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Saturday, April 18, 2015

Riches From Religion

Dear Friends and Followers:

Here is the deal. I like to write. I’m not very good at it, and here is the reason: a person reviewed something I wrote.

It devastated me.

Now, understand, I have a long-held and sincere belief (well, at least since I have been on your planet) that a person has a God-given right to make up rules of grammar as they’re personal religious beliefs dictate. Ask Big Dope, as he knows this all real good.

Between you and I, this reviewer was gay, African-American, Muslim, a Vietnam veteran, liberal, and didn’t own a firearm. Hell yes, you’d also hate him to, as well.

Send money, lots of money. The more the better. - C.W.
This reviewer scorched my writing over it’s grammar. You can’t imagine how bad that offended my religious beliefs. Where, in the Scriptures, do it say that subjects and objects is connected and must agree ever time? Noplace, I say to you confident.
 
So I said that I wouldn’t  no longer allow gay, African-American, Muslim, Vietnam veteran, liberals who didn’t own guns to read my material. Now they’s boycotting me and saying nasty things about Big Dope and I on the internet.

What can you do? Send me money. Let’s show them how we protect religious liberties in this country and what us real Americans think of they and they're tactics. Lets break all records of support for people like you and I. Send the money to Big Dope or to Crowdfunding Relief for Alien Publishers.

Please send amounts over $10,000 by cashier’s check.

I await your support.
 
Your favorite author,
C.W.
 
Contributions of $100 or more will receive a complimentary copy of Big Dope's book. Otherwise you'll have to go on-line or to www.wattensawpress.com and order it.
 
 

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

245. Campaigns

What could be worse than an alien who doesn’t understand our politics? Try an alien who doesn’t understand our politics, or our language, but decides to get involved in a campaign.

Yep. It is C.W. I came in from taking care of some family matters and found that he had assumed the exact form of Norman Rockwell and was furiously painting away at an easel.

“What the …?”

“Hey, Big Dope,” he said. “You’ve been wanting me to get a job so I have a good one. Take a look.” He pointed a t what was evidently to be a campaign poster, for Hillary Clinton of all people. “I’m going to be making ads for Hillary.” He pointed at his work. “What do you think?”

Across the top of the ad was the word “Hillary!” Under it was her face. Under that was the message he had blocked out and was finishing. It read, “Because men should not always come first.”

I blinked. Then I blinked again. “Uh, C.W.,” I said.

“What?”

It took me a while to explain, as his face drooped in disappointment. Finally, he removed the poster and threw it into a corner. Picking up a finished one from a pile, he placed it on the easel. “Well,” he said, “what do you think of his one?”

It also had “Hillary” across the top in bold lettering. Under the name this time were portraits of Bill and Chelsea. Under them, the message, “Comes with a couple of nice ones,”

I stifled a laugh. This time he didn’t take the news so well. “Do you want to see more? If you do, quit laughing.”

“Oh,” I said. “More. Please, more.”

He sullenly removed the poster and replaced it with another. It had the faces of Hillary and President Obama in the middle. Above them were the words, “Choose Hillary.” Underneath the faces he had painted, “For a great climax.”

This time my knees grew weak and I had to sit as I explained. He sailed the poster across the room and glared at me. “You are being inclined to find fault or to judge with severity, often too readily,” he said.

“I’m not being critical,” I said. “I’m just being honest.” I tried to sooth him. “Let’s see your last one,” I said. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

I only chose her to work for because I
thought her possible opponents were limp. - C.W.
“You won’t laugh?”

“I won’t laugh.”

He reached over, picked up the final poster and placed it on the easel. It had a nice picture of Hillary saluting the American flag that fluttered atop a huge flagpole. The words above read, “Choose Hillary.” The ones below read, “And keep America erect.”

When I finally managed to quit rolling on the floor and managed to stand, C.W. was gone, as was his easel.

 
Keep clicking on the ads since I no longer have a job.
And ... buy Big Dope's book and get him off my  back.
Available at Amazon and other on-line outlets or from
- C.W.
 
 

Excerpt:

Nelson watched the woman screaming and looked puzzled. Most in the courtroom believed that the prosecution had proven the man guilty. The jurors themselves had all agreed on it. Nelson had brought up a point during the deliberations that he didn’t see a strong motive for such a crime. The others told him that he just had a lot to learn about Southern men. And, there hadn’t been much of a defense presented. What could the man’s attorney say—that his client had threatened to kill a man and then did, but that didn’t make a boy all bad?

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Meeting

Dear Friends and Followers: Big Dope is taking care of family business today and left me in charge. So many people have asked how we met that I repeat the very first posting in which he provided his version. I don't quite remember it that way, but I'll let it pass. Following is his version. Enjoy.

His name, phonetically expressed, is Chawawaclickclick. I use the phonetic expression for the simple reason that stating it his language in print requires imagery that looks like a lot like bird spatter on a new Cadillac. The clicks resemble those used by African Bushmen but it is easier to spell them than to develop symbols. So, Chawawclickclick it is. Or at least it was until he went into a redneck bar across the river. Now he insists on the simpler C.W.

How he arrived here from his native planet, and how I became his American escort are interesting, but unessential matters. Let’s just say that he is from deep space, a place he calls, again phonetically, Falloonia. Sometimes with a click at the end and sometimes not. I think he jacks me around some. Falloonians seem to have a sense of humor and aren’t a bit reluctant to torture you with their intergalactic wit.

Anyhow. His original destination was Hannibal Missouri, the reason being that earlier expeditions had determined that Mark Twain was the most interesting American who ever lived. Due to some changes in the atmospheric conditions, he descended early and chanced upon me while I was walking around the City of Little Rock, Arkansas.

I can’t describe his appearance since he is what is commonly known as a “shape shifter.” This particular day, he took the shape of a middle-aged tourist, complete with straw hat, knee britches and a camera swinging from around his neck. He wanted to know if I was interesting.

“Not particularly,” I admitted.

“Are you curious, then?”

“About what?” I checked out the width of his stance and looked around to who might be watching.

“The world, you know…things.”

I reckoned I was as much as the next guy and hastened to tell him that my wife always said I was. I put some emphasis on the word “wife.”

The answer must have sufficed, for then he interviewed me and said that I had been selected to be the Falloonians’ North American contact.

I had no idea what the hell he was talking about then, but I had just signed up for a quite a ride.

Before providing me with any additional information, he asked why we had changed the chemical makeup of our atmosphere, causing his premature descent into our country.

“Uh, we didn’t intend it. It just happened over time,” I managed to explain.

“Could you summarize the efforts your species (I would learn that he used the term species when he intended the question to be global in nature) is taking to restore its condition?” he asked.

“Nothing really,” I said.

“Nothing?” He paused. “Really?”

“Well we cut back on our use of Freon.”

“Your method of dealing with your planet sounds like a contacuraclickclick to me.”

I found out later that a contacuraclickclick was an Faloonian expression indicating the act of sitting on a baby’s face, i.e. a foolish course of action.

Anyway, that's how we met and now I seem to be stuck with him.

From C.W.: The following are included to illustrate (1) how Big Dope sees himself and (2) how he really comes across. You be the judge.












Be sure to click on an ad. He's out spending money and I'm saving for a bicycle.
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Wednesday, April 8, 2015

The Sublime

Dear Friends and Followers:

Since my stay on your planet began, I’ve grown to believe that music is one of the grandest accomplishments of your species. That’s why I noticed with interest that Tuesday was the 100th anniversary of the birth of singer Billie Holiday. She is one of my favorites. What amazes me is that this great woman, what you call a a person or thing regarded as a representative symbol of something in the field of music, (Editor’s note: He means “icon”) was not allowed to use public restrooms when she traveled with bands across your great country. Unbelievable.

I read where she wasn’t particularly noted for her vocal range, or even the pure quality of her tonal output. But my oh my, if you may permit an alien in your midst to observe, how she used what she had.

With so many favorites to choose from, it’s hard to pick one, but I am, as you say, “partial,” to “I’ll Be Seeing You.”

It sure seems odd to me that the person who could perform this wasn’t even allowed to sit with the white band members in venues while on break. But then, the bigotry expressed by some members of your species continues to confuse me. See: “Indiana” and “Arkansas.”

Anyway, until next time, “I’ll be seeing you, in everything that’s light and gay” … oops, better not use that word.

Your friend,

C.W.
 
Now what kind of country would forbid this
great lady a bathroom break? - C.W.
 
 
 
 
 








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And give Big Dope's book a look.




Sunday, April 5, 2015

244. Rights

For goodness sake. I looked up this morning and here came C.W. in drag. I don’t mean that he had assumed the shape of a woman. He can do that anytime he wishes. In fact, up until a couple of months ago, he loved to do Marlene Dietrich singing “See What the Boys In the Backroom Will Have.” Unfortunately though, my wife caught him at it one day and he doesn’t do it anymore, plus we now have to keep the kitchen door open all the time. But that’s a story for another day.

No, today he was really in drag. That is to say that he was a man dressed as a woman. Further, the man’s shape that he had chosen was that of the Junior Senator from our state who has been in the news a lot lately trying to undermine the President.

All I could manage was “What the …?”

“How do you like my outfit?” she … he … said.

I still couldn’t speak.

“Your friend—what’s his name, your woodworking pal—helped me pick it out.”

“My friend?”

“I told him I wanted to be one primarily devoted to his own advancement in public office, or to the success of a political party.”

“A what?”

“You heard me.”

I thought for a moment. “Oh,” I said, “you wanted to be a politician.”

“That’s what I said.”

“And my friend helped you?”

“He used to work for the state and was a great help.”

“As in …?”

“He said all I needed to be a politician was a red satin dress and a pair of FMPs. Mrs. Big Dope got awfully upset when I asked her what those were.”

I looked heavenward and said, “If you’re up there Scotty, please beam me up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” I said. “But tell me, what are you going to do now that you are a politician?”

“Ah,” he said. “I thought you would never ask.” He grinned. “I’m fighting for aliens’ rights.”

“Aliens’ rights?”

“Yes. It is our turn to seek equality along with our other brother and sister citizens.”

“But you aren’t a citizen.”

“No, and we’re going to change that, and stop this brutal practice of not allowing us to marry whom we choose. Oh, and wedding cakes. Don’t get me started on wedding cakes.”

I didn’t know where to begin. “C.W.,” I said, “there are so many holes in that logic that I can’t respond. You haven’t mentioned getting married since you saw Lassie Come Home for the first time.”

“Times change,” he said, “and so do preferences. We deserve to make our own choices as much as anyone.”

“Have you been watching Big Bang Theory again?”

“You leave her out of this,” said. “Now do you want to be on the right side of the branch of knowledge dealing with past events or not?”\

“Oh,” I said, “I definitely want to be on the right side of history. What must I do?”

“Ah,” he said. “First thing you do is become a card-carrying member.”

“Of what?”

Now I ask you. Would you bake a
 wedding cake for this person? - C.W.
“Our rights organization. Your membership card will even have my photo on it. We’ve thought up quite a catchy name for the group. Your friend helped us with that as well and we think we picked one that serves us brilliantly.”

“And that is?”

He drew himself up proudly. A strap from his dress fell from his shoulder and he placed it back in position. “Alien Rights Secured Evermore,” he said. “I’m a charter member and chief spokesperson. Right now my people are placing posters in key locations with this photograph on it.” He struck a provocative pose.

A convulsion started deep within me and I contracted every muscle in my body in an attempt to suppress it. It sneaked past my defenses, though, and I began to shake with laughter. Tears came from my eyes and snot from my nose. I tried to speak but couldn’t. Finally, with a Herculean effort, I regained my composure enough to talk.
“Sign me up,” I said.


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And see also www.wattensawpress.com
- C.W.
Oh, and check out
Big Dope's book.
Available at Amazon and others.