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Sunday, November 27, 2016

349. Shopping

I was furious. “Just shut up,” I said.

“What?”

“Just shut the …” I stopped.

“Ah ha,” he said. “You were going to say a forbidden word.”

“Shut up,” I said.

It was like this: I was driving C.W. back from Lowe’s. “Why the anger?” you might ask. I had just retrieved him from the manager’s office after pleading for 30 minutes to leave the police out of things.

“Just sit there and be quiet,” I said. “We’ll talk about this when we get home.”  I swung onto the Interstate and headed for our farm. He remained still for a minute and then began picking aluminum strings from a work shirt that completed his assumed form of a construction worker in his mid-forties.

“I’m supposed to,” he said.

“Shut up,” I said.

“I’m supposed to take part in as many earthling rituals as I can.” When I didn’t respond, he continued. “That includes your so-called ‘Full of Anger and Hatred Friday,’ in case you didn’t know. That’s the holiday that ushers in your period of love and giving.”

“It’s ‘Black’ Friday,” I said, “and it has nothing to do with love.” I caught myself. “Why in hell am I even talking to you?”

“You’re supposed to,” he said.  “It’s the season of love,”

“I’m supposed to talk to someone who just pushed a 70-year-old woman into a stack of Christmas tree ornaments?”

“She reached for the Christmas Tree I wanted. I was supposed to.”

“She reached for the tree you wanted?”

“Yeah, the old bitch.”

“You better watch your mouth.” I fairly screamed it at him.

He smiled. “Good,” he said. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of things.”

I mentally counted to ten. “It was the only tree of its kind?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said, “was it the only tree of its kind there? The only one?”

“Oh no,” he said. “There were dozens of them.”

“And other people were grabbing for them?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked if the Universe was very large. “No. We were the only two.”

“So, you knocked an elderly lady to the floor over one of dozens of similar items that no one else wanted?”

“That’s it,” he said. “Now you get the picture. I was supposed to. It’s the season’s most cherished ritual.”

“Shut up,” I said, adding for clarity, “You are an idiot.”

He picked a sliver of fake icicle from his shirt. “That’s what I get for choosing a host family that doesn’t respect religious traditions.”

“We have no religious tradition that mandates the mistreatment of women,” I said.

He turned and smiled as if he were about to announce a checkmate. “That’s going to come as a hell of a surprise to Joan of Arc,” he said. He raised on eyebrow. "And others."

“Shut up,” I said, by way of final exposition. As I turned onto the road leading to the farm, I looked over. “The less said about this, the better.”
We have a ritual like this on Falloonia.
It's reserved for Wizzotamines:
The least of those among us. - C.W.

“About what?”

“About assaulting a defenseless woman over a holiday item that no one else wanted. One that even you probably didn’t want. There’s no excuse, no excuse at all.”

“Oh?”

“None at all. Greed is bad and we should protect women as the weak creatures they are, not act aggressive toward them in any way. They are our wards, our defenseless wards, and there is no excuse whatsoever for mistreating them. We’re their protectors.” I stopped, out of breath.

“Fine,” he said in a changed voice. I looked over to see him in the shape of a young boy with golden bangs and ruddy cheeks. I turned and saw the front door of the farmhouse open.

“About time,” a voice yelled from inside. “You better have brought me back that tree I ordered.”

When I looked over again, C.W. was gone.

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Sunday, November 20, 2016

348. Happiness

“Zappening?”

Oh no. It was C.W. as “The Galilean” again. I thought maybe if I ignored him, he would go away, or change shapes. I puffed on my cigar and stared at the geese on the pond.

No such luck. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Just relaxing.”

“Why alone?”

“I like solitude,” I said, though I knew he didn’t take hints. After an awkward silence, I looked at him. He was in his “serious” robe, the one with the purple band and tassels. I looked closer. In one hand, he was carrying a bottle of single malt scotch whisky. The label pronounced it 12 years old. The other hand held two glasses. That got my attention. “But welcome ... sit,” I said.

He plopped into a chair and laid the bottle and glasses on a table between us. We sat in the back yard of the farm, taking advantage of a warm fall day. He uncorked the bottle and poured two-fingers into each glass. He took a small sip, nodded approval and slid the other glass to me. He straightened his robe, leaned back, surveyed the view, and spoke. “Where’s the wife?”

That caught me in mid-sip and I almost spewed out the precious liquid. Somehow, I managed to get it down. “You,” I said, “have a lot of nerve asking where my wife is.”

“Why,” he said, “what did I do?” He sipped and gave me his “Falloonian dumbass” look.

“She heard what you said.”

“When I said what?”

I gave him my “Do you really think I’m that stupid?’ look. “When I passed the word to you that she wished you would take off your shoes, knock them together, and get the mud off them before you enter the house.”

“She said that?”

“She said that.”

“And I said?”

I shook my head, not believing what I heard. “You said, if I recall it exactly, ‘that’s a lot of effort just to please some grumpy old broad,’ and she heard you.”

“So?” He raised his glass and I detected a smile.

“We can’t talk like that.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “We can now. Haben Sie nicht gehört? He stopped and stared into space as if he had experienced a pain. I heard a soft, organic “click” and he looked at me. “I mean to say, haven’t you heard?”

“I’ve heard that drinking affects your GUT.”

“My Universal Galactic Translator is fine. What you need to understand is that what your species call ‘political correctness’ is gone, dead, finiskaput.” He drained his glass and poured himself another. After tasting it, he chuckled and said, “There’s a new sheriff in town.” He seemed pleased with himself.

“Not around here, and we don’t call it ‘political correctness.’”

“What do you call it?”

“Self-preservation.”

“Well,” he said, after a drink, “I forgive her of course. She’s still our sister-in … in … well … in-Me.”

“I’m sure that will ease her tension,” I said. I took a drink, savored it, and enjoyed my cigar.

“What tension?” he said. “It’s time of great rejoicing. We’re going to show them a thing or two.”

I guess Mrs. Big dope thinks muddy shoes
are as evil as the wrong e-mail account. - C.W.
“Show whom a thing or two?”

“Oh,” he said, “your turban-heads, wetbacks, Jews, feminazis, and ni…”

“C.W.,” I said. “Shut your mouth.”

“Jeez,” he said, “don’t get all moral on me. Most people are rejoicing. Even our foreign friends.”

“What foreign friends?”

He drank, and shook his glass at me. “I have it on good authority, from a friend of mine, that old Vladimir is dancing in the streets.”

“What friend?”

He finished off his drink, and as his he moved the glass from his lips, he jabbed his thumb down toward the center of the earth. “A good friend,” he said. “An old acquaintance. And boy, is he happy.”

I sighed.

“But don’t worry,” he said. “You’re an old man. “There’s a lot of folks they need to get to before they come for you: the merciful, the peacemakers, and half-a-dozen others. Franklin Graham has the whole list. Doesn’t mention aliens at all. You don’t see me getting all uptight, do you?”

A voice erupted from within the house. “Jesus Christ!” it said.

He turned toward it. “Yes?” Then he recognized the voice. “Got to go,” he said. He drained his glass, grabbed the bottle, and scurried away, saying “Them bitches got to learn that they lost and need to get over it."

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

C.W. dropped by a few minutes ago smoking a cigarette and looking a lot like the late Edward R. Murrow again. Although I didn’t ask him to, he plopped on the couch and blew a cloud of smoke my way.

“My wife is going to kill you,” I said.

“Nah,” he said, “The cigarettes will get me first. Besides …”
                               
“Besides, what?"

“I just had a thought involving a high degree of something happening in the opposite way to what is expected, and typically causing wry amusement because of this.”

I had to think for a moment. “You mean something ironic?”

“That’s what I said. Why do you repeat me so much?”

“How long has it been since you had a GUT check?”

“My Galactic Universal Translator is fine.”

“So share your irony with me.”

“Just thinking,” he said, “that the most important thing facing your species now is to keep that newly elected man in office for four years.”

“Do what?”

“Keep him in office. He has a penchant for boredom. Look at the number of wives he’s had.”
 
I heard of a Southern funeral once
where the only praise offered for
 the deceased was "I always heard
his brother was worse." - C.W.
“Well, yeah,” I said, ‘but why …” I stopped when it dawned on me. “Oh.”

“You got it brother,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “As if I didn’t have enough things to worry about.”

“You mean you wouldn’t like a law that forced ‘holy rollerness’ on everyone?”

“Hardly.”

“Then hope for good health. It would be too much to ask you to pray, I suppose?”

“I might even consider that,” I said.

“To God?”

“Why not?” I said. “She might listen this time.”

Sunday, November 13, 2016

347. Jobs

With apologies to G.O. ...

Oh brother, as if I didn’t have enough troubles, here comes C.W. as Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. I could hear them … him … whatever, coming from some distance away. They entered the room where I sat. They were arguing as usual.

“Guest workers, by god,” Lucky was saying.

“Bull,” Lefty said. They tried to face one another and began to spin in a circle. I could barely make out what Lefty was saying. “Volunteer temporaries. That’s what they were.”

“Fellas,” I said. Then repeated it louder as the circling slowed. “What the heck is going on?”

“Butt-wipe here,” Lucky said, “is invading my territory.” A hand pointed at Lefty.

“Scumbag is stupid,” Lefty said, the other hand pointing at Lucky.

“Prick,” Lucky said. “I’m the Minister of Truth. You’re just the Minister of Love.”

“Screw you and all the imbeciles out there,” Lefty said. “You wouldn’t know a truth if it bit you in one of our asses.”

“I tell you they were guest workers,” Lucky said. “It’s already in the textbooks.”

“Whoa fellas,” I said. “Stop turning and tell me what’s going on.”

“We have jobs,” Lefty said.

“Good jobs,” Lucky said.

That stopped me. “What kind of jobs?”

“Good jobs,” Lefty said. “In the new administration.”

“I’m the new Minister of Truth,” Lucky said. “I write history, served up as ordered, the new way. The better way.”

“What better way?”

“Before it happens.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t.

“I’m the new Minister of Love,” Lefty said. “Spreading the gospel to the unsuspecting nincompoops.”

“Ain’t we a pair?” Lucky said. “Folks will never know what hit them.”

I raised a hand, “But what’s his about ‘guest workers’ and such?”

“I have to decide, Lucky said, “what history will call the blackamoors that migrated to this country to get jobs picking cotton and cutting sugar cane, back when this country was great.”

“He wants to call them …,” Lefty began.

“I know what he wants to call them,” I said, “but ‘migrated’’’?

“Talk to the Minister of Peace about that,” Lucky said. “His troops rounded them up and brought them here. All I have to do is decide what history will call them.”

“As if your stupid species will know how to read history,” Lefty said. “The Minister of Knowledge has new plans for education … something about knowledge through ignorance.”

“There’s a spot open,” Lucky said, “if you need a job.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“The Minister of Plenty,” Lefty said. “I think its motto will be ‘Privation is Pleasure,’ or something like that.”

“Fellas,” I said. “This is all kind of ridiculous.”

“No, no,” they said in unison. Lucky added, “That’s a no-no. Opinion-Speak is punishable. Don’t make me call the Goodness Gendarmes.” He smiled. “I am the Minister of Truth, after all, and silence shouts loudest.”

“Speaking of the Goodness Gendarmes,” Lefty said, “where is Mrs. Big Dope? We need to talk to her? Take her down to see …,” he pulled a note pad from his pocket and read, “… a Franklin Graham, our new Minister of the Gospels. He thinks she needs re-programming to learn that hate is compassion.”
 
There will be no 'takers' in the new economy.
Plenty of jobs. Plenty of jobs. - C.W.
“He talks to God, you know,” Lucky said.

“Directly,” Lefty said.

That got my attention. “He wants to see my wife?”

“Quite so,” Lefty said, Mind telling us where we can find her?”

“And don’t,” Lucky said, “let her know we’re coming for her. We want it to be a …,” he struggled for the right word.

“A surprise,” Lefty said. Both heads nodded. He added, “We might have to keep her for a while, but don’t worry.”

“Bondage is freedom,” Lucky said.

“Actually,” I said, “she’s standing right behind you, with some of her friends. She’s the one with the baseball bat in her hand.”

With that, they shrieked in unison and ran from the room.

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Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Daily Thoughts

 Hey friends: Ran across this a while ago:

"Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want and deserve to get it good and hard." - H.L. Mencken

Your Pal.
C.W.