“C.W.,” I said, “It’s a little early and, besides, you know alcohol doesn’t agree with you.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “I need something.”
“Sit down,” I said. “And tell me about it.”
“It’s the Elders of Falloonia,” he said. “They are driving me crazy. If I see one more car crash I’m going to explode myself.”
“It’s like this,” he said. “One of my associates read a book called ‘The Hidden Persuaders.’”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Well now the Elders are all concerned about what motivates your species to action. I have been assigned to watch modern movie trailers. It means enphasing into homes and staring at a TV all day long.” He pulled a Mark V movie director’s viewfinder from his pocket and began to study me. “You’re not very photogenic, are you?” he said after looking at me from several angles.
“I don’t think so.”
“So tell me,” he said. “Why do they show movie previews on television that are designed to convince people not to see a movie.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the scenes depicted are so maudlin and puerile as to make your brain weep. How do you like my new words? In between commercials I study your ‘book giving information about word meanings.’”
“You mean a dictionary.”
“Ain’t that what I said?” He began to survey the room with his viewfinder.
“Of course. Now what displeases you about the movie trailers they show these days?”
“Well,” he said, returning to me with his view finder. He closed in on my face. “Ugh.”
“Cut it out. Now what’s up?”
“Well, yours is a consuming species, right?”
“Oh, I think so.”
|Now this would make me want to see a movie - C.W.|
“Well, if you want to show previews that would induce people to go to a movie, one would want to use the best scenes as teasers, right?”
I thought for a moment. “I think they do pick the best scenes.”
“No, they just show car crashes, gun fights, explosions, and shots of men and women sticking their tongues into one another’s mouths.”
“They think those are the best scenes,” I said.
He studied me with his viewfinder until I felt like grabbing it and throwing out the window. Finally he said, “And you still maintain that Shakespeare wasn’t an alien?”
“C.W., go home,” I said.
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