"GET DOWN THERE... AND PROBE... MY BUDDY'S... ASS!!"
Sorry

I can just imagine Dev reporting back to the mothership, though:
COMMANDER: Ah, Representative Townsend. How goes the work on Earth? Have you succeeded in enlightening the humans on the transcendental glory of symphonic pop-inflected metal?
DEV: Err...
COMMANDER: Have you converted the masses to the cathartic and uniting power of heavy music, so we may live among them as equals? (Chuckles) Did you manage to convince them you're God yet?
DEV: Dude, I was drunk when I said that. I told you.
COMMANDER: I know, I know. Just pulling your prick there a minute, son. But seriously, how are things going?
DEV: Okay, I guess...
COMMANDER: Just okay? Surely you've distributed aural documents to all the indigenous lifeforms on the planet?
DEV: The CDs? Yeah, we've sold a few. I suppose it's just been a bit more difficult than we thought.
COMMANDER: In what way?
DEV: They just don't seem to get it. A lot of people are into it, but most of them won't pay attention. They're still out fighting each other, being greedy and repressed, buying Limp Bizkit records -
COMMANDER: What? Don't they know that the Galactic High Council placed a ban on giving Fred Durst money under any circumstances?
DEV: He's still a rock star here!
COMMANDER: Mecha-Christ on a hyper camel...
DEV: Look man, it'll still work. There's a lot of smart guys here, and the sales are going up. Strapping's doing well. But I don't know, the rest of 'em just won't catch up with the universe. Shit, skullets aren't even fashionable round here -
COMMANDER: Whoa! Hold the goddamn phone a second: You telling me they don't even rock the skullet? Didn't they even FIND the 11th Commandment?
DEV: Dude, they think I look 'funny'.
PAUSE.
COMMANDER: Fuck it, let's invade. Fancy being World President?
DEV: Do I get to smoke pot on the job?
COMMANDER: Sure.
DEV: Cool. Oh, and can you bring some more pneumatic coolant? Gene's feet have been overheating lately...