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Sunday, June 26, 2016

327. Elections

There are forms that C.W. loves but some of those would get on the last nerve in my body. Take, for example, the one he calls “Redneck Raymond.” Yep, you guessed it. A big bushy-headed bully with a paunch cantilevered six inches over a belt buckle featuring a cowboy riding a bucking horse. He grates. Really grates.

And he showed up yesterday.

I was in the back yard waiting for the family to come back from grocery shopping. I was enjoying a summer breeze, a cigar, and a rum and tonic when he just walked around the corner of the farmhouse and plopped, uninvited, into a chair. He grabbed a glass belonging to my wife and poured himself a liberal shot of rum. He sipped it, made a face and held it out. “Not bad,” he said.

“Where have you been/” I said. He hadn’t appeared in this form for some time.

“Preaching,” he said. “I tried preaching.”

“Oh really? How did that work out?”

“Not bad at first. Found me a little Baptist church, learned a few gestures, perfected a little sing-song babble and off I went. Just had to work a few hours each week. Good gig.”

“So what happened?”

“Well,” he said. Before continuing, he took a good sip of rum, looked away, and then turned back to me. “To tell you the truth, the son-of-a-bitches wouldn’t pay me.” He slapped his knee and let out a hearty laugh. Then he took another drink. “Anyway, the Falloonian Elders have me on special assignment for a while.”

“Oh,” I said. “Doing what?”

“Elections.”

“Elections? Helping with them?”

“Hell no,” he said. “It seems your species, or your voting habits, is the talk of the galaxy right now. I’ve been directed to make some notes.” He poured himself some more rum. “Want to hear what I’ve done so far?”

“As long as we finish before my wife gets back. That’s her glass you’re drinking from.”

“Mrs. Big Dope’s never seen me drink,” he said. “She thinks I’m a saint.”

I rolled my eyes. “So what have you got?”

“I started with the types of elections, that you folks seem to have.” He took a small note pad from a shirt pocket, flipped a few pages, and read. “Types of elections.” He looked at me.

“Yes,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“One,” he said, “Americans sometimes have ‘Hissy-Fit Elections,’ or elections designed to express displeasure over some insulting occurrence, such as the election of a person with the wrong racial features or of the wrong gender.”

I thought about this. He continued reading. “Earthlings in this country have had, on one occasion, what I called a ‘You don’t mean it election,’ which is not simply an election but an intercession by its highest court when the court feels the electorate is about to make the wrong decision. The results can be devastating.”

I just stared. He kept going. “There is what I call ‘The Archie Bunker Election,’ based on a stereotypical uneducated, bigoted, but hard working American character in a popular TV series. The character was known primarily, at the time, for saying outlandish things, but it turned out later that a huge segment of the viewing population adored the character for saying things they wanted to say themselves but didn’t dare.

He flipped a page. “This one is complicated,” he said. “I call it the ‘We’re so stupid vote.’” He actually winked at me and took a sip before continuing. “There have been states with nearly simultaneous elections, one cutting taxes and the next mandating additional services.” He sipped. “In my own host state, where hunting is sacred and hunting rights nearly outweigh property rights, they once held an election to guarantee the right to hunt.” He made a note. “It passed, by the way.”

“Are we about finished?” My head was beginning to itch.

Your voters are certainly most particular
about to whom they grant rights. - C.W.
“One more,” he said. “It’s the ‘census vote’ and is one of my favorites.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “How do you have a census vote?”

“It’s easy,” he said. “You just declare, for example, a statewide vote taking away, from a minority group, a right fully enjoyed by the majority group. It works quite well as a census.”

“A census?”

“Precisely,” he said. “The next morning after the vote, you know exactly how many assholes are living in your state.”




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Sunday, June 19, 2016

326. Anger

C.W. was scowling, muttering under his breath, and punching the keyboard of my computer like it was his opponent’s chest in a professional wrestling commercial. “And who knows what part Obama may have played in this?” he said in a growl. “You can bet he was in on it.”

“What the?” I said. He was as close to the shape of a famous “hate-television” personality as you could get, complete with half-glasses and floppy cheeks that shook each time he spoke. Some drool was dripping toward his chin. I looked at him and shook my head. “Would you mind telling me what you are doing?”

“Traitors,” he said into the laptop, ignoring me completely. “Takers. They probably want her to die.”

“Stop it,” I said. “You’re going to damage my computer.”

“Liberal press,” said, punching again. He finally acknowledged my presence with a scowl. “They all ought to be hauled out for Second Amendment justice.” He typed again with a greater vengeance.

“Would you calm down,” I said, “and tell be what is going on”

He read over what he had written on the screen and jabbed at the keyboard once more. I assumed it was a “send” command as he then turned to me and smiled. “Good morning,” he said, closing the laptop. He motioned toward the couch. “Sit.”

“I don’t suppose,” I said, “that there is any possibility you might tell me what’s up?”

“Sermon on the Mount good deed work,” he said. I just stared, and he continued. “You know the young daughter of that poor family down the highway,” he said, “the one scheduled to start college in the fall?

“That sweet child, Brittany?”

“Herself.”

“What about her?”

“She’s in the hospital.”

“No,” I said. “What happened?”

“Car hit her while she was jogging. Broke her leg.”

“Oh no. Will she be okay?”

“Eventually,” he said. “If we can round up enough money to pay her bills.” He smiled. “That’s what I’m doing.”

“Say what?”

“I’m posting with your contacts, getting them to donate money to one of those fund-donating sites, to help Brittany get well and head off to college on time.”

“You what?”

“It was Mrs. Big Dope’s idea.”

“Explanation please.”

“Don’t you remember when she told me to get out her sight and do something for the good of society, like drowning myself?”

I thought, “Which time are you talking about?”

“The most recent,” he said. “But I decided not to do that.”

“Obviously,” I said. I began to see where this was going. “So you decided to …?”

“Help the poor in spirit, the needy, the righteous even. Brittany sure fits that description, right?”

“So you’re telling me,” I said, “that’s what you were doing when I came in?”

“Of course,” he said.

“But you were muttering and screaming and even drooling in anger?”

“Silly boy,” he said. “What do you think sells in America today?” Before I could speak, he answered for me. “Anger,” he said. “Anger and fear. Oh, and don’t forget … greed.”

“You’re … you’re … you’re … uh crazy,” I said, sputtering as I did.

“I’m not a member of the species from which fifty million of its members have voted for someone who has been described as “… a pathological liar, peddler of vile racist, misogynist, xenophobic ravings and [a] sneering trampler of our most fundamental American values.”

Our hero and the founder of our style
of spreading love and goodness. - C.W
.

That rendered me speechless. He continued, “And those are considered good points by his supporters.”

Taking a deep breath, I said. “So you decided to do good by doing evil yourself?”

“Hate sells,” he said, “and Brittany needs help. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “Had an idea.” He picked up a notepad and pencil. Then, reverting back to his “hate purveyor” form, he wrote, muttering as he jabbed his pencil into the paper, “Hate that chocolate-brown president of ours as much as I do? Then let’s ruin his day by helping a little white girl.” He looked up and started to say something, but then had a thought. “Oh,” he said, writing, “and a Christian one at that.” He looked at me and smiled. “See how easy it is?”

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Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Seeking Help

Dear Friends:
Has anyone seen Big Dope? He ran out the door this morning after I asked him to answer a simple question. At least I thought it was simple. I only asked him to explain:
Why would someone who finds every statement and action by a political candidate reprehensible , hurtful, or hateful would still maintain they will vote for him simply be cause:
1. He has the right letter behind his name,
2, He "says" he supports the only issue I'm concerned with, or
3. He says the other candidate may be qualified but simply strikes him the wrong way?

Replies are always welcome. Oh, and I did find this original version of something that Big Dope posted on what you call a "social means of mass communication" outlet today. Hope you enjoy it.

 Yesterday I suggested we look for things that bind us together. One friend responded, so I guess I should. Remember that we, as Americans, are problem solvers when pressed. And we do it not with moment of silence, prayer, hatred, or blame-placing, but with hard work and dedication.

For example, children today don’t suffer sitting through films of their peers in iron lungs fighting the ravages of polio. They aren’t forced weekly by their parents to lie on their back on the kitchen table and raise their head—reportedly a home test for the disease. Except for a few spots on the planet, where religious extremists ban the cure, polio no longer exists.

“I have had dreams and I have had nightmares,
 but I have conquered my nightmares 
because of my dreams.” – Jonas Salk
One man, who grew up poor in New York City, whose father worked in the garment district, and who graduated from public schools and colleges, developed a vaccine. Then a complex collaboration of leaders and solvers effected the results, working from a system of public administration envied by the world. Private organizations in our country helped fund the spread of the vaccine to other countries. The world walks a little taller today because of this joining together by Americans.

The man, Jonas Salk, never patented the vaccine, preferring to make it available to everyone. That is the America that binds us.
May we all be led by our dreams today, and not our nightmares. Peace.

May I add that thought as well. I think I’ll include it in my next report home.
-Your friend, C.W.

Sunday, June 12, 2016

325. Campaigns

It had been nearly two weeks since I saw C.W. and I was beginning, as I drifted between concern and relief, to wonder what happened to him. It was late afternoon and the rest of the family was away, so I mixed a drink and sat in the backyard of the farm watching the woodland creatures, actually cows, dogs, and Canadian geese. I heard a noise from the front yard and turned around. There, coming around the house, to great commotion, were the conjoined twins, Lucky and Lefty, one of C.W.’s favorite shapes.

“Turdface,” Lucky was saying, “he’s nothing but a damned sociopath.”

“Asswipe,” Lefty said, thrusting a finger toward the other head, “at least he’s no damned communist.”

“Bite me,” you right-wing idiot.”

“Up yours,”

“Boys, boys,” I said. “What seems to be the matter?”

They looked at me in unison. Lefty spoke first. “What makes you think something’s the matter?”

“Yeah,” Lucky said. “Butt out, watermelon-head.”

I sighed. “Where have you been?”

Lucky looked at Lefty, who looked back. After a few seconds, Lefty said, “Tell him, jerkoff.”

“You tell him,” Lucky said. “It was your fault.”

“It was entrapment, pure and simple,” Lefty said.

After a few minutes of this, I obtained the full story. They, he, whatever, had just completed, by correspondence it seems, the Falloonian version of sensitivity training due to a visit by a representative from the home planet, an individual sent to record progress.”

“He just had to comment that one of her heads made him want to Flurshmithikut.” After some prodding I determined that translated roughly, very roughly, into ‘dancing the Watusi in the nude while emitting mating sounds.’ Anyway …

“We’re free now,” Lucky said. “And guess what?”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, go ahead,” Lefty said.

“Just tell me.”

“We,” Lucky said with a verbal fanfare, “are going to participate in the upcoming presidential race. I’m with the winner, and he’s supporting ‘douchebag.’”

“Don’t you dare call President-to-be Cruz that,” Lefty said. He looked at me. “This from a person who supports, ‘Pencil-di…’”

“The honorable Bernie Sanders, if you please,” Lucky said.

“Honorable my ass,” Lefty said. “My candidate is the honorable one. Just wait until he settles with those scum,”

“What scum?” I asked.

“Immigrants and their illegal offspring, coming our country and claiming to be citizens. Wham, bam, and right back into the jungle with them,”

“Uh, …”

Lucky interrupted. “Bernie’s going to let everyone go to college for free,”

“Yeah,” Lefty said, “even stupid assholes like you.”

“Uh, fellows …” I said.

Lucky blurted out, “We won’t have any more illegal wars with Bernie.”

“Just wait until he takes away your guns,” Lefty said, looking at me.

“I don’t have any guns,” I said.

“What about that one you use to shoot snakes?”

“It’s a pellet gun,” I said.

“Bernie the socialist will get that too,” Lefty said.

“You won’t need guns after Ted, the Bat-shit Crazy, Cruz nukes the entire Middle East,” Lucky said.

“Oh man,” can’t you just see it?” Lefty said. The entire area glowing in the dark on Google Earth.”

“Moron,” Lucky said.

“Hippie weeny.”

“Uh fellows, …”

“What?” Lefty said. “It won’t affect you. “Ted The Man says he’ll exempt the Baby Boomers from all his cuts.”

“It’s not that,” I said.

“Then what is your problem?” Lucky said.

“Have you not heard?”

We always find it odd that so many of your species
 doesn't take the right to make this choice any more
seriously than it does. - C.W.
Lefty looked at Lucky. Lucky looked back, and said, “Heard what? We’ve been gone awhile, or can’t you hear?”

“It’s all settled,” I said. “The nominees are chosen.”

“That’s why we’re gearing up, Dummkopf,” Lefty said. “Now which one of us do you plan to side with, Cruz or Sanders?”

“I hate to tell you this” I said, “but the candidates are going to be Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.”

“Cut the crap,” Lucky said. “We’re being serious.”

“Afraid so,” I said.

“But … but … but…,” Lefty said. “You’re talking about someone who is despised, ridiculed, and blasted by everyone in the press—a person who reportedly disgusts people and who started to wear thin years ago. Someone who will polarize the country. Someone who has had a troubled marriage in the past.”

“Two, actually,” Lucky said, looking at Lefty, “and you have to take him.”


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Sunday, June 5, 2016

324. Sweet Thoughts

Gosh, you wouldn’t believe what I saw come walking into the room. I was alone in the house I thought, but no. There was C.W., and describing him is going to be difficult. He was a man of maybe 40, with long black hair tied in a ponytail and a couple of jade earrings. There was a slight covering of rouge on his cheeks. The color matched a long robe he was wearing that had faint outlines of roses printed throughout its length.

This was going to be fun. I decided right away that I would play along with whatever scheme he was up to. “Who the hell are you?” I said.

“Just call me Paulie,” he said, flashing a wrist-wave. “Do you have any wine?”

“I have some Sangria my wife cooks with.”

“Oh babe,” he said, “she does more than cook with it. Trust me. Ever wonder how she uses that much wine just for cooking, or how she puts up with you all day?”

“Would you like some?”

“It’s red darling,” he said. “You know I only drink white.”

“Wait one,” I said. I was going to follow this one wherever it went.

I returned with a small plastic bottle of Sauvignon Blanc left over from an outdoor concert. “How’s this?”

Another wrist flash. “Tawdry but acceptable. You don’t really expect me to drink it from the bottle, do you?”

I went into the kitchen and retrieved a glass. He poured the wine into it and sipped. “Oh dear,” he said. “Cheap wine is the scourge of your species. But sit.”

After I was seated, he smoothed his robe and took another sip. “Speaking of wine,” he said, “the Corinthians are at it again.”

“At what?”

“They’re getting drunk off the communion wine, just like they were before.”

I said nothing He said, “And the little darlings are doing worse than that.”

“How much worse?” This was getting ‘funner’ by the minute.

“They’re doing that awful thing I told them not to.”

Nodding my head as if I understood, I said, “Oh, that thing.”

“Well listen,” he said. “There’s more. They have even invented something they call ‘slow dancing,’ so they can do the dreadful deed while they are standing up.”

“No way!”

“Way,” he said. “Every day I thank the Galilean for the thorn in my side. It keeps me out of so much mischief.” He stopped and thought for a few seconds. “Well there is Timmie, but I’ve been traveling alone lately.” He quickly tacked onto a new course. “Speaking of the Galilean, he’s at it again.”

“At what?”

“Oh, he’s in therapy once more.”
Innocent fun, or practice to be a baby-daddy?
I report. You decide. - C.W.


“What for?”

“Depression.”

“What’s he depressed about?”

“Oh, all those things he truly despises.”

“Like what?”

He sipped his wine. “Oh, you know.” He raised a hand and began to count off with this fingers. “Divorce, love of money, judging others, not loving your neighbor, hypocrisy, being mean to the poor, … and just being a total jerk in general.” He sipped, “And of course my main one.”

“What’s that?”

“Being obsessed with, and even bragging about, that thing I tell folks not to do.”

“And he sees folks doing all those things?”

"Oh, honey, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but some people have always done that.”

“You know, if you weren’t so darned slow on the uptake, I’d take you in my lap and cuddle with you, you’re so cute.”

“I’m married,” I said.

“We all have our thorns,” he said.

“So the Galilean is depressed?”

“Very much so. We had to get Peter, what a cute name … don’t you just love it? Anyway, we had to get Peter to look after him for a few months.”

“But …,” I said.

“But what?” He sipped more of his wine.

“People have been violating those … those … rules, for centuries.”

“They’re more like guidelines than rules, sweetie, and anyway, this time it’s different.

“How so?”

He rolled his eyes. “Pet, don’t you even keep up with the presidential race in your own country?”


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