. And his accent? Thicker than the foam on a draft Shiner Boch.

 

Nonchalantly following his actions and responses to the customers at his section of the order counter, I attempted to keep my observations less apparent, but once or twice I caught him returning my perusal with his own defiant "you wanna piece of me" stare.

Now, this small establishment is well-beloved by downtown workers for its delicious desserts. And right there among the tiny pumpkin bundts and German chocolate brownies, I discern an Osol Twist tucked behind a lemon tart. Am I the only one who sees this?

Getting a little panicky, I looked around for possible back-up: the two ladies right behind me were oblivious to anyone or thing except their own juicy office gossip, and the young men in front of me were just that - too young to understand or care about Romulans, so it was pointless to enlist the aid of my fellow line mates. After all, Romulans have been part of these typical gamers' lives for several years.

"Whas's the big deal?", they would say with a slacker shrug.

Known for their great ability to sneak in and out of galaxies using their signature cloaking talent, an accurate headcount of Romulans in our communities is an impossible task. They bypass all legal methods of planetary entry and cut in line (if you will pardon the school girl phrase), and reshape our part of the universe more to their liking. Taking jobs most Americans deem as lowly, they insidiously have become part of our daily fabric. And sure enough, I counted six Romulans in the back as the kitchen door swung briskly with the ins and outs of the waitstaff with food-laden trays.

The invasion is more than well underway, Jean Luc.