Sunday, August 26, 2012

111. Idiocies

There was no doubt that it wasn’t James Madison in my living room so I had to assume it was C.W. Why he chose this particular form would become obvious soon enough. With his powdered wig slightly askew, he was sitting at my desk thumbing my pocket edition of the U.S. Constitution and mumbling to himself.
“What’s cookin’ Satch?” I said.

“Imbecile,” he said.

“Well aren’t we touchy?”

“This thing,” he said, waving the Constitution at me. I noticed he the pages were crumpled, dog-earned, and covered with notes and underlines. “This thing is so short. I don’t remember that.”

“I thought you wanted it that way,” I said. Why not play along?

“I can find no provision for ‘aclona++snocry.’’’

“A- what?”

He thought for a second. “It’s serious crime on our planet.”

“And it is?

“Something of a cross between ‘knowingly uttering nonsense and scaring the children.”


“Publicly stating that a female of your species physiologically disables her reproductive system after being beaten and violently impregnated against her will.”

“I see.”

“Or claiming that data showing increasingly warming temperatures around the globe are false because some mythical father-figure in the sky simply wouldn’t permit it.”

“Be careful with that one.”

“Stating that supply creates demand or that if you give all your riches to a few, much of it will magically trickle down to the remainder.”

“I see.”

“Or denials of the scientific processes of natural selection even after the Trogotherans dropped Charles Darwin off here in 1859 to explain it all.”

“And your point is?”

“That there no laws against this, as hard as we worked to produce such enlightenment?” He waved the Constitution at me.

“Laws against stupidity?”

“Laws against spreading it.”

“And on Falloonia?”

“On our planet, we take it quite seriously.”

“And the punishment is?”

He thought. “It would be your equivalent of Vacation Bible School as produced at Alcatraz.”
I shuddered. “Maybe you better check your Eighth Amendment there.”

“Levity is not appropriate when discussing this,” he said and he flourished the Constitution again.

“So what do you propose?”

“We would have the punishment fit the crime.”

“So, the ‘supply-siders’ might be given a batch of Facebook stock and forced to sell it?”


“And the ‘trickle-downers’ might be forced to live for a while at the bottom of the pile.”
If it should happen that the proposed
broom-handle remediation should
prove unsuitable to the task of
providing enlightenment to those of
the species who would aspire to
regulate the personal behavior of other
genders, a more enlightened approach
involving electrodes might suffice to
provide mental reformation. - Publius
“You are getting the picture.”

“And the ‘legitimate rape’ fellers?”

He straightened his wig, gave me a deliciously wicked wink, and began to lift himself off the floor with the handle of a broom that he had laid nearby.

“Glad you asked, Big Dope. Stand up and I will show you.”

“Uh, thanks Publius, I think I get the picture.”

Sunday, August 19, 2012

110. Fixes

C.W. needs our help, he says. The Falloonian Elders are having trouble believing some of the reports he is sending. The latest has to do with our treatment of pets, the poor, and the elderly.

“I know what I send the Elders doesn’t always provide a peal of verisimilitude,” he said.

“You mean a ‘ring of truth’”?

“That’s what I said, my son.” His condescension arose from his appearance, no doubt. He had chosen to appear as a high-ranking Catholic clergyman. I wasn’t quite sure of his rank, not being of that faith, but if expense of attire correlates accurately with title, he was up there.

“Pets, the poor, and the elderly,” I said, returning to his original theme.

“Yes, they are amazed, but somehow pleased, when I relate how much care and love your species lavishes on personal pets.”

Just then, as if to prove the point, the latest addition to our family, a young stray dog that my wife had rescued from under an abandoned church building, trotted into the room. She took one look at C.W. whined, backed off, and fled the room.

“I think that is some 20 or so strays that you have rescued over the years,” he said.

“At least,” I said.

“Of course the Elders are not as sharply honed about your interspecies sporting habits.”

“I’m not as ‘keen’ about them myself,” I said. “I gave up hunting when my military career ended.”

“The Elders would prefer that you engage in competitive sports in which both parties knew that a game was afoot.”

“Understandable,” I said.

“Now, about the others.”

“The poor and the elderly?”

“Yes, the Elders don’t believe me when I tell them that one of your political parties would like to pitch them out amongst the Canus Lupi.”

“Well, they don’t call it ‘throwing them to the wolves.’”

“What do they call it, my son?”

“Well, uh,” I struggled. “They would call it building self-reliance.”

“And they would call sodomy a case of following too closely?” He loves this quote by William F. Buckley, Jr. and I regret relating it to him.

“So, do you have a plan?” I tried to redirect him.

“Yes, my son.” He arranged his robe. “Why don’t you simply make pets of your poor and elderly?”

Be kind to pets, not gays. - C.W

“Yes,” he said. “You could sell them in shops, give them silly names, teach them tricks, dress them in ridiculous outfits, and …” he blushed, “Have them ‘fixed’ when appropriate. This would be okay for pets but not full-fledged people, don’t you see?”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“But,” he said. “There is one thing.”

“And that is?”

“You can’t transport them on the top your cars.”

Sunday, August 12, 2012

109. Discrimination

C.W. was devastated. If you have ever seen an alien on the verge of tears, it is not a pretty site. Here is what happened.

With some misgiving, we had invited him to go with us to the Sunflower River Blues and Gospel Festival in Clarksdale, Mississippi. As everyone knows, this is the town where legendary bluesman Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil in return for becoming a guitar playing phenomenon. C.W. has always been fascinated by this legend despite his understanding that it is only one of the minor myths of both music and religion. Anyhow.

He had never been to this festival and I hesitated. Loyal readers will remember his antics, appearing as Elvis and distracting the crowd, at another show a couple of years back.

But, he prevailed and showed up as a sort of energetic version of Neil Young, the singer. He had long gray hair, a tie-died shirt, and a worn straw hat. He climbed in and off we went.

This has always been a quiet little festival, conducted in the middle of hottest month of the year in the Mississippi delta. The informality is appealing though, and the ability to seat one’s self near the stage and enjoy the show was a draw. A concrete area near the stage allowed, with the catalyst of mass quantities of alcohol, white people of all ages to display their dancing “skills.”

Not this year. Our normal route to the festival area was blocked by temporary fencing. Forced to squeeze through a small entry point, under the gaze of some jack-booted security guards with bellies as big as Texas lies, we beheld a remarkable site.

The entire area in front of the stage had been cordoned off and filled with tables, each with white cloth and flower arrangements. It belonged to the major donors to the festival who were the only ones allowed within sight of the performers.

At a blues festival, for Christ’s sake.

The “poor folks” made do with a seating area off to the side where the band members were a distant blur. Worst, for C.W. anyway, there was no area for dancing.

 “This is discrimination,” he said. “Who thought this up?”

“Well, the state has gone Republican,” I joked.

He wasn’t amused. “You know the origins of the blues, don’t you?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

Ignoring me, he charged ahead. “It was a music form created by an oppressed people who found it an outlet for the misery resulting from discrimination.”

“Well, yes.”
Want to know how to ruin a blues festival?
 See me. - C.W.

“And here, here, … here,” he sputtered, searching for words. “Here they have separated a celebration of that art form into the haves and have nots.”

It was even worse. Only four of five of the tables were occupied. The bands were literally performing to an empty space. Off to the side, in the distance, were the folks such as us, who had traveled there to see the show.

“If this don’t beat all,” said C.W., beginning the Falloonian version of a pout. Then the whole place erupted with music and a group of young ladies strolled by wearing, among them, maybe a yard and a half of clothing.

“Later man,” he said. “Got to go see what my soul is worth.” And he was gone.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

108. Competition

One of the favorite guises that C.W. likes to show up in resembles the drugged-out stoner from the Cheech and Chong films. He swears it is just for fun, but I’m beginning to suspect that he has developed a penchant for Tuk Fin. At any rate, he can certainly be entertaining, as he was last evening.

I was working on a project in an adjoining room and we had the farmhouse to ourselves as my wife was taking her mom shopping. Suddenly this piercing scream shattered the silence.

“Big Dope,” he yelled. “Commear … this one dude just finished a race a whole tenth of a second before the other!”

Yes, he was watching the Olympic games. “That’s nice,” I said. “Are the fans excited?”

“Oh, man,” he said. “They’re crappin’ en masse.”

He was quiet for awhile. I thought I heard him changing channels but then he started yelling “Go, girls, go,” and “Way to go girls.”

I tried to ignore him until he yelled for me, “Hey man, come check out the beach volleyball.”

Hmmm. Maybe I would.

I walked in and watched for a few seconds.

“Is that a great team or what?” he said.

“C.W.,” I said. “I hate to tell you.”

“Tell me what, man?”

A young beauty ran across the screen, lost the top of bikini, turned and giggled at the camera, and ran off.

“That is the Playboy Channel.”

“Far out, man.”

I eased back to my project after a few minutes and left him to himself. He was quiet for a spell, then started yelling again.

“Hey Big Dope, come see the farm and ranch channel.”

“The what?”

“The farm and ranch channel, man. I think it’s a show called ‘The Jolly Rancher.’”

Intrigued, I went back.

“Lookit the dancing horse,” he said.

“That’s not the farm and ranch channel,” I said.

“It’s not?”

“No, that’s the Olympics.”

“No way, man. Dancing horses?”

“Dancing horses.”

“Who started the Olympics, man?”

“The Greeks.”

He watched the horse dancing to the music, ridden by a woman who could have easily produced diamonds from a length of pencil lead by "the Ferris Bueller method."

“So maybe man,” he said. “Those century-old rumors about Alexander the Great are true after all.”

I ignored him and went back to work. But he wasn’t through. After I had forgotten him, he inserted himself back into my attention with shouts of “U.S.A, U.S.A., U.S.A,” the top of his voice. Believing that something important might be happening, I peeked around the corner. He was still chanting and pumping his hand.

“Hey man, these Olympics of yours are great … U.S.A, U.S .A.”

“Uh, C.W,” I said as a young lady reached her apogee and her skirt flew up over her head, exposing her underwear. “This isn’t the Olympics.”

Far out, man. - C.W.
“Oh, yeah man, it’s the trampoline competition.”

“No, C.W,” I said. “It’s a rerun of ‘The Man Show.’”

“Your species really knows how to entertain, man."