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Sunday, January 14, 2018

408: Gifts For Politicians

C.W. as what? You would never guess.

A clown. Yep. He waddled in wearing those big floppy shoes that clowns wear. He eased across the floor, feet flopping like a couple of beached groupers. Lip makeup covered half his face and orange hair sprouted in all directions from his face. His attire was equal to the task.

“What the …?”

“Greetings Earthling,” he said. “Did you hear the one about the preacher who got confused and told his youth congregation to go all the way for Je …”

“Wait. What’s going on here?”

“Then he called for the hymn, ‘Oh Why Not Tonight? to be followed by the first and last verses of ‘Almost Persuaded.’”

“Stop it,” I said, stifling a guffaw. “Can you tell me what’s up?”

“They say the congregation had nearly doubled within a year.”

“Will you stop? That’s not funny.” But I was laughing so he paid no mind. “What is going on?”

“I’m ready to make an ad for our new business.”

“What new business?”

“Gifts Reviving Ornery Politicians Everywhere.”

“Say what?”

“Our motto is ‘Don’t mope. Grope.’ Catchy huh?”

“You’re going to have to explain this to me.”

“It’s as simple teaching a dog to sing,” he said. “And you don’t need the whip and wienies.” He laughed. So did I.

“I’m confused.”

“Have you noticed,” he said, “how sour and heinous so many politicians are these days?”

“Well, …, come to think of it, yes.”

“What kind of laws do they make when they are ‘in the mood’ so to speak?”

“Not good ones.”

“What kind of things do they say when they aren’t happy?”

“Mean and spiteful?”

“So what’s the solution?”

“Beats me.”

“Ah,” he said. “It’s time for them to GROPE. Imagine you have a senator who wants to invade some country simply because it’s there and he’s a sourpuss.”

“I think we have one of those.”

“Bingo! So here we go. You just send off to our company and buy a gift for him, one complete with our logo and a note saying ‘Have a happy GROPE,’ and watch the change.”

“Our company?”

“We’ll get to that later. Now what gift to we send to said senator?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“A banjo, stupid. It’s a scientific fact that one cannot frown, think evil thoughts, and play the banjo at the same time.”

I nodded, and an image of John Agar and movie monsters came to mind. “It just might work.”

“For tough cases we’ll switch to accordions, Myron Floren-sized accordions.” I chuckled at the thought.

He continued. “Can you imagine Trey Gowdy wanting to persecute someone while he’s playing “Lady of Spain?”

I had to agree. “He wouldn’t even want to go after Hillary again.”

Correctamundo. Now, imagine that we had a president who hated everyone who wasn’t related to him or had loaned him money.”

“That’s not hard to do.”

“Well, teaching him to GROPE is the answer, by jingo.”

“He might already know." I smiled, but C.W. didn't. "Anyway, go ahead. How so?”

“Ain’t you never heard of a ‘whoopee cushion’ dear boy?”

This one made me laugh just thinking about it. “That just might keep us from becoming a third-world country.”

“A what kind of country?”

“Never mind. You have my attention. Go on.”

“Suppose some dour evangelist, say the son of a famous preacher even, decides to become a spokesman for some political party and starts advocating divisiveness and hatred toward the other party.”

“That could happen for sure.”
 
Happy politicians make better laws. - C.W.
“How’s he going to look after he begins to GROPE?”

“How?”

“Can you imagine preaching hatred while you are tap dancing?”

“Oh stop it.” It took a moment to get the image out of my head, but I finally stopped laughing.

He took on a serious look, or at least as serious as could imagine in his current shape. “We’ll have some subsidiary products for victims of politicians as well.”

“How so?”

“Have you ever had to suffer Fox ‘news’ on the telly while you are in a waiting room and you can’t find the remote?”

“Oh yes. That’s why I carry ear plugs.”

“Some pals from Falloonia have developed something better for that—an app.”

“What does it do, change the channel?”

“Oh, better than that.”

“How?”

“It’s called a ‘Remotely Activated Fart Transmittal.’ Can you imagine RAFT’ing a vice-president while he’s in the middle of denouncing someone?”

This time I couldn’t stop. He kept on, but my cackling drowned him out and I couldn’t see him through my tears.

I gained a moment’s composure. “We’ll call it ‘Penceification’ and make a fortune.”

This cracked us both up.


See also:
Delta Dreaming
Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.



Sunday, January 7, 2018

407: Departures

I can’t imagine how you would react if you were to come upon C.W. in his actual form. Shocked, terrified, nauseated are a few words that come to mind. I had known him for maybe a year before he allowed me to see him. Even then, he prepared me by showing some images of his native planet, Falloonia.

That is, of course, why he was granted the power to change shapes before mingling with us. I’m thankful for it. At any rate, I caught him “in-real” as he prefers to call it. He was standing in a large open space at our farm standing motionless with four of his arms to his side and two pointed toward the sky.

“What the … ?”

“Quiet,” Middle Head said, “We’re in practice mode.” I watched as he stood rock-still for several minutes. Then the four hands hanging to his side began to rise. As they reached a perpendicular position, six of the fingers on each hand folded and left one finger extended, making a sign quite resembling one that we use to insult one another. I watched in utter confusion. Was this some religious ritual hitherto unmentioned? I do get the feeling from time to time that he has not told me everything about his mission to Earth.

The four arms finished rising and all six now pointed upwards. Left Head said, “Kthufckowt.” It looked toward Middle Head.

Right Head said, “Kthufckowt,” and looked toward Middle Head.

Middle Head repeated the word and all three trembled for nearly a minute, following which they all looked at me. “Hey Big Dope,” Middle Head said. “What’s up?” All three made the Falloonian facial gesture signifying, as they have taught me, a smile of friendly greeting.

Before could answer, the three of them, all together and all at once, said, “Wait one.” I watched as he moved, best described as sort of a floating wobble, to a nearby storage building. He moved behind it an emerged shortly thereafter as, are you ready? The Galilean.

“Blessings to you, brother,” he said as he approached me.

“What the hell?”

“Oh that what you just saw?” He smiled. “We call it a ‘Trump Drill,’ and have to practice it every day. That’s simply the posture we must assume when they send the Retrieval Beams for us.”

“A Trump Drill?”

“Exactly.”

“Care to explain?”

He smoothed a wrinkle in his robe. “Don’t you read the papers?” Before I could answer, he said, “The Falloonian Elders do. Verily I say, they have ordered preparations for a fast exit.”

“A fast exit from where?”

“Here,” he said, looking surprised, “And we must be prepared. Last time we were being called back for a conference, Left Head sneezed, and Right Head got sent to Alabama.” He smiled. “It took us a month to find him and two weeks of re-programming, You remember, don’t you?”

“Was that the time you showed up as Karl the KKK-Man?”

He blushed. “We don’t talk about Karl.”

“Why the practice now?”

He cocked his head in confusion. His long hair fell in front of his face and he brushed it aside. “I asked you once. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Yes, but ….”

“We’ve seen this sort of thing before,” he said. “A combination of knowledge without foresight and power without morality is a deadly combination. How do you think asteroids get formed?’

“So, you assume the position. To depart, that is?”

Fulfillment of prophecy, or big mistake? - C.W.
“As in, ‘He’s about to do it, get your ass ready to flee the premises’ immediately. The thought of it makes me sad, but I follow orders.”

“They are worried, the Elders?”

“Verily I say unto you,” he repeated, “The unleashing of raging demons, gorged from feasting upon power, and lacking the balm of reason, can cause the most sanguine of minds to tremble and the strongest of hearts to fill with despair.”

“Don’t they see that we despair as well?”

“Unfortunately no,” he said. I noticed a tone of gravity in his voice. “I’ve been studying the beliefs of the followers of what we call ‘the Current Occupants.’”

“And?”

“They are quite excited about it all. Something about the ‘fulfillment of prophecy.’ I can’t imagine where they get such ideas.”

I started to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, I said, “So you were practicing the ritual you must perform when being taken home?”

His face turned to me at a slight angle, and his dark eyes glistened. “I sort of like to think I have been at home these many years,” he said. “But yes, that’s how I would catch the Retrieval Beam for, sad to say, my return to Falloonia. If sanity were to return, so shall I.”

That put me in a pensive mood. “You like it here?”

“We’ve never produced a Schubert or a Van Gogh in Falloonia,” he said, adding, “We don’t have ‘The Big Bang Theory’ either. He wiped away a tear. “I’ll miss Penny.”

“I guess we all will,” I said.

See also:
Delta Dreaming
Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.


Sunday, December 31, 2017

406: Resolutions

C.W. doesn’t like cold weather. That means he stays indoors more. That means he develops more opportunities to get on my nerves. And he is approaching very close to my last one.

This morning, he was working his, as he put it, “Not-existing-before Year’s” resolutions.

“How many times have I told you that it is ‘New’ Year’s resolutions?”

“How many times have I asked why you repeat everything I say?” He paused, returned to the computer, began typing, muttered to himself, “Speak more slowly and clearly when conversing with Big Dope.”

“Why don’t you put down, “Have my Galactic Universal Translator serviced on schedule?”

He typed again, “Research possible reasons for Big Dope’s obsession with my GUT. Related to his weight gain?” He stared at me and smirked. “There. Anything else?”

“Why don’t you resolve to live more peaceably with my wife?”

“Done and done. I’ve even returned all her cooking spices to their proper containers.”

“And her rock collection?”

He typed and muttered, “Remove emojis.” He stared into space. Then typed again, “Get rid of firecracker alarm system and replace with ZZ Top music.” He looked at me “She’ll adore me before the year is done.”

“And her phone greeting?”

He laughed and typed, “Phone greeting: change to just, ‘What do you want.’ Remove the ‘F-word.’ Don’t change it again. Is there more?”

“I’m sure there’s more. Let me think.”

“You might tell her to quit hiding Left-Head’s hat. He won’t even let us go outside without it.” Left -Head nodded in agreement.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“So what improvements are you going to make come January One?”

“I may resolve to tell the government men the truth next time they ask me if I’m aware of any alien activity in the vicinity.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Where is my banjo?”

“I hid it in the attic. You wouldn’t really turn me in, would you?” Right-Head’s face brightened. “Besides,” it said. “Mrs. Big Dope paid us to hide it.”

“Yeah, right.”

He typed and muttered, “Schedule Big Dope for a Reality Enhancement Analysis Machine probe.”

“Large probe version,” Left-Head added.

He typed, “Large probe and extended REAM session.”

“This is getting tiresome. I’m making some coffee. Who wants some?”

“Me.”

“Me.”

“I’ll take a Bloody Mary.”

I turned. “That’s for tomorrow morning. Can’t you wait?”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“Dyahaf++kopoouress.” He said.

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t want to know,” Left-Head said. “Besides, we need to be changing before Mrs. Big Dope gets up. She’s still mad at Right-Head for calling her a Celeedahdumca.”

“I seem to recall. Well go ahead and change, I’ll get the coffee.”

I returned with the tray and immediately wished I hadn’t. He had assumed his newest shape, one he simply calls “Current Occupant.” He was thinking hard, but not typing.

“I’m stumped,” he said. “For the first time in my life, I’m stumped.”

Now you know how I feel. - C.W.
“Oh?”

“Yes. These things, these resolution things, they are supposed to help you do better in the coming year, right?”

“Right.”

“So how can I improve? I’ve done more great things than any human has ever accomplished in less than a year: everybody on the planet loves me more than they have ever loved anyone, I’ve shown more brilliance, improved more lives, provided more promise, created more harmony, been kinder to those that despise and mock me, done more for the poor and the humble, spread more peace, acted more righteously, mourned more those who have lost loved ones, spread more hope for the least of those among us, than anyone going back the entire 2,000 years of our existence. How could I improve myself?”

“You might find three our four guys to write a history of your great accomplishment during the last year. I think there are plans already underway.”

“That’s a great idea. It will be the greatest story ever told. Have you heard what they plan to call it?”

“I think they’ve chosen, The Year of Shame.”

“That’s the best title of any book ever,” he said. “They’ll uncover the truth about those who don’t like me. Shame, yeah, that’s the idea. Wonderful theme. That will be great. The greatest theme ever chosen. You tell them to get right to work.”

For the first time this morning, I smiled.


See also:
Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.



Sunday, December 24, 2017

405: Transformations

Probably, C.W. thought that he had captured Ebenezer Scrooge perfectly. It’s hard to tell what Dickens had in mind. He asked us to imagine his character’s physical appearance from his demeanor, to wit:

“Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.”

As the Alien’s character had interrupted my reading, I leaned back to attend his harangue and found myself as shocked as a spinster in a bawdy house to find him in a humorous attendance.

He sat, rubbed his stubble of beard, and said, “I was thinking of a cartoon I ran across while doing some research on British humor. What? Oh yes. They did years ago. Don’t know what happened. Prince Charles’ girlfriend and all that. Anyway, I think the piece appeared in Punch, a real ‘guffawer’ if I recall correctly. Is that a word? Oh, let’s make it one for today at least.” He chuckled.

Still shocked by his exhibition of an unexpected, and, seemingly uncharacteristic, display of levity, I leaned forward.

“There was this Christian Crusader on a large white horse and a Muslim soldier sprawled on the ground. The Christian held a huge lance to the other’s throat while he held a menacing sword aloft with the other in an unmistakable posture of victory.

"To this instance of impending doom, the Muslim says, 'Tell me more about this Christianity of yours. I’m terribly interested.'” With this, the laughter, which he had been subduing with such diligence, leapt its barriers and expressed itself with such vehemence that his tall hat almost toppled to the floor in total shock.

I sat astounded.
The way to change attitudes? - C.W.

His demeanor changed as rapidly as does the weather in our world. “Tell me more about this Franklin Graham of yours,” he said, “I’m terribly confused.”

The velocity with which he changed created a skidding sensation like when the brakes of a fast-moving automobile are applied on gravel.

“Tell you what?”

“This man,” he said, rubbing his stubble again, “this self-proclaimed oracle, seems unable to extricate himself from the tar-pit of mendacity and false propheteering. I’m only asking why?”

I requested additional insight.

“Recently, he lauded the current president for ameliorating the effects of something he called ‘The War on Christmas.’ Is there such a thing?”

“Are you serious?”

“Quite.”

“Do you think that it looks like there is, or recently has been, a war on Christmas?”

“Obviously not. But is it currently illegal to observe, promote, or favor Christmas in any way?”

“The observance is criticized by non-participants, or those troubled by the ubiquitous greed involved, but that by no means implies illegality.”

“So why does this man, Franklin Graham, son of a preacher-man, imply such a falsehood?"

“Politics,” I said. “He’s assigned himself to a certain political segment of the country and, despite what others may infer from his motives, he is a proud and assiduous worker.”

“What’s next,” he said, “a lance to the throat of those who don’t agree?”

“Not now,” I said, “in the early days of the settling of Europeans here yes, but not today.”

“So his aim is to divide your countrymen into opposing segments of the populace for political purposes?”

“Quite so.”

“Fascinating,” he said, once more attending this cheek.

I waited, then, “Is that all you wanted to know on the matter?”

“I’m thinking,” he said. “Were your ancestors who first came here really accustomed to punishment for holding different religious views?”

“If hanging by the neck until dead, or lowering live people onto sharpened stakes, or burning them alive, constitutes punishment, then I am afraid so. Why?”

“One moment,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

I waited

“What I’m wondering,” he said at last, “is whether it might be efficacious to arrange for this Mr. Franklin Graham to witness past effects of such religious and civil discourse?”

Before I could reply, he said, “Then we could show him the present effect of his efforts on the poor, the mourners, and the meek, maybe others as well.”

Again, I had begun to think when he broke the silence.

“Perhaps,” he said, “with some help from the Falloonian Elders, we might even project him into the future to witness the epochal damage of his actions.”

Neither of us spoke. I drifted into sleep and dreamed. The words “Breaking News” flashed through my dream and I was whisked away. When I focused again, I was watching the end of a bio-segment of the very Franklin Graham we were discussing. The announcer turned to the camera and said:

“Afterwards, Franklin became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough.”

Indeed it would be. Then would we all be truly blessed.

See also:
Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.



Sunday, December 17, 2017

404. Reversals

“Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Where on Earth do you come up with such …,” I stopped. It came to me that C.W. isn’t from Earth, so my point wasn’t going to make sense. Still, he could aggravate me at times, and this was one of those. He just smirked.

“Now,” he said, “can I get back to work?” There was no use arguing. He had taken on the shape of Reggie the Young Conservative, and there was no reasoning with him.

I tried a different tack. “So you,” I said, “are charged with developing strategies for increasing the rate of unwanted pregnancies in America.”

“Quite so.”

“May I ask why?”

“Are you really that dense?” He shook his head in exasperation. “Simple,” he said. “It’s a gateway sin.”

“What is a gateway sin?”

He shook his head slowly. “You know what a gateway drug is, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s something you folks made up to justify the billions you’ve wasted on reducing marijuana usage.”

He shook his head. “We’re not trying to reduce marijuana usage,” he said. “We’re just making sure that its usage stays illegal. Crime enforcers are among our most loyal supporters.”

“So how does that relate to a plan to increase unwanted pregnancies?”

“Unwanted pregnancies,” he said, “are like marijuana. They lead to another choice that keeps our political base charged up like an Irish Setter on steroids.”

“Let’s make sure I understand. You want to excite your constituency by increasing the number of people who have to make difficult choices?”

“Not people. Women. Don’t forget that we recognize a difference.”

I see. So what have you tried so far?”

“Well,” he said. “We’ve outlawed sex education. It’s deplorable how many young people now understand the strong correlation between sexual intercourse and procreation. Deplorable.”

“Are you still teaching young girls that, if you say ‘Mother may I?’ three times beforehand, they are safe from all harm?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Are you making fun of us?”

“Perish the thought.”

“We stopped using that one years ago. Now we just teach them to hold their breath and pray at critical junctures.”

“Contraceptives have proven to be effective.”

Correctamundo,” he said. “That’s why we’re in the process of outlawing them.”

“I guess that’s also why you don’t want men held responsible for unwanted pregnancies?”

“What do men have to do with it? That’s what we say. The last thing we want is a bunch of men running around offering to help raise a child.”

“This whole thing seems a bit turned around,” I said. “I mean, the whole idea of increasing loyalty in despising an act by promoting the act seems so …,” I struggled for words. “So Roveian.”.

“Please don’t denigrate the God of Our Movement,” he said, “but now you’re getting the picture.”

“Does it work?”
 
A hero to so many. - C.W.
“Haven’t you ever heard of poverty and our fight for it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can’t you see anything? What happens when you increase the number of poor people?”

“Lot’s,” I said. “You increase the level of so many things: childhood disease, malnutrition, substandard housing, lack of educational opportunities ….”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “It’s crime.”

“Crime?”

“Yep. The greater the gap in wealth, the more crime, and the more crime, the more people run out and buy more …,”

“I see. I see.” I said. “I see, but it’s making me crazy.”

“And speaking of crazy,” he said. “Have you ever heard of Franklin Graham, Joel Osteen, Kenneth Copeland, Joyce Meyer, Benny Hinn, …?”

“Stop. Stop.” I said. “Yes, I’ve heard of them and others like them. Don’t go on. You’re making me nauseated now.”

“Exactly,” he said. “They are all our operatives.”

“Your what?”

“Their job is to turn young folks off religion.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t you see how much our support strengthens when they publish those reports on declining church attendance? What more dastardly trend could you hope for, to blame on your opponents?”

“I’ve got to sit down a moment,” I said. “This goes against everything I’ve ever been taught.”

“Precisely,” he said. “That’s why we have some powerful people,” he stopped, “… some very powerful people, working on education.”