Sunday, August 13, 2017

386: Dogs

 “We need to talk.”

That was a surprise. C.W. hadn’t said a word in 20 minutes. He just sat on the couch in what is becoming his favorite form: The Galilean. I knew to be careful. He’s wily in this form.

“Oh?” I played dumb.


“About what?”

“Mrs. Big Dope.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Have you ever noticed anything unusual about her?”

I wanted so badly to reach and see if he happened to be wearing a wire under his robe. “Unusual?” I was stalling for time. “She’s unusually intelligent.”

“I agree, until I look at you, that is.”

“She’s unusually beautiful.”

“Could probably have done better. Can you think of anything that kept her from it? Habits? Traits? Idiosyncrasies?

“She has an inordinate fondness for dogs.”

“I agree. Someone once said that about Dad and beetles. It’s true. So far he’s made over a quarter-million different species of them, if you are to believe your vice-president. That makes the old man chuckle.”

The diversion pleased me. “Why so many?”

“Let’s get back on topic. Anything unusual about Mrs. Big Dope’s relationship with dogs? I mean other than the fact she has so many of them?”

I thought of my options. Even as The Galilean, I didn’t trust him completely. “Well,” I said, “she thinks they understand English, talks to them all the time in complete sentences.”

“I’ve noticed that. What’s odd about it?”

“Uh, other than the fact that they are dogs?”

“You don’t think they understand her when she talks to them?”

I waited, thought, then said. “Not really.”

“Be prepared,” he said, “for a shock. They do.”

I didn’t answer for a moment, thinking of my options. “They what?”

“They understand every word she says.”

“Get out of town.”

“They last time someone told me that was a day or so after they welcomed me in with hosings.”

“I think you mean hosannas.”

“Whatever. Anyway, sure the dogs understand her. It’s one of the greatest inside jokes in the galaxy that they don’t answer her back. Maybe they will someday.”

“They’re playing a joke on her?”

“Not playing a joke, testing her faith.”

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke. They dogs do though. And, by the way, I know a lot more about the testing of faith than you do.”

“The dogs joke?”

“Of course. Haven’t you ever seen them play the ‘damage to the auditory nerve game’ when she states a demand they don’t approve of?”

“Do you mean the ‘deaf’ game.”

“My son, you’re never going to develop friends until you break the habit of repeating everything they say. And, yes, the deaf game. Sometimes they play it just after they’ve run a mile because she yelled the word ‘treat’ once.”

“They do that on purpose, play deaf I mean?”

“Haven’t you noticed the way they roll over on their backs and wiggle after they’ve done it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I have seen that.”

“That’s their method of laughing about it. They call it a ‘group guffaw,’ and it’s one of their great joys. That and making up limericks.”

“They make up limericks?”

“Oh heck yes. Of course, you can’t hear them. They communicate with thought waves much above your range.”


“Want to hear one? One that the female boxer-mix made up?”

I bit. “Sure.”

He though, then recited:

There once was a Great Dane name Marge
Who dated a Dachshund named Sarge.
She’d stand in the river.
And how she would quiver,
As he approached from behind on a barge.

“That’s awful.”
Do you really think she would let you
buy this chair for a mere human? - C.W.
“Don’t let her hear you say that.”


“Remember the last time she licked you in the face?”


“Guess what she had been doing just before that?’

I thought. “No … surely not.”

“What do you think that translates into?”

"I'm afraid to think."

"Well it sure as hell ain't, 'Why don't you float up and drop anchor sometime, big boy?'"

See also:
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.

Sunday, August 6, 2017

385. Paradise

Yesterday C.W. walked up in the shape of a well-dressed twenty-something and wanted to go downtown and have a drink at a bar.

“I understand that is where your young people go to seek adventure,” he said.

That made me think. “I guess some do,” I said.

“Where else would they go?”

“Some go to Mount Everest for excitement.”

“Are there girls there?”

“Not many.”

“Why then?”

“Gosh,” I said, “I really don’t know. To try and climb it I suppose.”

I could sense his internal computer going off. “They could encounter difficulty doing that. The elevations would pose problems.”

“Oh yes.”

“Are they sent there as punishment?”

“No. They go there willingly.”

“Where else do they go?”

I thought. “There is a place in Spain where young people let wild bulls chase them down narrow streets.”

He frowned. “A human could get killed doing that.”

“Some do,” I said.

“That sounds like allahkahgdomcince,” he said.

“A what?”

“It’s Falloonian for seeking danger when there is no danger.”

“Oh. Perhaps so.”

He paused again as his internal database kicked in. “It is similar to what your American author James A. Michener disclosed in his published book Tales of the South Pacific years ago.

“You’ve jumped the track on me.”

“He recounted how medical officers stationed in the South Pacific during one of your great wars noticed a case, among the natives of the islands, of something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected.”

“An anomaly?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say today?”

“No. Explain the anomaly. I seem to remember something about it. I haven’t read that book since my high school days.”

“Did they call it that because you all stayed high most of the time.”
“Just on learning. Now back to the ‘paradise syndrome’ you were talking about.”

He recycled. “Seems people lived on these South Sea islands in what you should call, a place or condition of great happiness where everything is exactly as you would like it.”



“Okay. Now what is your point?”

“No disease. Food hanging from trees. Abundant water. Comfortable climate. No need to work. No problems at all. That’s why it didn’t make sense.”
Can't have this, can we? - C.W.
“What didn’t make sense?”

“That they created cruel, inhumane, and destructive religions that kept their people in a constant state of tension.”

“I seem to remember that,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“It’s almost like you live in luxury but want someone uncaring, cruel, and mean to rule over your daily activities. Falloonians would call that, kughtckoughuruhnhos.”

“Well I’m glad we’re civilized today and passed all that nonsense.”

He looked at me for a time and started to say something but stopped. He nodded to himself, thought, and said, “I’m ready to go get that drink now.”

See also:
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

384. Slogans

“Say, you look vaguely familiar. Who are you supposed to resemble?”

“Shut up loser. Go hide your ****ing face. You paranoic piece of ****.”


“I’m writing slogans for Blessed Leader. How about this one? ‘So far it’s been the feel-good hit of the year.’”

“Say again?”

“Here’s one: ‘The greatest First Lady in history …you ain’t seen nothing yet.’ Get it?”

“C.W., you have acted strange before, but this is over the top. Wait, … I remember, you’re that new guy Scareamemucho, or whatever his name is.”

“This one’s for the Franklin Graham crowd: ‘Blessed Leader save us all, kick the losers in their … .'”

“Stop it. My wife may hear you.”

“He likes this one, Blessed Leader does. ‘What do Jeff Sessions and a hand job have in common? Answer …each is better than nothing.’”

“I’m not telling you again.”

“I’m recommending that one for when he speaks to the Girl Scouts.”

“I’m recommending you for deportation.”

“That reminds me. Check this one out. ‘Blessed Leader: The Energizer Bunny of immigrant ass-kicking.'"

“I’m contacting the Falloonian Elders.”

“Hey, that reminds me. ‘Worried about growing poor when you’re old? Don’t be. Stick with us and you’ll never get there.’ Isn’t that catchy?”

“You are one sick puppy.”

“Oh, let me think for a second. Oh yeah. ‘What do you get when you cross a sick puppy with a senator from Maine?’”

“I’m not responding.”

“A whiny bitch. Get it?”

“Have you gone mad?”

“No. America’s fallen and she can’t get up.”

“Please stop.”

“Hey, there’s Hillary. Do you have any gray poop-on?”

Blessed Leader's family
likes this one. - C.W.
“No wait. ‘Hate for our enemies. Don’t leave home without it.’”

“I’m not listening to you. I’m gone.”

“Hey, here’s one that broad in Germany sent me: ‘America. What happens there, stays there.’”

I could hear him yelling after me.

“Tastes great, less fulfilling.”

“Be all we want you to be.”

“Fair and unbalanced."

“Have it our way.”

“Just undo it.”

“Is anybody listening to me?”

Sunday, July 23, 2017

383. Idiocy

C.W. continues not to understand us. He calls us overprotective. He says that upsets the balance of nature, calls it “idiocy-spread.”


“Quite so.” He gets this way on occasion, usually when he shows up looking a lot like photos of an early H.L. Mencken. “If you allow it to spread too far, it can get into the very life-stream of your polity and destroy it from within, like cancer in a human organism.”

That was a little deep for me, but the weather was unmercifully hot outdoors, so I was sipping a beer and soaking my feet in a pan of cool water.

“Perpetuating idiocy poses an evolutionary danger to society,” he said.

“How so?”

He rose, walked over to where I had been patching a spot on the far wall of the room. He tipped the top of a stepladder toward me. “What does it say there?”

I looked. “It says, ‘don’t stand on top of this ladder.’ I think that is on all of them now.”

“And what might happen if someone did?”

“They might fall and kill themselves or be damaged for life.”

“And what would be the, albeit miniscule, effect on the gene pool if such a person never bore children?”

I thought. “A miniscule benefit, I suppose.”

“And there you have edauledzupt.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a Falloonian term for ‘numbers count,’ not to be confused with your military apologists’ term, ‘numbers sanctify,’ hoocvesascheet in Fallonian. Quite a difference.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you.”

“Here, read this.” He handed me a section of newspaper, and pointed to a headline reading, “Eclipse viewers warned not to stare into the sun.”

“Good advice,” I said.

“And if millions did?”

“They might go blind.”

“And if society took millions of idiocy-tinged drivers off the road?”

“I think I’m beginning to understand, but I'm still not sure.”

“Ever see films of herds of antelope in Africa feeding near a pride of lions?”

“I think so.”

“Ever notice how one over-exuberant antelope will prance around too close to the lions as if life is a game to be played?”

“Uh. Yes.”

“Do the other antelopes gather round to protect it?”

“Not as a rule.”



“Gene pool preservation.” He smiled. “Hey, let’s take a vacation to North Korea.”

I can’t repeat what I said but it included the word "you" and a hand gesture.

“Why not?”

“Because they are crazy over there.”

“How so?”

“They kill tourists.”

“And how would you describe a tourist who would go to North Korea? Would you want one to be elected president, worse still—marry and procreate?”
Some countries openly practice
gene-pool-cleansing. - C.W.
I shook my head.

“So,” he said, “you don’t need a law preventing you from going there?”

I shook my head again.

“Strike one up for the gene pool.” He said. “It’s okay to let others go if they wish?”

“Yes,” I said, “but you won’t catch me going there.”

Okay then,” he said. “Let’s go on a hiking trip along the Iranian border. I hear it is quite beautiful this time of year and we can mark that off our "receptacle for holding water or other liquid" list.”

“Why don’t you take your ‘bucket list’ and shove it?" I said, adding "Here, hold my beer and watch this." I reached for my electric guitar. "I've learned a new song."

See also:
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

382. Pain

Last night I dreamed of … well no, actually last night I didn’t dream at all. I passed a kidney stone instead.


Can you believe it? C.W. was there and he wasn’t much help. He’s like that sometimes.

As I sat bent over in the least uncomfortable house in the place, he sat across from me in the familiar shape of Arnold Awesome the 18-year old, full of wonder, pest.

“Does in hurt much?”

Actually, it hurt so badly that I didn’t want to talk.

“I said, does it hurt much?”

“Goddam your eyes.”

“Kidney stones. Are those things valuable like other stones?”

“Don’t you have something to do?” I began the dry heaves that accompany this awful experience.

“Be careful,” he said. “Mrs. Big Dope gets mad whenever I mess up the floor.”

“If I knew what it takes to kill one of you, I would. I really would, this very moment.”

“Let me borrow your cell phone and I’ll video you. We’ll enjoy watching that when you get to feeling better.”

I unleashed a barrage of invectives that include bits from four different languages. Former sailors are pretty good at that sort of thing, you know. He tried to keep up.

“You’re confusing my Galactic Universal Translator. I’ve asked you time and time again to show respect for my GUT.”

“Your GUT?”

“Precisely. Now where does it hurt the most? I’ll need to document it to the Falloonian Elders.”

“Would a shotgun blast at point-blank range to the trick?”

“Is it a sharp pain like when I poked you with a fork?”

I closed my eyes and envisioned a lightning strike.

“Maybe a dull pain? Remember the morning after we went to the election victory party?”

“Don’t Falloonians have any illnesses? Any terminal ones? Ones that we could replicate here on Earth?”

“Hmm. I don’t think so. We do, at least some of us do, have problems with prwjegtulspuregn.

“What’s that?”

“You don’t want to know. Trust me. You only have one head. Hey, want me to read to you and get your mind off the pain?”

“I want most of all for you to erupt in flames and be swallowed up by the earth.” I was to the point of imagining Old Testament levels of vengeance.”

“Are you pretty sure it’s a kidney stone?”

“No. I’ve changed my mind. Now I think it’s a bowling ball.”

“Maybe it’s something you ate.”

“Maybe. Why not? Are you a Doctor, in addition to everything else?”

“Maybe it’s cancer.”

“What the hell is with you?”

“I’m just trying to cheer you up.”

“Then go out and jump in front of the next log truck that comes along.”

“This kidney stone, can I have it when you are finished with it?”

“What for?”

“I want to keep it in my slyschetphrmirt bag.”

That’s his collection of interesting artifacts from Earth that he keeps. He has plans of returning to Falloonia and opening a museum of sorts when he finishes his tour here.

“No. “You can’t have it.”

“Why not?”

“I think I’ll donate it to the Smithsonian Museum in Washington. They like to keep world records there.”

“Mrs. Big Dope says you’re a big crybaby. What’s that?”

“A person who tortures someone, murders them, burns their body, and feels badly about it afterwards. And I’ll be no crybaby where you are concerned.”

“Hey,” he said as his face brightened. “Is this sort of like the male version of a woman’s giving birth to a baby?”
Pain just helps you
appreciate no pain, - C.W.
“Do you know who killed my wife’s tomato plants by applying the wrong treatment?”

His smile disappeared faster than the truth at a Trump rally. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

“Does she?”

“Oh no,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”

“Ten seconds,” I said. “Ten seconds and don’t come back.”

As he hurried to the door, and a fresh wave of pain took over, I heard him muttering.

“It’s the last time I offer to play the role of healer in this family.”

See also:
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.