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Saturday, January 11, 2020

Logic

I heard this conversation among two of your species while walking in the park yesterday. I think it may have something to do with why the young of your species don’t trust what they call “The Boomers.”

“Overpopulation is destroying the world.”
“Oh? That's bad.”
“No, people are having fewer kids.”
“Oh? That's good.”
“No, there won't be enough voters for our party.”
“Oh? That's bad.”
“No, there won't be enough for the other party, either.”
“Oh? That's good.”
“No, neither side can win elections.”
“Oh? But won't it force compromise?”
“Are you stupid or something?”

Friday, January 10, 2020

Royalty

Sometimes I have a hard time explaining things to my Falloonian elders. Perhaps the most difficult is why American homo sapiens would worship a figure like the one Big Dope calls “The Galilean,” but then vote for this Donald Trump to be president of an important country.

I’ve quit trying on that one.

There’s another. It involves American homo sapiens as well. Notice I said, American homo sapiens. I may need to ask your help, dear readers.

It involves this group of what I can only use the American term “deadbeats” to describe. They are known as the “British Royal Family.”

They don’t work.

They don't earn.

They don’t govern.

They don’t, apparently, think before they act.

Well, that last problem may not be confined to British gentry.

Anyway, now one couple among them claims they are going to “step back” from British royalty.

“Say what?” Oh, excuse me, I sometimes slip into American idioms. Don’t know why I did just then.

Anyway. What do they mean by “step back”?

The husband is not going to give up his taxpayer-funded allowance.

He’s not going to get a job.

He’s not going to change his name.

He’s not going to put them into a witness-protection type program.

Sounds like all they intend to do is move somewhere away from parental guidance.

I might can see why the British put up with the antics. It’s an old habit on their part. Of course they are free, as I understand it, to chop off a few heads if things get out of hand.

I can even see why some American homo sapiens find it a bit interesting. It sorta reminds one of cute kitten posts on social media.

What I can’t understand is the obsessive news coverage of their goings and comings, this and the other siblings in this family.

I'm talking about day-to-day coverage, sometimes minute-to-minute coverage.

 In American newspapers.

Aren’t there any cute kitten stories to write about?

Tuesday, December 31, 2019

Resolutions


Of all things. I may file a complaint. The Falloonian Elders never intended that I face such an indecency. I can’t find a word in my Galactic Universal Translator to describe the insult.

No matter how my GUT responds, I guess I’ll make an attempt to follow instructions my host has given me. That is to prepare a list of something he calls “New Year’s Resolutions.”

He says they serve to make a person better. How could I become any better? Here are his suggestions.

- Don’t assume the shape of Stephen Miller again. The neighbor’s kids are having nightmares and cows at a nearby dairy still refuse to give milk.

- Don’t leave Falloonian films like Dephraslinko Duzetwiph++ Dallstron IV on Big Dope’s laptop.

- Don’t practice Falloonian recipes in Mrs. Big Dope’s kitchen.

- Don’t mention Michael Vick around Demon Dog again.

- Don’t get Left Head to drink green tea and ask him to sing.

- Don’t send anymore nude photos of me, as a very prominent lady, with fan letters to Franklin Graham.

- And, finally, stop with things like answering the door as Fred Rogers.

Not a word, you will notice about weight loss and getting into shape. Besides, he banned me from the gym after what he calls “that Roadrunner stunt.”

Must go. My GUT is bothering me.



Sunday, December 29, 2019

Film

Sunday mornings offer the best hope for a standard routine at La Casa Big Dope. (How do you like that dear readers? I’m learning to write in what my GUT calls, “your idioms.”) Anyway, it is comforting to know that we will watch a film on a show about a movement called “Film Noir.” I think that means “dark films,” literally “black films.”

Odd, there’s few black actors in any of these films. The only ones play maids, servants, or eternally comedic characters afraid of everything from ghosts to their masters. I had assumed that the style featured the so-called “race films” produced between 1910 and 1950. Some of those avoided the stereotypes. I don’t think white Americans liked them very much.

But no. These films, from what my GUT tells me, represent a a style or genre of cinematographic film marked by a mood of pessimism, fatalism, and menace. See? Dark, like I said. I don’t think Falloonians would like them very much. I like them better when I assume the shape of some cowboy actor or other. Hopalong Cassidy works well.

Next question: why does your species like them so much? Is darkness of spirit appealing to your species?

In the real “black films,” there is music, laughter, and dancing, lots and lots of dancing.

I like dancing. Music too. I even like black people.

I’m not sure I would make a good American, no matter what shape I chose.

Friday, December 27, 2019

Frustration

Being in the same room with Big Dope while he works on his computer is more fun than a Falloonian game of Grubendimbihgdewhasit.

Don't ask.

I curled up shaped as Timmie Joe the 14-year old nerd and worked some kindergarten puzzles based on matrix algebra. They were simple so I could watch BD and do them at the same time. He was trying to program a new Christmas present onto his laptop computer.

To say it was sorta funny would be like calling your president sorta odd.

He claims that software applications used to come with instructions. I guess I believe him.

"Nothing but these %$^**&^! cartoon sketches." I just listened. "How am I supposed to know what they mean?"

He punched some more.

"Notifinga!"

He had me on that one so I waited.

"Numbah &^%$*#@ ten."

I think that was Vietnamese for something bad.

"Du bist und Arschloch!"

Uh, my GUT tells me that is German.

"Ewwscray ooyay"

Can't force my GUT to respond to that one. I'm sending off for an update.

"Bastardo!"

Most of you probably understand that one.

"Fils de pute."

"Vive la france,"  I say.

Finally, sweat pouring from his face, he turned to me. "One favor I ask."

"And that is what?"

"My obituary."

"What about it"

"To read as follows."

"Yes," I turned the puzzle page over and prepared to write.

"Died from multi-lingual exasperation brought on by an over-exposure to learning curves."