Billions were petrified when Mars was larger than the full Moon in the night sky.

Believers packed houses of worship around the clock. Interpreters of arcane texts warned of Armageddon. Governments tried desperately to reassure the masses. "Yes the Moon will once again become brighter than Mars. No, the Martians aren't going to attack. Yes, Mars will soon return to its usual place in the solar system. No, chickens aren't laying eggs with maroon yolks."

The night Mars was closer than ever, I picked up a blonde female hitchhiker.

"Where you headed?" I asked.

"To the nearest restaurant."

"Next one's 150 miles from here. A fast food joint right before Las Vegas. If you're hungry, I got homemade cookies."

"What's cookies?"

"These are cookies. Chocolate chip cookies."

She put one to her nose. "I don't like the smell. Reminds me of stale Martian spaghetti."

I took the cookie she sniffed and tossed it out the window. Who knows what might've dripped on it? Wiping my hand on my pants, I wished I had some anti-bacterial spray.

"Look, up ahead," she exclaimed. "There's a neon sign. Harry's Desert Diner. Special Today. Martian Spaghetti. $39.50 a Plate. I love Martian spaghetti when it's fresh. I'll bet they just got a shipment."

Nothing was in sight. What a weirdo. Who knows what she might pull. I stopped my rig and ordered her out.

Back at cruising speed, I tuned in a radio talk show. The host described how Planet X would soon strike Mars and Earth.

A caller said it was too bad Mars was gonna be destroyed. He'd never again get a chance to go there and have that delicious, fresh Martian spaghetti. His voice broke with emotion.

When asked what fresh Martian spaghetti tasted like, the caller couldn't describe the experience.

The host asked if anything on Earth was comparable. Maybe something we could get at a supermarket.

"No. But, I can tell you this: stale Martian spaghetti reminds me of Earth's chocolate chip cookies."

Reaching over to grab a country and western CD, I suddenly saw a flashing neon sign.

What the hell? That sign wasn't here when I passed this way two nights ago with a load for the Tropicana Casino.

The sign said, "Harry's Desert Diner. Special Today. Martian Spaghetti. $39.50 a Plate."

Curious, I pulled into the empty parking lot.

Once inside, I nearly fell over when I saw the blonde from my truck sitting at the counter, slurping what looked like red spaghetti.

I took a seat at the counter. A waitress came over, poured coffee, and handed me a menu.

"What's the blonde having?" I asked.

"Today's special. Fresh Martian spaghetti. Want a plate?"

"Not for $39.50."

"We got half-size orders for twenty-five."

"What about a kid's plate."

"You look older than six to me."

"Well, at least tell me how much you charge for a kid's portion."

"Fifteen bucks. Crayons and pictures of famous Martians to color are complimentary. Look, $39.50 is cheap. This is fresh today. Just came in from Area 51. You ain't gonna find better. Not even in Vegas."

"Can I have a sample?"

"No free samples."

"Not even a strand?"

"Nope. Why don't you ask the blonde to share some of hers?"

I went over. "Hi."

"Oh you. The guy with the cookies. Their stench almost ruined my appetite."

"How'd you get here so fast?" I asked.

"Rolled."

"You from Mars?"

"Yeah."

"What brings you here?"

"Mars is doomed. Planet X is gonna ram it. Figured it was worth coming here to stay alive another month."

"Is it really gonna hit Earth after Mars?"

"Yeah, a week after Mars is obliterated."

"Since we're as good as goners, can I have a taste of your Martian spaghetti?"

"Sure, for ten dollars a forkful."

I paid her and rolled some onto a fork. Once inside my mouth, the strands became animated, wiggling under their own power. I spat them out, except for one that wrapped itself around an incisor. Yanking as hard as I could, I was unable to dislodge it.

"Try extra spicy mustard," the blonde said, scooping up the ejected strands from the floor and returning them to her plate.

I squeezed the plastic bottle until my mouth overflowed. The strand emitted a high-pitched squeal, disengaged, and hit the floor.

The blonde picked it up and tossed it down her throat. "Hate to see good food wasted," she said. "Forgot to tell you. You're supposed to toss the strands down your throat. Don't ever let Martian spaghetti linger in your mouth. The sight of teeth scares them, and they can get quite violent. Put yourself in their shoes. What would you do if you saw big white fangs coming at you to crush you from both ends? It's a matter of self defense."

I ran to my truck and fired up the engine.

I was glad Mars would be destroyed, along with all it's stockpiles of spaghetti.

Munching on the remaining chocolate chip cookies, I felt grateful to their benevolent inventors. They had the foresight to devise tasty food that remained passive in the mouth, and didn't mind being masticated for the good of Earthkind. I resolved, should Earth be spared, to build a monument to commemorate chocolate chip cookies and all who were instrumental in their development.

I spent the rest of the trip trying to come up with a suitable epitaph.