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Sunday, August 17, 2014

214. Longevity

Geez, what a nosey little twerp C.W. can be at times, particularly when he assumes the form of what he believes is Sigmund Freud. I was having a cigar and my evening rum and tonic outside, waiting for my wife to join me when the Alien wandered up and took her seat.

“You’d better not be there when she comes,” I said. “This is her ‘Alien-free Zone’ and you know what that means.”

“I can disappear in a thing that occurs suddenly and within a brief period of time, when I need to.”

“Disappearing in a ‘flash’ would be a good idea,” I said.

He crossed his legs and said, “So the two you have made it another year.”

“We have indeed.”

“How many is this?”

“We are celebrating 42 years,” I said.

He pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and then a pen. “Why did you never get a divorce?”

“What do you mean?”

“Lots of couples among your species get divorced. Why didn’t you?”

“We didn’t want to.”

“How did you meet? I know it wasn’t on ‘Christian Mingle’ or at a meeting of the Mensa Society.”

I let this one pass. “We met in a parking lot.”

“Let me guess. A collision involving motor vehicles that results in minor damage. She was at fault and you were kind and forgiving.”

“No, it wasn’t a ‘fender bender,’ I was putting a headlight in my car and she walked by.”

He scribbled. “That doesn’t sound very romantic.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you run in slow motion toward each other?”

“No. She walked on by.”

“And you followed?” He scribbled again.”

“No. I just inquired about her later.”

“You engaged in an instance of following, or harassing another in an aggressive, often threatening manner?”

“I didn’t ‘stalk’ her and you need to get your Galactic Universal Translator adjusted again.”

“I trust my GUT,” he said. He raised his pad, ”How was your sex life?”

“C.W.,” I said, “people don’t discuss such things in public.”

“They do on your television. And you know that coffee shop I go to sometimes to gather data?”

“Well decent people don’t,” I said, “and she is due any moment and may be carrying a baseball bat, if you get my drift.”

“What does the concept of your being carried slowly by a current of air or water have to do with anything?”

I could tell times were going to be tough until his GUT was back in working order, so I tacked.

“How do marriages work in Falloonia?”

“We have numerous bonding arrangements. Which one do you mean?”

“The one that produces offspring,” I said. “How does it work?”

“Entirely different,” he said. “Entirely different.”

“How so?”

“The fecundity directive, we call it the ‘Propagation Implementation Methodology Protocol’ is established and supervised by the Falloonian Elders.”

I giggled, “PIMP? Is that what you really call it?”

“I don’t see the humor,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. His feelings can be tender at times. “So these elders are a cross-section of the population?”

He looked at me in confusion. “No,” he said, “they are mainly Dormontapeckastaatsins

“What?”

“What would roughly translate as elderly men in your species.”

Was she hot, or what? - C.W.
“Oh,” I said. “So how does your PIMP program work.” I couldn’t help giggling again.

“It requires a level of sophisticated thought you wouldn’t understand. It is totally different than you are used to.”

“Try me,” I said.

“The Elders grant the Studanstrokashaftic++—the equivalent of your male of the species—absolute control of the arrangement.”

“I see.”

“But,” he said, “Since there is such a sexual intelligence disparity in our life forms, the other partner must manage the arrangement through disguised manipulation, trickery, and superior logistic mastery, otherwise the propagation capacity of the, what you call male, is diminished and the future population of our planet will be threatened.”

“And,” a woman’s voice from behind us said, “your concept of marriage differs from ours in exactly what way?”
 
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Sunday, August 10, 2014

213. Eats

“A what?”

“A restaurant.”

“C.W., you don’t know anything about running a restaurant.” This idea was silly even by C.W.’s standards. He stood before me as the Gailard Sartain character from the TV show “Hee Haw.” You remember, the dirty, fat, greasy spoon cook. Well, want to guess what his latest adventure would be? Let him tell you.

“A dining experience for the independent-minded.”

“Independent-minded?”

“Yep.”

“Independent … as in?”

“As in, ain’t no liberal doctor gonna tell me what’s good for me.”

I said, “Oh, I see. And the name will be?”

“C.W.’s Lard Palace.”

That’s when the enormity of his dreaming hit me. “Oh, my. You have gone over the edge for sure.”

“That’s right. I got the idea from a place out in Las Vegas.”

“The Las Vegas that is ‘the rational behavior capitol of the universe?'”

“That’s the one. A place there features a sandwich that has a mere, 10,000 calories. My ‘Lard-fried Cheesecake Sundae’ will top that easily.”

And how will you get word out for this, … this, …this, ‘assisted suicide palace’ may I ask?”

“Fox ‘News’ and Rush Limbaugh of course. They’ve offered a free introductory ad already if I’ll …”

“If you’ll what.”

“I’d rather not say right now … corporate secrets and all that.”

“C.W., what are you up to?”

“You won’t tell?”

“I’m embarrassed enough just listening. No, I won’t tell.”

“They think that they can trick First Lady Michelle Obama into making a discouraging comment about the fare.”

“And?”

“They’ll run her comments nonstop.”

“And?”

“We won’t be able to handle the crowds.” He looked at me with some element of pity. “Say,” he said, “you don’t know anything about marketing to the simple-minded, do you?”

“I don’t suppose I do.”

“Just think about the appeal of ‘Michelle’s Mountain.’”

“Michelle’s Mountain?”

“Yep, Michelle’s Mountain.”

“And that will be?”

“A gallon of fries cooked in lard, covered with fried cheese strips, and served in a bucket with a picture of old Michelle Obama done up as ‘Aunt Jemima’ saying ‘Now don’t you dare eat these, honey,” on the side of it.”

“Oh my god.”

“Sean Hannity almost fell out laughing when I told him about it.”

“I can imagine he did.”

“But we will have healthier fare.”

“Such as?”

“One I call the ‘Surgeon General’s Salad,’ and is it tasty.”

“I can’t imagine what it would be.”

“Oh, it’s like a regular salad except all the ingredients are …”

“Let me guess,” I said. “They are fried in …”

Ain't your taste buds tingling already? - C.W.
“Lard,” he said. “Exactly. They’ve already requested that it be on the menu at the next NRA convention.”

“C.W.,” I said, “I think there is something I should tell you.”

“What? That I have found the secret to all the riches I need, plus that new computer I’m wanting?”

“No,” I said, “that I have read about the source of your inspiration and people are dying from eating there.”

He sighed as if I had just announced that the moon is made of molded bologna. “Don’t you see? That is what will make this place have universal appeal. You ‘rationalaholics’ will love it.”

“How in the world would a place that serves fat-saturated and cholesterol-enriched food to overweight and gluttonous people appeal to a rational person?”

He shrugged. “Well it would improve the gene pool.”
 
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- C.W.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

What Steinbeck Character is Big Dope?

Friends and Followers,

Here's a game I made up while Big Dope and I were out walking. It's called "What John Steinbeck character are you? Here's my take on BD.

How he sees himself:
Tom Joad from "Grapes of Wrath."















How he would like his wife to see him:
Doc from "Cannery Row"


















How his wife really sees him:
Lennie in "Of Mice and Men"
















How his clients see him:
Cal's Mom in "East of Eden"













How his employees saw him:
Ma Joad in "Grapes of Wrath"

















How he really is:

Charlie of course ... who else?

















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- C.W.






Sunday, August 3, 2014

212. War

“Tell me about war.” Oh no. I hate it when C.W. gets like this. He assumes the form of a 12-year old boy and starts asking questions for which I don’t have good answers.

I said, “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know why.”

“I don’t think there is a good answer,” I said.

“Good people die in wars,” he said.

“That they do.”

“Then why do some of your species love it so much, including many in your country?”

“I wish I knew,” I said.

“You’re celebrating the beginning of one a hundred years ago,” he said. “Why?”

“I don’t think we celebrate it,” I said, “I think we simply observe it.”

“The delicately complex and understated inferences of your language confuse me.”

“The ‘subtleties’ of our language cause much confusion,” I said.

“Could that be one of the reasons you love war so much?”

“I don’t love war.”

“Do you hate it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you protest it?”

“Don’t you have something you could be doing? Have you reported to the Falloonian Elders lately?”

“This War of the Entire World Number One,” he said. “Why did it start?”

“Someone assassinated an archduke.”

“He must have been an important one.”

“Not too important, but it set two countries at one another.”

“For revenge? Couldn’t the guilty country simply have paid the other what the man was worth?”

“The country wasn’t guilty,” I said. “just one person.”

“A corporation person?”

“No,” I said, “the other kind. Corporation persons don’t go to war.”

“Why not?” he said. “They stand to make lots of money from them.”

“Hey,” I said, “why don’t we go fishing?” He has taken up this activity lately and it has become one of his favorites, as long as I bait his hook for him.”

“So all the countries of the world chose sides and went to war because one archduke was killed?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why exactly?”

“Only two went to war.”

“That’s not the whole world.”

“Only two at first. Then there were treaties and alliances.”

He thought for a moment, “Things written on paper?”

“Yes.”

“The entire world went to war because of things written on paper?”

I thought for a moment.“I’m afraid so. Those dragged the other countries into the conflict.”

“Things written on paper?”

“Yes.”

“What was written on your country’s?”

“Uh …,” I struggled. “Our country didn’t have one.”

“But it entered in anyway?”

“Late in the conflict,” I said, “but yes, we entered the fray.”

At times like this, when he struggles to assimilate illogic, I swear I can smell electrodes frying.”

“I’m beginning to understand,” he said.

I was relieved. “Now,” I said, “let’s dig us some worms and go fishing.”

He ignored me. “Other countries go to war over things written on paper and your country joins in because it seems like fun.”

“That’s a gross generalization,” I said.

“And this current conflict in what they call your planet’s ‘Middle East’ that threatens to start War of the Entire World Number Three is being generated by things written on paper over two thousand years ago.”

Wouldn't it be nice if your corporation people said their
religion prohibited them from supporting war? - C.W.
I stopped in my tracks and thought, but I didn’t have a ready answer.

“The world may see a conflict,” he said, “involving the most modern technology, including nuclear weapons, because of words written on paper by bronze-age scribblers who didn’t even know that the earth orbits around the sun?”

I struggled hopelessly. “Well it may have been papyrus.”

He looked at me with true sadness in his eyes. “You really are a big dope,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, “I’m not the one who wants to go to war. I’d rather go fishing.”
 
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Your Pal - C.W.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

211. Ignorance

He was glassy-eyed and groggy, not the usual demeanor for C.W. His moves were a little robotic and his head would jerk from side to side when I spoke to him. What was up?

“You okay?”

“No,” he said, “I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“The unemployment rate.”

“The unemployment rate?”

“Yes, it has risen.”

“Uh,” I said, I think it has gone down.”

“No,” he said, “you think you know everything but you don’t know anything. The unemployment rate was 4.2 percent and now it is 6.3 percent. This African-American is destroying your country.”

“President Obama?”

“That’s him. He’s raised the unemployment rate more than two percent.”

“C.W.,” I said, “when was the unemployment rate 4.2 percent?”

“Before Obama took office.”

“I think you will find that it was 4.2 percent some eight years before he took office.”

“That’s before he took office, ain’t it?”

I groaned.

He said, “And there was a budget surplus before Obama took office. What do you say about that?”

“I would say … when?”

“Doesn’t matter, but it was before he took office. Now there is a deficit of 680 billion. I tell you, he is destroying your country.”

“Wait a moment,” I said. I punched on the computer. “There,” I said, “that budget surplus you mentioned was for fiscal year 2000, that’s 14 years ago.”

“Exactly,” he said, “and since this, …  this, man of color has been in office, it is a deficit.”

“Uh,” I said, “would it surprise you to learn that he inherited a deficit of 800 million?”

“Liberal lies,” he said. “Just more liberal lies from the ‘lame-stream media’ that you liberals love so much.” His head began to wag from side to side.

I said, “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“I’m just longing for a return to traditional values,” he said.

“What sort of traditional values?”

“You know,” he said. “Values based on the King James Version of the Bible. Values that formed a solid society.”

“One with slaves?”

“Traditional values,”

“One where women were paid half of what men were paid for the same job and had to answer ads seeking a ‘cute and perky’ secretary?”

“Traditional values.”

“Where a person gave all their money to the poor?”

“Tradi …” he stopped. “Say, what are you doing, trying to change the subject?”

“Why don’t we?”

Just wait until this bombshell
hits the liberal media. - C.W.
“Okay,” he said. “Did you know that Chelsea Clinton may have fathered a child with Mike Tyson, the prize fighter?

“C.W.,” I said. “Have you been watching Fox News all day again?”

He said, “Benghazi.”

“Have you?”

“Benghazi.”

“C.W., look at me.”

“Benghazi.”
 
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- C.W.