The President frowned as the aide walked into his office. "Well?" he barked. He liked barking at aides. Barking at aides wasa what being the President was all about, frankly, as far as he was concerned.
"S...sir," replied the aide, a small man in an ill-fitting brown suit, "NORAD have managed to track the radar contact, sir, and they've managed to extrapolate it's transit vectors both previous and future-"
"The friggin' what?" bawled the President, "I ain't got time for all this crap ya goddam fruit!"
"S...S...sorry sir. What I mean was, we think we know where it came from, and we're sure that we know where it is now."
The President leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. "Better," he drawled, "Talk."
"We're fairly sure that it's an extra-terrestr...an alien craft, sir. We have several shots of it. It came from somewhere around the orbit of Jupiter."
"Hooooollllllleeeeeshit!" cried the President, jumping to his feet, "Aliens! Well, we ain't gonna have any of that Roswell Area 51 shit this time. Roll out the welcome mat, boys, and show the scaly green suckers in."
The aide looked doubtful. "Um, sir, they're not here."
"Not here? Where in the sam hill are they then?"
"Norad tracked them to a small island in the South Pacific," the aide said, "Home to the Umbutu tribe."
"Umbutu? Who the hell are they?"
"A small tribe of headhunters." The aide gulped.
"Headhunters?"
"Yes sir, headhunters. And," the aide paused, "cannibals."
The President nearly fell out of his chair. "Why the heck are they goin to a buncha cannibals?" he roared.
"We've got some sattelite imagery sir," the aide said, "and that's the bad news. THey appear to be swapping recipies."