In 1951, alien visitor Michael Rene stuck a saucer off third base on a D.C. ballpark and emerged in a shiny silver suit that may have spawned a generation's worth of sweat-inducing workout duds. His sidekick, Gort, clad in complementary lamé, was a humorless automaton capable of destroying the world, if properly pissed off.
Problem was, Earth had gotten too frisky for its galactic neighborhood, threatening to destroy itself with planetary squabbles unacceptable to the overlords who were firm fans of law and order.
First minute off the ship and onto the lawn, a nervous soldier shoots Klaatu, the friendly-ish alien. Yeah, that sounds like us -- Then. We're WAY more evolved now... Fortunately, a pretty girl and a precocious kid frantically charms the space guy into leaving with a warning to us: Clean up your act, or else. Without those two in the bargain, we mighta been dusted.
Moral? Don't shoot the Spaced Guy. He's just playin' the hand what's dealt 'im (no matter how wacko that seems to us) and his homies wanna be left alone. Are they hurting anything? Probably. So are we. Are we righter than them? Of course -- we're soooo much righter!
Maybe this is too simplistic but that's the way movies are. You screw up your neighborhood, we'll screw with ours. Keep things tidy and we'll get back to you soon as I peel this stupid sweaty suit off. Ugh. What was I thinking?