“You are the species, after all,” he pointed out. “that made a Oliver North into a political pundit.
“Well yes.” I had to agree.
“And we won’t mention that TV show about the little fat girl
that breaks breezes as her primary talent.”
“You must mean Honey-Boo Boo,” I said. “I have heard she has
a tendency to fa…, uh break wind as you say.”
“So let’s talk about standards.” He had taken on one of his
wildest forms in months, wearing a rumpled outfit set off by a corduroy jacket
with, oh yes, suede patches on the elbows. His wild gray hair stood straight up
at least six inches and he wore those half-frame reading glasses that he glared
over as he talked.
“I want to be a TV personality,” he said.
“Don’t we all?” I said. “How do you propose it?” We were
sitting in front of our farm shop where I had been working with my new
woodturning lathe. Two friends had come for a visit and had just left when C.W.
appeared.
“I will become a UFOologist,” he said with a bright smile. “It’s
a natural, don’t you agree?”
“Uh,” I said. “That sounds a little ridiculous. Whatever
gave you such an idea?”
“I saw it on the History Channel,” he said, assuming a
defensive air. “They wouldn’t put anything ridiculous on the History Channel,
would they?”
“I need to get back to my work.”
“So I need to prepare my
credentials,” he said. “Then I can be the expert they interview on these shows
about flying saucers visiting Earth.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t be dismissive,” he said. “They
have it all wrong.”
“What all wrong?”
“About visitors from other galaxies.
They avoid this place at all costs.”
“Why?”
“Well, your species has a habit
of shooting strangers who wander by.”
“But you’re here.”
“Yes, but I fit in,” he said. “I
assimilate.”
I looked him over. “Quite so.” I
said. “Now, can I get back to work?”
“What about my credentials?”
“What about them?”
“Should I be registered,
certified, or licensed?”
“Are you serious?”
“Registered sounds good,” he
said. “Like a ‘registered engineer,’ the ones who design pipelines and such.”
“Sounds a little too close to ‘registered
sex offender’ I said.
“I’ve never offended anyone of
either sex,” he said.
“Not even when you wanted my wife
to star in ‘Desperate Housewives of Arkansas’”?
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be
certified."
“That’s what she keeps saying.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“How about licensed, then? That
has a nice ring—Licensed UFOologist—don’t you think.”
“A license to deceive people for
personal gain?”
“They license acupuncturists and faith
healers, don’t they?”
“Yes, and also dogs that have been vaccinated.”
He was a bit deflated by now. I
could sense that his dreams of glory were evaporating. He stood and walked over
to our shop building. He looked in and then turned toward me.
 |
| Don't fear aliens from another planet, my friends. If you see one, just say "Klaatu barada nikto." That is a galactic message of friendship. It means: "Peace to you. I'm just walking along eating my Skittles." C.W. - Certified UFOologist |
“Who were those men who were
here?”
“Just friends,” I said.
“What were you talking about?”
“Woodworking mostly.”
“I was up at the hose,” he said. “Mrs.
Big Dope said you were talking about ‘it,’ whatever that is.”
“I can’t imagine,” I said.
“Hey,” he said, brightening as he
looked inside the shop. “Look at this mess. I could help you. Maybe I could
become a certified organizer. I’ll bet nobody ever thought of that one.”
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