Sunday, December 29, 2013

182. Resolutions

C. W. had been on my computer this morning. I found this.


My New Year’s firm decisions to do or not to do something for 2014

I will not get on Mrs. Big Dope’s Facebook page and “friend” people who “like” Fox News.

I will not us my pongodaschft for niciglidtyme. (Editor’s note: I’ll have to get my translator and get back with you).

I will not, while in human form, grab my chest and fall to the ground when a drunken neighbor near the farm fires his high-powered rifle.

I will not steal Big Dope’s car while shaped like him and carrying his driver’s license.

I will never again tell his mother-in-law that he once did time but that doesn’t make a boy all bad.

I will not bring that woman home, ever, ever, ever, ever again.

I will quit ordering items for her from “Victoria’s Secret” and having them sent in Mrs. Big Dope’s name.

I will quit writing fan letters to "Big Bang's" Penny.

I will cease posing as a traveling “revival preacher.”

I will tell Mrs. Big Dope that: (1) I can communicate with animals, (2) am responsible for those “incidents,” (3) but I will not do it again.

I will never again, for fun, hide the TV remote, add rum to the oatmeal, or raise the toilet seat and leave it when no one is looking.

I will confess to the Falloonian Elders that Big Dope is really not a Pro Football Hall of Fame member, a Nobel Peace Prize recipient, a famous author (although he is working on that), or a former husband of one of the Kardashian women.

I will apologize to the principal at that “white-flight” middle school (even though he was just as much to blame as I was) and I will never again pose as Rush Limbaugh. (Hell, it was funny, though).

I will apply for my own credit card.

I will tell the Jehovah's Witnesses lady that I was just kidding, same goes for the Tea Party man and recruiting sergeant.

It is hard to think of ways to improve when
you live with someone like Big Dope. - C.W.
I will cease reporting to the lady at the Veteran’s Hospital weight-loss clinic when Big Dope has one of his “Mexican Martinis.”

I will never again comment on Mrs. Big Dope’s appearance when she first gets up in the morning and I will cease the playing of “Reveille.”

As for the incident with the armadillo, I don’t admit to it but, if I had, I wouldn’t do it again.

I will be nicer about signing autographs for fans and followers.

In short:

I will try harder to abide by the Alien Visitation Agreement.

-The Alien C.W.

December 29, 2013

Friday, December 27, 2013

Thought du jour

Dear Friends and Followers:
Someone help me. It has become apparent to me that your species has a tendency to wage war on nouns, for example, poverty, drugs, terror, and, most recently, Christmas. Oddly, it always loses these wars. If that definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results, must I report to the Falloonian Elders that your entire species is insane? Your help would be appreciated as I wage my own war on illogic.
Your Pal,
The Alien C.W.

Thursday, December 26, 2013


Dear Friends and Followers:

This morning I resumed my study of the history of America. I discovered that, beginning on December 16, 1944, during World War II, the German Army launched the offensive that led to the “Battle of the Bulge.” At this time of year, the battle was raging furiously in deep snows and record low temperatures. Big Dope says his father-in-law could tell you stories about the cold that would make you shiver on the hottest summer day.

I am particularly impressed with the life of one soldier who took part in that battle.

Richard D. "Dick" Winters (January 21, 1918 – January 2, 2011) commanded Company "E", 2nd Battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division.

His unit parachuted into France before D-day and took part in some of the fiercest fighting of the invasion. Later, the unit took part in “Operation Market Garden,” a failed Allied attempt to break through German lines at Arnhem across the river Rhine in the occupied Netherlands during World War II in September 1944.

Isn't this a much better person to
respect and emulate than the reality
show actor? - C.W.
He survived the encirclement of Bastogne, (remind me on another day to discuss the famous answer to the surrender offer) and toward the end of the war, his unit joined in the capture of Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest at Berchtesgaden, Germany.

The exploits of his unit were chronicled in the Stephan Ambrose book “Band of Brothers,” and later in a TV miniseries of the same name.

As a visitor to your planet, I must say I am deeply touched by the story of this man. A true hero, he never had to prove his manhood. A Quaker by faith, arrogance and bluster seemed as foreign to him as any love of violence. It seems that he was educated, articulated, and modest.  After the war, he settled near Hersey Pennsylvania and never harmed another living thing.

My question, as an observer of your species, concerns heroes. When, I ask, did so my of you quit honoring men like Dick Winters and replace them with people like those awful stars of your so-called “TV reality shows?”

- Your friend C.W.

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Hey. Here is the latest ad for Big Dope's book. Check the reviews on Amazon.



Your favorite alien has once more had a chance to observer your species during this most unique time of the earth year. I must tell you that there is nothing quite like it in our known galaxy.

I must say, this year it was pinch and insert for a while. (Editor’s note: he means “nip and tuck.”) It seemed this year some of your species, especially those in the conservative-leaning media, wanted to use this wonderful time of to cause you to divide and distrust one another. How dreadful.

But, you prevailed and I am glad to say that the spirit lives in the Big Dope household. Even the collection of dogs and cats they have rescued and keep on the farm were on their best behavior. Well, sort of. There were a couple of instances in which Christmas presents delivered by UPS were intercepted and …, well Big Dope didn’t need another shirt anyway.

The days leading up to Christmas ended with their annual visit to their farm neighbors. This year they let me go. It was a treat. What a family. The husband was raised on the mean and poor streets of Laredo, Texas. The wife is a naturalized citizen from Ensenada, Mexico.

For the last several years they have been caring for, in addition to their two daughters (both movie star gorgeous), four foster children who have now returned to their parents. So it was just the four of them when we called on them this year with some small gifts.

It was then that I realized Big Dope has a motive behind his generosity. The wife makes the best tamales in the western hemisphere, perhaps the galaxy. We certainly don’t have anything to match them in Falloonia.

Big Dope made an omnivorous domesticated hoofed mammal with sparse bristly hair and a flat snout for rooting in the soil of himself.
Anyone who would seek to generate division
and distrust during this season of love and hope
is sorely in need of  a hobby. - C.W.
The husband entertained us with stories about how, as a child, his family was one of four that would "follow the harvest" in a covered flat-bed truck, each family claiming a corner in which to live during the travels.
The wife gave Mrs. Big Dope a knitted headband that covers the head and most of the ears. She makes them in her spare time and donates most of them to St. Jude’s Hospital in Memphis Tennessee for the kids who lose their hair during cancer treatments.

Then, of course, on Christmas Eve, she makes tamales for Big Dope.

That’s what I like about your species, this generosity from folks who, themselves, live in the most modest of circumstances. It is particularly touching this time of year.

As I say, there isn’t anything like it in the galaxy.

You should be proud.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

181. Illusions

“Okay, put your card back in the deck.”

I did. He made a big show of shuffling several times, then cutting the deck twice before spreading it on the table in front of us. He waved a hand over the cards in a mysterious fashion and then suddenly plucked one from the deck. He held it up to me.

“Is this your card?”

“Uh, no,” I said.



“I’ll be a Kodamflabbugast,” he said, employing a word for the Falloonian units with slow intellects.

“C.W.,” I said. “Why the sudden interest in magic?” I had to admit, he was dressed for the part, tuxedo, top hat, and all.

“Money to be made in illusions,” he said. “Trouble is—I need an assistant.” He slumped and looked toward the kitchen. “Think Mrs. Big Dope might change her mind?”

I said, “I doubt it.”

“Even if I drop the part about the sexy outfit?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

He thought for a moment and apparently abandoned the idea. I thought it was a good decision.

“So what makes you think there is money to be made in magic?”

He leaned back in his chair and took off his top hat. A pigeon flew from within it and flew to the back of chair. “Your species seems to thrive on illusions,” he said. “I simply thought I would take advantage of it.” He unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket. A small rabbit peeked from inside. “Everyone else does it.” The rabbit nodded in agreement.

“Does what?”

“Takes advantage of your trait of being easily fooled or cheated.”

“Are you trying to say our gullibility?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

I said, “Forget it. Tell me why you think my species is gullible.”

He thought. “For one thing,” he said, “you think reality TV is real.”

I had to agree somewhat. “I don’t,” I said. “But there are some who do.”

“They are the ones who spend money,” he said.

“Maybe so,” I said. “Any other examples?”

“Professional wrestling?”

“That appeal is limited,” I said. “Most folks view it as entertainment. Only a few take it seriously.”

“But they are allowed to mingle, drive, and vote.”

He had me there. My confidence was waning. “Anything else?”

“You used to think you had to sacrifice folks to make the crops grow.”

“Ah,” I said, sensing an opportunity. “But we don’t believe that anymore.”

“But now you believe you have to sacrifice some folks to make the economy grow.”

“But we have our share of educated units,” I said, using his terminology. “They see through things.”

Any species that truly believes making
rich people richer will make poor people
rich someday needs to re-examine
its cognitive capabilities. - C.W.
“Like your supreme public officials appointed to decide cases in a court of law? The ones who believe a corporation is a human being?”


“And I’m not even going to get into the areas of talking snakes and boats full of lions and tigers.” The rabbit shuddered.

“Look,” I said. “Let’s change the subject.” I decided to confess. “That really was my card you picked. I was just fooling with you because I was tired of the magic show.”

“You deceived me for your own ends?”

I sighed and slumped in my chair. “Yes,” I said. “Yes I did. Yes.”

“Well I’ll be a Kodamflabbugast,” he said.
The rabbit shook his head in disapproval, then ducked back inside the coat.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

The Blues

Dear Friends and Followers: I found Big Dope asleep at this computer this morning and the following was on it. I snuck in beside him and posted it before he woke up. Enjoy!

 I recall a man I worked with on my first full time day job as “filling-station” attendant. His name, I seem to remember, was Calvin and he was probably in his thirties with a family. His job was washing cars. He didn’t own one himself. He walked home and back for dinner (lunch) and one day he was five minutes late getting back, so the boss, a real Arkansas a**hole, fired him. Being late was just an excuse. The real reason? He was “uppity.” Didn’t show proper respect for his “betters.” I’ve never been able to erase the sight of him as he walked back toward home with his hands in his pockets and his head sunk into his shoulders.

I don’t imagine Calvin ever sang the blues. A person could get fired for doing that as well.

I also recall the “cotton-choppers” that traded at my father’s little country grocery store. A truck with a covered bed would pick them up before daylight to take them to the fields. They would stop at our store and buy food to eat at noon. Then, after chopping all day, they would stop back by after dark and get something for supper and, if there was enough money left, breakfast.

This went on until the crops were laid by. I don’t know what they did for food until it was time to pick the cotton.

I’ll admit I never heard them sing the blues. I never heard them sing at all. They were too tired.

I do know that I have heard stories about this farmer and that one who would “short” them on pay and laugh about it for the victims had no recourse for justice. Maybe they did sing the blues in the quiet and safety of their own homes.

I also know they led a wretched, oppressed life in which they couldn’t drink from a white water fountain, use a public restroom, send their children to a decent school, or—oftentimes—vote.

From what I understand, it must have been
those poor black folks up north that sang
 the blues. Those in the south were happy
 with their lot. Saw that on Fox News. - C.W.
I do know that anyone who would believe they chose such a life would be ignorant enough to believe that we choose our sexuality, or that we should be either rewarded or punished for it.

I do know that these experiences caused me to try to lead a life that would attend to the poor in spirit and the downtrodden and to be wary of those who worship riches too much, whether they be hedge-fund managers, corporate executives, or televangelists. I’ve also remained aware of the many unearned benefits resulting from enough northern-European DNA to have me classified as “Caucasian.”
Maybe that’s why I don’t watch reality TV shows about rednecks. Nor do I pay much attention to what they say or think, unless they say something that is really, really, stupid. Then it makes me remember all the Calvins I have known. All the a**holes, too.

Friday, December 20, 2013


Dear Friends and Followers: Big Dope is being a jerk again. I reported him to the ASPCA, thinking it was an organization to prevent cruelty to aliens. Turns out, it has to do with dogs and cats. Why do they need protection? They are the most pampered and protected species on your planet. Fascinating.

Anyway, he caught me watching “The History Channel” on TV. Said if I wanted to know anything about your country’s history, I needed to quit watching shows about pawn shops and read.

So I did as he ordered and it required me to think, and that makes me tired and irritable. But, I did run across an interesting quote from one of your country’s so-called “Founding Male persons whose sperm unites with an egg, resulting in the conception of a child.” (Editor’s note: he means Founding Father—translator problems again).

The quote goes like this: "What is government itself but the greatest of all reflections on human nature? If men were angels, no government would be necessary." One must assume he intended to include women in the observation, but one never knows about that bunch and who they intended to include when they founded your country.

Anyway, that seems to make sense to me. All men are certainly not angels. Take Big Dope for example. Case closed.

But what is puzzling to an Alien is this: here we have an architect of your constitution, none other than the future President James Madison expressing the need for an organized and regulated society. Then we have all these folks you have elected to public office lately who believe just the opposite, like the guy from Kentucky with the weird hairpiece. Their belief seems to be that we should eliminate all government and then things will work out fine.

My counterpoint who was sent to a country called Somalia tells me this isn’t true.

These fellows were no angels.
Just ask Kunta Kinte.
But they did seem to put more thought into
things than this current bunch. - C.W.
And anyway, would angels need no supervision? Can you see the confusion in the morning when they line up to get their harps if a senior angel isn’t there to keep order? Who would lead the Heavenly Choir? Can you imagine them flying around in all directions with their wings flapping with no regulation of the cloud-ways? Fascinating.

Anyway, I’m tired of thinking for today. Believe I’ll watch TV.

I’m back. I wanted to see if your senate was going to vote to invade Iran. Big Dope wants a report. Nothing in the news, though, but some guy with a strange beard who thinks that black people would be happier if you re-enslaved them.

You have a strange country.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

180. Alternatives

As funny as it may sound, I find myself worrying about C.W. from time to time, like yesterday. I was minding my own business reading a magazine when a lone figure walks in, plops down on the couch, and folds his hands in his lap. It is a man of indeterminate age, casually dressed in a flannel shirt, rumpled khaki pants, and running shoes. His eyes formed two lifeless orbs that seem to watch something far away, something that he really wasn’t quite certain existed.

“Don’t make sense to me,” he said, without looking at me.

I said, “C.W.?”

He said, “I just don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why you people can’t see the truth.”

“What truth?”

“You know,” he said, turning toward me with no expression. “what they teach us on TV.”

I said, “Have you been watching Fox News again?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

“How do you keep up with current problems? For example, why is your species so concerned about the color of a person’s skin?”

I said, “Did they actually ask that on Fox News?”

“It is a choice,” he said. “A simple choice.”

“A what?”

“It is a lifestyle choice,” he said. “If a person chooses to have black skin, they shouldn’t be upset when they learn that Santa Claus is white.”

There are times when, as the young boy said when he fell into the molasses barrel, my tongue is not equal to the task. I simply stared as he continued.

“Some people want us to change our ways to fit them that choose other paths. It just ain’t right.”

“Us? Who is ‘us’”?

“You know,” he said, “the decent folks. Job creators, true believers, them that holds to traditional family values—the ones that want to save America from the dark forces. I’m talking about the ones that make the right choices in life.”

“White people?”

“That's always a good choice.”


“That helps. We do have some folks that choose to be wise women. Take Sarah Palin for example.” For the first time his face took on some expression. He smiled, winked, and made a clicking sound. “What a gal.”

If a person doesn't exist, does the color
of their skin really matter? - C.W.
I ignored him and continued. “Born right here in America?”

“Where else would you choose to be born?” He turned slowly and stared away again. Then he turned back and looked at me. “Say,” he said, “you ain’t one of them that believes in accepting makers of bad choices.”

“Oh no,” I said, playing along.

He seemed to brighten. “Good, he said, “come on, the Sean Hannity Show is about to start.” He stood, made a slow right face, and began to shuffle toward the door, still staring ahead blankly.

Saturday, December 14, 2013


Oh dear friends, another troubling news release (clickhere). I hate to read these but the Falloonian Elders are making me write up a report about a tendency within your species for life to imitate art. I used an episode of a TV series that is a favorite of Mrs. Big Dope, called “Star to Trek.” It was a comedy series about space travel.

The show had a weird collection of characters and a hilarious portrayal of intergalactic travel. It always causes a break without complete separation of parts me up, as you say. (Editor’s note: he means “cracks me up. Don’t ask).

Big Dope always says that marriage is a risky
 proposition. I see what he means. - C.W.
Anyway, in one show, two planets are being forced to wage war by unseen forces that control events from afar but don’t actually take place in the brutalities. Turns out the “forces” are two youngsters on a faraway planet playing a game.

By the way, can any of you verify a rumor that a new video game called “Wedding Party” is now in production?

Must go, the Elders now want me to compare and contrast a film called “Network” with another comedy show favored by your species, “Fox News.”
Your Friend,
The Alien C.W.

Thursday, December 12, 2013


Friends and Followers:

Please someone help me. I am trying to explain a troubling news story (Click here)  to the Falloonian Elders. Can someone please tell me what “affluenza” is? Are the rich above the law in your society because of it? Would there be a contrasting disease called “povertilosis” that would excuse poor people from criminal activity? Please, my Cannacopawitit glands are smoking.
Sometimes I have to defend your species from
charges of pervasive insanity and my words
are not equal to the task. - C.W.
(Editor’s note: He refers to a condition in which a Falloonian’s mental processing facilities become overloaded and malfunction. Remember how Captain Kirk would defeat a logical mind by introducing illogic?)
If you have any explanation whatsoever, please comment below.
Oh, and please click on an ad. It makes Big Dope (who doesn't suffer from "affuenza" in the least) a little money.
The Alien C.W.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013


Friends and followers: Big Dope is out walking but it was too cold for me, so I have been pondering the religious practices of your species, particularly those who profess to follow the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth.

There seems to be a growing paranoia and general dissatisfaction among some of you and this intrigues me. Some of it seems to reside in the fact that your current President is a person of color. This puzzles me as the source of your religion was also a person of color.

I think it might have something to do with too much time on your hands.


I have pondered the teachings of your Christ and I offer the following. Study these—his words—contemplate them, digest them and determine how to form your life around them and this will occupy you for the rest of your mortal life. Perhaps it will also make you happier with things. Here they are:

 Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled.

The Falloonian Elders have selected this
passages as one of the best signs for the
future of your species but we rarely see
it mentioned in your rituals. - C.W.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.

Just an idea.

- The Alien C.W.

Sunday, December 8, 2013


Oh no. One of my worst fears realized. It was too late to back out of the room for C.W. had already spotted me.

“Come in, old Sport.” He looked up from his pile of papers and motioned me forward. “I have a couple of questions for you.”

Few of his favorite shapes are as obnoxious as one he seems to treasure above all. Yes, I am referring to Paulie Penchant, the political pundit.

He indicated that I should take a seat. He said, “I want to ask you a few questions about this fellow Mandela that just died.”

“The former President of South Africa and Nobel Prize recipient?”

“The terrorist.”

I was aghast. “What do you mean ‘the terrorist?’”

“Your country’s words, not mine.”

“C.W.,” I said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He was wearing a pair of those half-glasses one uses for reading and he looked at me over the top rim. “Come on, old Sport. Surely you know.”

“Know what?”

“That the man was a commie.”

That rendered me speechless.

He continued. “Don’t take my word for it. Your government had the man on a terrorist watch list until 2008.” He waved a newspaper clipping at me. “You almost wouldn’t let him in your country.”

“But,” I said. “Look at the outpouring of grief.” I struggled for the words. “Look at the tributes.”

“Look at the facts,” he said. He handed me a copy of a magazine piece that chronicled then President Ronald Reagan’s veto of a sanctions bill designed to end apartheid in South Africa and free Nelson Mandela from a prison sentence he endured for 27 years.

“He didn’t like communists.” I said. “President Reagan didn’t.”


“The African National Congress—Mr. Mandela’s group—harbored some communists.”

“There you go,” he said. “Makes him a commie in my book. So why all the tears?”

“Congress overrode the veto,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “They were always screwing around with the man when he tried to stop the commies.”

“Oh please.” I said. “Can’t you let it rest?”

He ignored me. “Look at what congress forced him to do in Nicaragua.”

“Forced him?”

“He had to sell weapons to Iran to get money for the brave Contras who were fighting the commies in South America.”

“And killing nuns,” I said. “Also selling cocaine.”

“No problem if they were stopping the commies.”

I groaned. “Back to Nelson Mandela,” I said. “We, I mean we as country, got over it.”

“Got over what?”

“The commie thing.”

“So you say,” he said, fumbling with his papers. “Look at what former Vice-President Dick Cheney had to say about Mandela.”

This is what President Obama and Michelle had to say
when they visited Nelson Mandela's former prison cell.
Seems like a nice sentiment - C.W.

On behalf of our family we’re deeply humbled to stand
where men of such courage faced down injustice and
refused to yield.  The world is grateful for the heroes
 of Robben Island,  who remind us that no shackles or cells
 can match the strength of the human spirit.

 Barack Obama and Michelle Obama
“May we please not?”

“Aren’t you a good American?”

“I try to be but it gets harder when we start quoting Dick Cheney.”

“He was your country’s vice-president, for goodness sake, a heartbeat away from the Oval Office.”

“Please don’t try to frighten me. Besides, he is no Nelson Mandela,” I said.

“Maybe not, but look at what this other ‘truth-warrior,’ this uh …” he dug into his papers again, found one and continued, “this Rick Santorum. Look at what he said.”

It was 17 degrees outside, with a howling wind and sleet, but I decided that I preferred it at that moment and grabbed my jacket.

“Hey,” I heard him say as the first blast of cold air hit me. “Don’t you want to read what Sarah Palin thought about it?”

Thursday, December 5, 2013


Hey folks. This is the Alien C.W. with his “Observation of the Week” while Big Dope is in the shower thawing out.

It is a cold damp day here, with a winter storm approaching. Big Dope decided he had to go walking as he must face the Commandant of Weight Control at the veteran’s hospital soon. And … he decided that it would be a more pleasant outing if I accompanied him.

 Or, as he put it, “Get your three asses out of bed. We’re going walking.”

I protested until he threatened to delete my collection of Kaley Cuoco photos from his computer. What could I do?

It was threatening rain, so we decided to stay close to the man/alien cave. Rain doesn’t bother me, but he assures me that, as a member of your species, he would melt if exposed. We decided to circle the park across the street, it being a mile in perimeter and we could count our laps.

I assumed a shape similar to his and we started out. The sun wasn’t up, and we walked along the park with our hoodies drawn, unarmed and innocent, enjoying happy thoughts—a perfect urban tableau.

Or, as the men and women on Fox News would say, “Hunting Season.”

As we reached an unlighted area, a figure suddenly emerged and said, “Good morning” in a loud voice. It scared the Gutotamibodequeece++ out of me. (Editor’s note: You don’t want to know).

Actually, it was just a lady from the apartments across the street. We see her quite often. She was waiting to catch the bus to go to work, probably for some rich family in the western edge of our city.

Anyway, we talked about fact that it would probably take her an hour, with transfers and all, to arrive at her destination. If she makes any purchases along the way, she will pay a new sales tax on the goods. The money will go to our state’s Highway Construction Department and it will use the money to build new freeways from our city to cities that would not allow “her kind” to live in them, except perhaps as a voucher that can be exchanged for goods or services. (Editor’s note: He means “token.” His translator is out of synch again).

Big Dope got quiet at this point. I think this sort of thing bothers him more than it does some of your species. We walked in silence for an entire lap.

Finally, as we headed north around the eastern edge of the park, the first preliminary blast of cold wind hit us and took our breath away. Well, his breath, I have a different sort of respiratory system.

I guess if these folks would just buy themselves
cars, it would be easier to get around. - C.W.
To get our mind off the cold, I began to express my confusion at your species’ insistence on utilizing the most inefficient methods of transportation in the galaxy. I further expressed my opinion that the poor might become more productive if they had better methods of getting to work. Big Dope turned and explained it this way.

“Shut the hell up and keep walking.”

So I did. We turned west along the north edge of the park, the part that borders a major street. Just as we did, a van stopped alongside us and a pleasant looking woman asked if she could give me a pamphlet. I said yes and she did.

As she drove away, I glanced at the title.

“God controls the world,” it said.

Monday, December 2, 2013

Thought of the day.

Friends and Fans: Your Humble Alien's Thought of the Day:

While a little confused by the affection for organized religion manifested by your species, I do
If he keeps this talk up, I predict he is going to start
annoying some of the folks on political right. - C.W.
maintain a warm spot in my heart (actually I have two but that’s no matter) for your so-called "mainstream churches" that minister directly to the needs of their immediate communities, respect the complete equality of sexes, and offer a quiet refuge in which to contemplate grace and goodness. (And I am very fond of grace and goodness, having two hearts and all). So, while I can’t weigh in on all the teachings of the Christian Mother Church, I am intrigued by this new Pope who, in addition to looking a lot like Gomer Pyle, seems to be embracing the words of the historical Jesus, as I have studied them during my time among you. As he preaches compassion for the poor and needy, I can just imagine those like Joyce Meyers, Kenneth Copeland, and Benny Hinn wringing their hands until their Rolexes fly across the room. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et SpiritÅ«s Sancti, etc. etc. - C.W.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

179. Presidents

“Looks like some folks are pissed off at the President.”

With these words, C.W. plopped himself onto the couch and began eating an apple. He tilted his Stetson hat to the back of his head and crossed one leg over the other. His boots were of dark leather and as polished as his oversized belt buckle.

I said, “What the hell are you supposed to be, a cowboy?”

He smiled and chewed his apple. “Just a citizen of the world, Pilgrim.”

“Oh please,” I said.

“I been studyin’,” he said. “Studyin’ about the presidency.”

“I fear for us all,” I said. “Are you the second coming of George W. Bush?”

“Who was he?” He laughed, then added. “Just kidding.”

“So what have you learned? I’m terribly interested.”

“Sarcasm won’t get you nowhere,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well,” he said. “Seems a large group of folks gets really irritated with the president of these here United Sates from time to time.” He pronounced it “yooo-nited.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Like when that feller Lincoln freed those who were the legal property of another and forced to obey them.”

“Lincoln didn’t free the wives,” I said, unable to resist screwing around with him. "You need to adjust your Galactic Universal Translator.”

“I trust my GUT,” he said.

“You Texans seem to have a problem with that.”

He ignored me. “Anyway, it was the coloreds that he freed.”

“We don’t call folks that anymore.”

“And it really pissed some people off.”

“It did indeed.” I decided to let him continue.

“Then there was the furor that the second Roosevelt caused when he enacted them programs to help the poor and elderly, you know, some of the least of those among you.”


“Oh,” he said, “and look what happened when Harry Truman integrated the armed services.”

“Not pretty.”

“Nope. Seems like his policy of ‘if he fights alongside you he can sleep alongside you’ didn’t set too well with some.”

“You do have a point.”

“And lord,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you what happened when Eisenhower and Kennedy took on the educational system in our southern provinces.”

“Uh. No.”

“They’s folks still pissed about that and you see what it has caused: the motion of an object emitting all spectra of light it receives in or through a medium, especially through the earth's atmosphere or through space.”

“White flight,” I said.

“Ain’t that what I just said?”

Never misunderestimate the fact that, where
politics are concerned, a good smile and a
good hat get a person a lot further than doing
good deeds. Hell, a person won't need no
 "nucular option" then. Heh. Heh. - C.W.
“Please continue.” He was beginning to make a point.

“The passage of the civil rights acts of the 1960s by our native son—who by the way we don’t claim no more—Lyndon Baines Johnson cost his party the south. Maybe forever.”

“But look at the good the laws did.”

“My point,’ he said. “It seems to me that if a president wants to get his ass in a crack, the fastest way to do that is to try to help folks. Look at this current occupant.”

What could I say? “So your advice?”

He thought. “I reckon it’s this. If you want to be beloved by some people, cut out all that ‘do-gooder crap.’ Do no good. That’ll get an airport named after you faster than anything.”

“But what about the people who need help?”

“There you go again,” he said.

Saturday, November 30, 2013

Hey Everybody, it's your favorite Alien with a thought of the day.

I read where, in a nearby city, the major issue
this season  concerns the amount of money
spent on the public Christmas tree. - C.W.
Yesterday, I went with Big Dope down to the local office of the American Red Cross. The purpose of the trip was to have a blood sample drawn prior to his next apheresis donation, just to pre-check his platelet level. While they were getting him “into the system,” (whatever that means) I overheard a staff member ask, “Is he a cancer victim?”

The other said, “No, he’s a donor.”

Now folks, that sort of puts this gift-giving season of yours into perspective, doesn’t it

Thursday, November 28, 2013

178. Thanks

From the so-called “mind” of the Alien C.W., edited by the Blogger.


Since arriving in your midst, I have been puzzled, bemused, amazed, and sometimes astounded at your habits. But your attitude on Thanksgiving takes the soft sweet bakery item. (Editor’s comment: He means “cake”). You seem to have so many fortuitous dynamics that have created a society basically free from the wars and pestilence that plague so many other societies. Yet, on this day you seem to be most thankful for an overabundance of food and the chance to spend money. It makes my boughntacojitet gland smoke. (Editor: it roughly translates to his “brain,” such as it is).

As a visitor to your society, I would suggest other subjects of this giving of thanks. To wit:

- The historical figure of Jesus of Nazareth who, though failing gloriously in his “end of the world” predictions, left you with such epochal and wonderful admonitions ( abandoned since your 1980s) on brotherly love, cautions against judging, forgiveness of your brothers, care for the poor, and honoring the peacemakers. As an aside, I think you might also be thankful for a current President who would risk the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” to pursue the last. But I am just a shifty alien and what do I know?

Buddha, who, if you would pay attention, showed you a path upon which you might not, in medical terminology, be wound so tightly. (Editor: don’t bother. He’s on a roll).

John Newton, who first gained our attention on the planet of Falloonia when he took you from the “take aways” and “goes intas” stage of mathematics and allowed you, eventually, to escape gravity, of both the physical and religious type.

- Charles Darwin, who explained some very elementary things to you. I was highly amused when Big Dope told me about his epiphany regarding the findings of natural selection. Seems he had encountered the basic theories in a junior high school science class and had been pondering the implications for several days when, while taking a shower, he dropped his washrag. As he, without thinking, retrieved it with the toes of one foot, a great truth of the universe opened for him. Goes to cause to illustrate, doesn’t it? (Editor: “show”.)

- Abraham Lincoln, who held your union together and set the stage for the freeing of a huge segment of humanity. Wonder how many votes he would get today?

Would not a quiet day of reflection work as well? - C.W.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who empowered and ennobled the “least of those, your brethren.”

Martin Luther King, Jr., who truly died for your sins.

William Jefferson Clinton, who gave you eight years of peace and prosperity in the face of unprecedented hate and persecution, and, in return, only asked for a simple … (Editor: Censored).

Hillary Clinton, because the Falloonian Elders thinks she is wonderful.
Matthew McConaughey, because Mrs. Big Dope thinks he is dreamy beyond words.

The list could go on, but I am at a borrowed keyboard and must bid you farewell. Let me close by saying that I am thankful today for the time I am getting to spend with you.


Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Midweek Special
Found Big Dope asleep at his desk this morning with this on his computer. Enjoy. - C.W.

“If I should not get to come home I want you to try
 and take the best care you can of yourself and the children,”
Thomas Goode Clark to Margery Clark - 1863

While waiting on the Muse to arrive this morn I revisited the sad history of the 42nd Mississippi Regiment of Davis’ Brigade, one of 15 regiments that were, in a classic example of insanity, ordered to assault Cemetery Ridge in the face of entrenched riflemen and massed artillery on the third day at Gettysburg. When Albert Clark of that regiment fell, he became the third Clark man to die during the three days, his father Thomas and brother Albert having died at McPherson’s Ridge during the first day’s slaughter, during which the unit suffered 50 percent casualties.

The brave survivors lived to see the Richmond newspapers, and a manipulated history, give all the glory of the third day’s assault to three regiments in a division that had not seen action until that third day. In a final insult, Virginia historians changed the assault into a “charge” and named it after one of the three division commanders, ironically, the one that had not participated before the final action. (It helped that the Division Commander’s wife lived into the 1930s and spent the remainder of her life aggrandizing his role in the battle).

This misrepresenting of history occurred despite the fact that the Mississippi and North Carolina regiments, with one lone Virginia unit on the left of the assault may have made it farthest up the hill and in the presence of terrible flanking fire.

They often say that histories of war are written by the victors but the immediate history of the Civil War was written by Virginians, who, if I remember correctly, were the losers. So, it wasn’t a “charge” and it wasn’t Pickett’s. What BS we carry with us as we race through history.

By the time of Appomattox three years later, seven of the original 750 men of the 42nd were left standing.

With the death of her husband and two sons, Margery Clark was left a widow with six surviving children on the family farm. It is said that she “cried and shouted all night long” when she heard the news of her men.

Monday, November 25, 2013

Big Dope's book is getting rave reviews. Go figure - C.W.

Sunday, November 24, 2013

177. Conspiracies

Perhaps the faithful reader has noticed that C.W., the visiting Alien, who is able to assume any shape he wants—at will—can prove tiresome at times. If that is not the case, please allow me an example.

He showed up this morning before daylight, a time I relish because of its quietude, in the most awful getup you can imagine.

He said he was a “Master of Intrigue.”

Now if the readers are old enough to have enjoyed the “Spy vs. Spy” episodes in the Mad Magazines of the 1960s, you can imagine how he appeared. If not, just take my word for it. It was weird, even for the alien.

He entered by sliding along a wall and eyeing me between glances to and fro to see if anyone else was in the room. Assured that we were alone, he eased into a chair.

When I acknowledged his presence, he said, “Did you know that Hillary Clinton orchestrated the destruction of the World Trade Towers?”

I refused to honor him with a response.

“It’s true,” he said.

I said, “Would you please leave?”

“Can you not stand the truth?”

“Truth I can abide,” I said. “Insanity unhinges me.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that she was only a few hundred miles away and was overheard to say to an aide, ‘It will be quicker by plane’ that very morning?”

“Don’t you have something to do?’

He changed the subject. “Want to know who killed JFK?”

“I already do. It was a man named Lee Harvey Oswald.”

“Ha,” he said. “That’s what they want you to think.”

“Who is they?”

“The CIA, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the FBI, LBJ, the United Nations, organized crime, Fidel Castro, the Dallas Police Department, the staff at Parkland Hospital, the Texas Rangers, and Walt Disney.”

“Walt Disney?”

“He was in on it too.”

I said, “C.W., who have you been talking to?”

“I just listen and watch,” he said. “It’s all there on the History Channel.”

“The History Channel?” I closed my eyes.

“And Fox News.”

I sighed.

“What?” he said. “Don’t you believe in conspiracies?”

“I try not to let the thought of them destroy my cognitive capacity.”

His face turned into a snarl. “So you don’t believe they happen?”

“Oh, on occasion,” I said. “We did have the so called ‘Watergate Conspiracy’ some years ago.”
“That was the one set up,” he said, “by Jimmy Carter to ruin Richard Nixon’s presidency.”

I ignored him. “Then there was the short-lived conspiracy by Ronald Reagan’s crew to sell weapons to America’s archenemy the Ayatollah Khomeini for cash with which to fund a war in South America. All illegal and treasonous.”

He said nothing, so I continued. “Want to know the interesting part?”

He said, “What?”

“Those involved a mere handful of folks and they unraveled almost immediately.”

By carefully choosing our sources of
information, we can adopt any paradigm
of reality we choose. That's exciting. - C.W.


“So,” I said. “Maybe vast conspiracies would be more difficult to maintain than we could ever imagine.”

“So they never happen?”

I said, “Oh they can. Look at how Yoko Ono, Mick Jagger, Ike Turner, Peter Townshend, and Paul Anka conspired to break up the Beatles.”

Sunday, November 17, 2013

176. Rain

C.W. was in a rare pensive mood. It was raining and rain makes him homesick I think. He says it rains more or less constantly on his home planet of Falloonia, a fact which supports my belief that his actual “shape” is closer to what we would call an aquatic creature than a human-based form. Today though, he chose the shape of the young student he likes so well. He is the one who can swing between being delightfully inquisitive and a totally pain in the keester, sometimes in the same sentence.

Now, he was turned on the couch with his chin resting on its back. He was staring into the dark morning listening to the rain. Without moving, he said, “How long is it going to rain?”

I looked up from my book, thought, and said, “How the hell should I know?”

“Will it rain for 40 days and 40 nights, do you suppose?”

“I doubt it. Why?”

“Just wondering,” he said. “It did once you know. All over the world. At the same time.”

I said, “According to numerous myths.”

“No, according to your Bible.”

“Have you been studying religion again?”

“It drowned everyone except one family,” he said, ignoring me.

“And one pair of each species,” I said. “Including a pair each of more than 50,000 species of beetles and with tigers and wildebeests bunked side by side for several months.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Kinda neat, huh?”

“Very neat,” I said. I returned to my book.

“But,” he said and I knew it was coming. “All of the precipitation that falls originates as water vapor that has evaporated from the surface of the Earth.”

“Sounds right,” I said, silently hoping for the miracle of peace and quiet since it was an awfully good book I was reading.

No such luck. “So where did all the water come from?”

I said, “In myths, one can make up the pre-existence of water.”

“Did all the little children that didn’t belong to the chosen family drown? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Myths don’t have to pass any test of moral fairness and they often don’t.”

“Why do you call it a myth?”

I closed my book and said, “Because the story of a world-wide flood appears in many cultures, even Chinese, going back as far as 4,000 years B.C.E.”

“Before the common era,” he said as if explaining something to himself.

“Yes.” I opened my book again.

“Benjy Shanon’s daddy is a preacher and he says his flood really happened and you are going to hell if you don’t agree.”

“I thought Benjy Shanon’s daddy worked on a county road crew.”

“He does, but he preaches too.” He resumed listening to the rain. “Matter can neither be created nor destroyed,” he said.

I said, “That’s interesting. Did you learn that in school?”

He paid no attention to my question, but said, “So where did all the water go after everybody drowned?

Didn't one of your military officers make the comment
during the Vietnam War that "The only way to save that
village was to destroy it? Must be a cultural thing. - C.W.
“It went up Benjy Shanon’s dad’s …” I stopped myself. “I told you it was a myth, a myth designed to establish hierarchies, a myth used to explain things before we had science, a myth designed to keep social groups in line.” I stopped and made myself relax. “So why don’t you read a book or just contemplate nature?”

“May I pray for you?”

“Pray do,” I said. “Just do it silently.”

Outside it continued to rain.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

175. Sailors

It was the weekend before Veteran’s Day and, truth be known, I was looking forward to seeing what shape C.W. might choose this year. As the loyal reader will recall, he can be quite talented when it comes to celebrating the military.

This year he didn’t disappoint.

How shall I describe him? Well, he was a 19th Century ship’s bosun. That’s right, he was an exact replica of a sailor from the days of iron men and wooden ships. He could have stepped right off the deck of USS Constitution or the HMS Victory. He even sported a bosun’s pipe, that little curved metal device that emits a sharp, piercing whistle that can be heard during the roughest seas. It is used to convey orders on board a naval vessel.

Wait. It was my old bosun’s pipe and that’s when trouble started. Before I could protest, he piped “All hands on Deck.”

I suspect my wife, who was still abed, levitated. All I know for sure is that a voice that could have been heard over the guns at the Battle of Trafalgar shrieked, “Don’t make me come in there.”

“Pipe down,” I said. “What do you think you are doing?”

He said, “Avast Matey.”

“What the hell, C.W.?”

“Know what I think?”

I said, “I never know what you think. Why don’t you enlighten me? But first put that damned pipe away before you get us both keelhauled.”

“Stow your jabber, Fenderhead,” he said. “Let me swap a yarn or two.”

I groaned. He continued.

“I’ve been pondering,” he said. “I think you are a ‘fore and aft’ country.”

“Fore and aft,” I said, trying to catch his drift.

“Right, matey.”

“Carry on Lad,” I said, sort of getting into the mood of the moment.

“Take babies,” he said.

“Take them where?”

“No, take babies,” he said.

I waited.

He said, “Take babies. Seems a lot of individuals in your species love and want to protect them until they are born.”

I waited.

“Then,” he said. “If they ain’t born to the quarterdeck, they can be tossed overboard with the day’s garbage.”

He had a point. I forgot for a moment that I was talking to an alien who had chosen the shape of a historical sailing master. “Fore and aft,” I said.

“Fore and aft. Same with us poor military men and women.”

“How so?”

“People love us as long as we can splice a line, fly down the decks at ‘beat to quarters,’ climb the rigging, and fire the cannons.”

“We love our military folks,” I said. “Just look at all the bumper stickers stating as much that you see on the freeway.”

He said, “What’s a freeway?”

I said, “Never mind. We just support our troops, that’s all.”

“What about after the cannons roar, and the smoke clears, and we can’t tie a bowline with our one good arm, or man the crow’s nest with no eyes.”

“Are you referring to the maimed and wounded?”


Shouldn't you honor him as much after
the battle is over as before it begins? - C.W.
“Well we support them too, or at least we should.”

“So why are our infirmaries and dressing stations so underfunded?”

“Are you talking about the veteran’s hosptitals?”

“Affirmative, Lad.”

He had me. “I don’t know,” I said.

“Fore and aft,” he said. “Makes all the difference in the world.”

“Fore and aft,” I said.

“I think,” he said. “That it has something to do with your ‘port and starboard’ political system.”