Down within the bowels of his highly advanced and superior base, the tiny green Irken known as Zim was pacing, brow furrowed in thought. Off to the side, Gir was bouncing pointlessly, no doubt ruining some of the most advanced technology on the planet. As usual, Zim payed him no mind. The glorious thing about Irken technology was it was incredibly self sufficient, and repaired easily. Besides, his highly evolved brain was too busy toying with his highly evolved thoughts about what to do to this hardly evolved planet before the highly evolved Armada arrived.
                One might think, of course, that after so many failures Zim would just give up entirely. But alas, this was not the ways of the Irken race, let alone ego-driven, eccentric Zim. Thousands of plans later he was no closer than he was in midst of the first plan. None of this seemed to matter to Zim, however, because with every new breakthrough he was convinced he was on the edge of world conquest.

And his latest breakthrough was Jenny Craig.

"Hmm…" Zim mused aloud, partly to Gir but mostly to himself, "these incompetent humans seem eager to resign themselves to complete domination in exchange for a decrease in mass."
Gir stopped running in circles, hexagons, and other geometric shapes and sat on his metallic hiney, watching his master curiously. For once, he seemed to be listening. Either that, or he was replaying the last episode of the Scary Monkey Show he had stored somewhere in his memory disk. Smart gamblers would bet on the latter.

"So, in theory," continued Zim, incessantly pacing, "I could create one of these 'diets', and quickly have the world in my power!" It was then he broke into characteristic maniacal cackling.
Gir blinked, and joined the cackling, though his cackle was more like a shrill "wheeeeeoooooo" and he always sounded maniacal. Zim and his little robot were like that for a surprisingly long time, before Zim stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. 

"Er…yes," Zim began, as Gir wore himself out and sad down again, "Computer! Devise a weight-loss liquid that will brainwash consumers and make them obey Zim!"
Zim's voice cracked oddly at the end of the sentence. He clutched his two clawlike hands together evilly, a demonic grin upon his alien features. There was a long pause, during which his computer did…well, nothing. Zim coughed. Nothing. Zim twiddled his thumbs. Nothing.
 

"COMPUTER?"
 
There was a pause, before:

"Were you calling me fat?"

Zim blinked. "Inferior electronic, do as I say! OBEY ME!"

There was an awkward silence, before the computer demanded an apology. The painfully short Zim rolled his eyes. 

"FOOL! I am Zim! You dare evoke my doom-y wrath?!"

"…yes."

Zim's eye twitched and he groaned, slapping the side of his head. With a mumble, he said flatly. "I apologize. Now would you please concoct the formula?"

The computer would have, if the Irken engineer had found it necessary to give it such an ability, smiled. 

"Thank you. Processing request…"