Saturday, April 28, 2012

93. Questions

Once again, we allow the Alien to answer letters from his fans.

Dear C.W.: My wife has a “fart app” on her Kindle. She sets it off at critical points during my favorite TV shows as an expression of her opinion. Should I confront her about this? - Distracted

Dear Distracted: My experience with American women so far leads me to believe that a member of the male species should not confront them about anything. On the other hand, my experience with American men leads me to believe they posses an evolutionarily-formed tendency toward self-destruction (especially politicians). My advice? Watch only TV shows that she approves in writing.

Dear C.W.: My husband snores something awful. Always has. Lately, he has been snoring the tunes to popular music, his favorite being “Achy Breaky Heart.” I suspect he is doing it on purpose. What should I do? - Suspicious

Dear Suspicious: By all means, get your cell phone and video him. This will go viral on YouTube in a matter of seconds and will surely result in a reality TV contract and big bucks.

Dear C.W.: My husband has destroyed two I-Pads playing “Angry Birds.” This is getting expensive. What can I do? Distressed

Dear Distressed: I suggest that you enroll him in one of those Internet Universities. Then he will be eligible for student loans and I-Pad replacement should no longer be a problem.

Dear Um .. Like C.W. or Whatever: My dad, is, like, so totally yesterday. He is like, “You should study,” and I am so, like “Why?” and he is so like, you know, “Cause I said so,” and I am, like “Who died and put you in charge?” and he is, like “Don’t get saucy with me, Bernaise,” and I am like, "Whatever are you talking about?” What should I, you know, do? – Like, Bewildered

Dear Bewildered: Your Dad is wrong. Studying won’t help you. Go to Branson, Missouri and get a job waiting tables.

Dear C.W.: My mom is 80 and on fixed income. She responds to the Joel Olsteen show by sending him money. She owns a 900 square-foot home in need of a roof. He owns the Superdome and several mansions. Shouldn’t he be sending her money instead? – Confused

Dear Confused.: You apparently understand neither the “Prosperity Gospel” nor the “Flow of Money Principle.”

Deer C.W.: I wuz eddicated at home and am now in a local Bible collige. They want me to reed books and studee histry but I just won’t to be an accountint. My daddy says ask you what I can do. Do you have any advise for he and I? – Stubbern

Disappointed that your question wasn't printed?
Remember, in special cases we can arrange
a personal counseling session. - C.W.

Dear Stubbern: By all means. If you hurry, you can catch Bewildered and ride to Branson with her.

Well fans, Big Dope says we have exhausted our allocation of space. Until next time, as we say in Falloonia, “Fapriticasua” or “Get yourself some stronger glasses and keep on trucking.” (A rough translation).

The Alien C.W.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

92. Weddings

Pardon the extra length, but I found this on my computer this morning. Thought it was interesting.


Black screen
Fade in. Screen fills with full face of a woman with extravagant makeup poorly applied. Her age is on the upward side of thirtysomething. As the image fills the screen, she speaks.

My name is Tymber, with a "Y" and I am a bride to be. What I am about to say is true. It happened to me.It could happen to you. Be warned.

Dolly back. The camera gradually takes in the entire figure. The woman is seated on a studio chair in front of a plain background. She is wearing a white, sleeveless wedding dress. Tatoos cover portions of her arms and body. A veil is parted to reveal her face. Her makeup has begun to smear and she dabs a handkerchief to her eye before speaking.

I simply wish to be married and have a nice wedding, one that I plan. My fiance's family is rich, and is footing the bill, so we can afford the best, exactly what I demand. Is that so awful?

Looks into the camera and dabs her eyes again.

It started when we selected a pastor. I was concentrating on the florist and baker so I left the choice of a pastor up to my fiance. His family attends the largest church in town, where the wedding will be, so they made the decision.

Stops. Composes herself.

I was surprised when he, the pastor, demanded to interview us. Honestly, I thought he had a minor part to play and should just show up and play it. But, I went along. To my horror, he began asking us if we attended any church, for he knew we didn't attend his. Can you imagine?

Looks into the camera with a questioning look.

That's not the worst. He actually commented on the fact that we have lived together for five years and have two children, both of whom we wanted to take part in the service. He didn't seem to like that idea at all, as if it was any of his business.

Stops. Composes herself.

It deteriorated from there. He even questioned that I would wear this beautiful, five-thousand dollar, white wedding dress at my fourth wedding. Somehing about virginity. I didn't uderstand it all. I think the worst moment was when he tried to nix our wedding song, saying it might not be appropriate inside a church. Well, I told him how "the hog ate the cabbage" about that. I'm sorry, but my fiance and I met at a Jimmy Buffet concert and if our song is "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw," then so be it. Any questions?

Stares defiantly into the camera.

I don't guess I have to tell you how he felt about the vows we wrote. The line about "long, languorous orgasms" really set him free. Isn't that just like a preacher? It really went to hell after that. The bottom line was we had to get my fiance's family to straighten him out. Seems churches need money more than tradition these days. So, we're getting what we want, but it caused me, to like, totally freak out. And I am the center of attraction.

Stops and looks pleased, then notices something behind the camera. Looks questioningly and then nods. Composes herself again.

Oh yes. The reason I am doing this documentary is to set a role model for other girls. And I don't care what people think. My wedding will be awesome, and this preacher should be proud to be a part of it.

Pauses. Then looks with determination into the camera.

I mean it's not like we're gay.

Move to closeup and then fade to black.

Some of your customs are easier
to explain to the Falloonian Elders
than others. - C.W.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

91. Sports

She was beautiful, the kind of creature that would make an old man buy a Harley. I figured it was C.W. of course, but oh my goodness. When I opened the door, the image took my breath away.

Fortunately, my wife was visiting her mother, for there before me stood a nearly six-foot tall goddess in a string bikini that stopped a heartbeat shy of saying “howdy.” One could have fashioned both top and bottom from a single hanky with enough left over for a headband. Her face seemed to leap from the pages of a glamour magazine and her body would have made Pat Robertson do the “buck and wing.”

She was that stunning.

“We need to talk,” she said as a single tear slid down her perfect face. She brushed past me into the living room and asked if she could sit.

I sat and motioned. “On the crotch …” I stammered. “The, uh, couch,” I corrected myself.

She gave me a quizzical look and sat.

“What’s up, C.W.?” I asked.

“She looked confused. “I’m Delta Donax,” she said. “Don’t you recognize me?” She crossed her legs.

“Should I?” I asked. “Are you a pubic figure?” I said, and froze.

“I am an Olympic athlete. Haven’t you seen me before?” She looked directly at me.

“Your thighs, I mean your eyes look familiar,” I managed. “What sport?”

“Beach Volleyball.”

“Are you sensuous?” I stopped. “Serious, I mean serious.”

“Yes,” she said. “That is the problem.” Then she burst into tears.

“Now, now,” I said, trying my best to comfort her. “Why don’t you get it off your breasts and tell me about it.”

She looked confused but explained between sobs. “Nobody takes me seriously.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” I said.

“No,” she said. “Some sportswriters think that I am simply a hot body.”

“Well,” I said soothingly. “They are just boobs, dummies I mean.”

“If I was an Indian who could run fast, they would write books and make movies about me.” She stood up and paced.

“Perhaps,” I said. “Especially if you could excel in the longer buns.”


“Uh, longer runs,” I said. “Long runs.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Do you know what the Greeks first wanted to promote with the Olympics?”

The air conditioner had kicked on a few second earlier and her body immediately manifested the fact beneath her bikini top, attracting my gaze.


She glared at me.

“Peace,” I said quickly. “Peace among the city states.”

“You men are all alike,” she said.

”Perhaps if you wore less revealing uniforms.”

“Tell that to Jesse Owens and Michael Phelps .”

”You have a couple of good points there.” She caught me looking again.

“Is there something bothering you?” she said.

“Well,” I said. “There are differences between track and field, gymnastics, and beach volleyball.” Not quitting while I was ahead, I added, “Mounds of difference.”

Phidippides would have made it
to Marathon even faster had these
athletes been wating there. - C.W.

She exploded. “Well why don’t you take your ‘mounds’ or whatever and ..”

“C.W.,” I said. “Calm down.”

She didn’t say another word, just walked to the door and left. As she walked out, I couldn’t help noticing the raised outline of a tattoo beneath her bikini bottom. It read simply, “Bite me.”

At least I think it was C.W.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

90. Testing

Last evening was a busy one. C.W. recovered from his somber mood of last week but was again agitated by national news. It started with a knock on the door shortly after sunset.

I opened to a snappily dressed man in a silk suit and club tie. Impeccably finished, he looked like an ad for Vogue. The smell of money filled the room as he indicated a sense of urgency. As I seldom wonder about visitors anymore, I ushered him in.

He didn’t bother to shake hands. He simply turned once he entered the room and said, “I’m Rex Tillerson, CEO of Exxon/Mobil and I have a problem.”

I waited.

Seeing no response, he continued. “There is a growing cancer in our country.”

I cocked my head expectantly.

“There is a movement among certain states to require drug testing as a requirement for receiving welfare payments.”

I nodded.

“Can’t you see?”

“See what?”

“How this would affect me.”

“Surely you are not on welfare,” I said.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “Do you have any idea how much we receive in tax subsidies?”

“A lot?”

“You couldn’t begin to imagine.”


“If they drug test the corporation, we might lose that assistance,” he swallowed hard. “If our profits drop below 40 billion a year, I’m toast.”

I thought for a moment. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I said.


“As I understand it, tax breaks, although a direct giveaway from the government to corporations, are not considered welfare.”


“Your corporation is not a single woman with a dependant child, is it?”


“Then you are fine.”

“Oh man, he said, “That is such a relief,” he started to leave but then turned. “Could I use your telephone?”

“C.W.,” I said. “What’s up?”

He avoided eye contact. “Nothing. Can I use the phone?”

I gave in. “Use the one in the bedroom. But tell me what’s going on.”

”Nothing,” he said, heading for the bedroom. Then, as he closed the door, “I just need to call the Koch boys. They’ll be so relieved.”

Immediately there was another knock on the door. I groaned and opened it. Another nattily dressed man faced me.

“I need help,” he said. “Got your name from Big Dope dot com.”

“Let me guess. A corporation?”

“Dave Lesar,” he said. “CEO of Halliburton. We’ve been enjoying cost overruns on our federal contracts for years.”

I comforted him and ushered him in out, only to hear another knock. This time it was a young man dressed in starched and pressed work khakis and a stockman’s hat.

“I’m Johnny Benson,” he announced. “I just took over Benson Farms and I’m worried about our farm subsidies.”

This time it took longer as he was neither well educated, nor very bright. Finally, I was able to relax and work on my daily quota of Proust.
The CEOs provided me with this
archetypal image of a welfare queen.
Not to be confused with an
honest corporation (inset) - C.W.

Then I heard the knocking again. Disgusted, I hurried to the door and opened it only to be dazzled by a bright and overpowering smile attached to a huge mop of hair. This time the smell of money mingled with a hint of sulphur.

“Hello,” it said. “I’m Joel Olsteen.”

Sunday, April 1, 2012

89. Mandates

There are times when C.W. can break your heart. I know, he broke mine this week when he appeared in his saddest form yet.

It was late when I answered a knock on my door. There stood an American soldier in the kind of Class A uniform they made military personnel wear in public back in the day.

I say American soldier. Truth be told, he looked more like a kid dressed up like a soldier. He said later he was 18 but could have easily passed for 16.

He was white, thin, and his skin seemed to glow with paleness from deep in his soul. His uniform, though impeccably arranged, hung from his frame like a sheet on a clothesline.

“What the h…,” I began.

“May I come in?” he said.


As he walked into the room in a slow, funereal gate, I observed him closely. His uniform sported a single PFC stripe and a black nametag that simply said “Armstrong.” The highly esteemed Combat Infantry Badge was pinned above a field of ribbons that seemed to weight him down. They included the two Vietnam service awards and a Purple Heart. Another badge identified him as a “Marksman.”

He stood until I offered him a seat whereupon he sat stiffly and stared at me.

“Your species behaves more strangely at some times than others,” he said, after straightening his trousers and checking his highly polished shoes. Then he stared softly into space.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Vietnam Veteran.”

”Vietnam casualty,” he said. “The last day of January, 1968.”

“The Tet Offensive.”

“I had been ‘in-country’ for two months,” he said. He picked a thread from the sleeve of his blouse. “And there were a great many places where I would have rather been.”


He nodded. “Twenty-five percent of us were.” He looked at me and cocked his head. “We accounted for 30.4 percent of the combat deaths.”

I said nothing.

“But that’s not why I am here,” he said.

“Why then?”

“Questions,” he said. “I see where the Supreme Court of your country is considering passing a law that the government can’t mandate that someone do something they don’t want to do.”

“Well, they don’t call it passing a law,” I said. “They call it …”

“I know,” said. “You love to play with words. As your famous writer William F. Buckley Jr. once observed, we could call the act of sodomy ‘following too closely’ but it wouldn’t change much.”

I looked at him closely for a glimpse of a smile but saw nothing but more sadness.

“So what is your question?” I asked.

“Why didn’t they come up with this before 1968?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Seeking to change the subject, I nodded at his nametag.


“Of the Charleston, West Virginia Armstrongs,” he said. “Did you know our state had the highest percentage of combat deaths in Vietnam?”

Can't your species find something better
to rail against than health care? - C.W.
“No,” I said.

“It’s true,” he said. Then stared away again. “They say that when Momma heard the news about me, she shouted and prayed all night long and, as long as she lived, she would tell anyone who would listen that they didn’t know what real sorrow was.”

As I say, he can break your heart.