Sunday, March 29, 2015

243. Sin

“So what did he preach on?”


“Is that all?”

“He was agin’ it.”

We both cracked up. No matter how many times C.W. and I do that old Will Rogers skit, with him of course shaped like Will himself, we get tickled as we reenact Calvin Coolidge’s wife asking him about his trip to church.

We soon got down to serious business, though. The media was full of news about states, including ours, passing laws against what they feel is the sin of being gay. C.W.wondered why our state legislature thought it is a sin.

“Because the Bible says it’s so,” said one of our state’s senators—as C.W. described him: “A strange looking little fellow with a goatee that looks like it might slide off to the floor at any moment.”

So here we were, in our living room pondering the concept of sin in more detail. How did it take its origin or rise?” C.W. asked.

“It originated,” I said, in the book that so many of our local species claim to observe.”

“This?” He picked up a worn copy of a King James version.

“That’s the one.”

“So when, in this process, did sinning start in earnest?”

“Well,” I said, “there is the issue of ‘original sin’ which I guess is the granddaddy of them all.”

“And that sin involves?”

“Having sex,” I said.

“So it was forbidden for your species?”

“Quite so, it seems.”

“But,” he said, “ain’t that sorta like telling a chick that it’s sinful to peck its way out of the egg.”

“I guess you might put it that way.”

“Any other long standing sins? I mean the ones that could really get you a spiritual butt-whipping?”

“Well,” I said, “we’re not supposed to kill.”

“Not supposed to …” he had begun to take notes but stopped in mid-sentence. “You’re kidding.”


“But your species in this country has been at war constantly this time for uh …” he consulted some notes. “Twelve years.”

“More or less.”

“With not only no end in sight but lining up a couple more?”

“Our junior senator seems to hope it’s so.”

“Wouldn’t it put more milk in the bucket to aim some laws toward stopping war?”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but some of us seem to like it?”

He took a deep breath. “Hit me again,” he said.

“We are supposed to honor our parents, otherwise we are sinning big time.”

“What?” He picked up the Bible and began turning pages, “Where oh where is it?” he muttered to himself, “Here,” he said, “In what you call ‘The Gospel of Luke,’ your Fearsome Father’s favorite son says, ‘If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.’ Now what the heck?”

“Some things in that book we take more seriously than others,” I said, rather weakly.

He made a note. “Anything else?”


“And the Fearsome Father’s take on that?”

“He’s agin it.” I said. We both smiled.

“What about this King David, whom your religion regards so highly?”

“What about him?”

He opened the Bible. “Reads like the crack of dawn wasn’t safe when he was on point.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“But tell me,” he said, turning very serious, “Where will I find the stricture against one of worst sins that we Falloonians could imagine. We treasure our children,” He added, handing me the Bible.

“And that is?” I prepared to begin searching.

“Purposefully inducing primal fears, nightmares, and post-traumatic stress disorder in young children.”
“Doing what?”

“You know what I mean,” he said, his face gray and hard.

“No,” I said, “I don’t think I do.”

“This practice that your species seems not only to condone but encourage during the rearing of children”

What does it say about the power of your religion
if you must have the government enforce it? - C.W.
“And that is?”

“The practice of taking those precious young things into a dark room and telling them that the Fearsome Father might just, if they displease them, hurl their bodies into a fiery pit for all eternity where they will writhe and scream in constant agony forever and ever.”

I couldn’t speak.

“When are your lawmakers going to deal with that?”

“I don’t know how we could,” I said.

“Maybe you could put a monument forbidding it on your state capitol grounds.”
Check out some ads. Big Dope threatens to cut my allowance.
- C.W.

Thursday, March 26, 2015


Dear Friends and Followers:

Big Dope is still sleeping so I take these moments to share a few thoughts that I plan to include in my next report to the Falloonian Elders. They don’t think I have been paying enough attention to your politics, so I have been slipping away and watching the legislature in Big Dope’s home state. I find the process bewildering or perplexing to the point of making me unable to think with clarity or act with intelligence or understanding. (Editor’s note: He means “confusing.”

The most interesting escapades I observed involve what I am calling in my report as “Bigotry Support Laws.” These seemed to be proposed for the purpose of legitimizing bigotry against outsiders whom the sponsor of the legislation doesn’t trust. There also seems to be a fear of changing conditions in your sociological evolution to which the sponsor is unable to adjust. Myself, I find these changes and trends one of the few positive indicators within the behavior order of your species. But then I am not a legislator.

The sponsors of such bills often seem to be in what Big Dope humorously refers to as “panic mode” as if the changes, such as the acceptance of a loving relationship between members of the same sex, would threaten the sponsor’s own safety.

Now, none of this is new. My study of the history of your species tells me that bigotry has been a dominant feature of your behavior patterns for ages.

Therein lies the irony of this current behavior.

Oddly, the supporters of Bigotry Support laws (I’ll just call them BS laws for short) feel that the chances for passage improve to the extent that they are presented as supporting what you call “religious freedom.”

How idiotic, if you don’t mind my saying so.

These BS laws are, to one familiar with the nature of our galaxy, a direct result of over four billion years of what you call "evolution." Consider the distrust of strangers. It is obviously a remnant of the ancient impulse of your developing species to band together in tribes for mutual protection.

The fear? The individual organism on the ancient savannah who wasn’t stressed and kept alert by constant fear of predators would be the first one eaten. Fear is a prime motivator for your behavior, and when it doesn’t exist, you can develop BS legislation to support it as an artificial motivator..

And the panic exhibit by BS legislators is nothing more than the old “flight or fight” syndrome writ large.

So, the passage of BS legislation certainly doesn’t derive from your literary figure who said, “Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.” Oh no, BS legislation could not be further in intent than that.

It more closely matches, I believe and shall report accordingly, the words of the English poet Alfred Lord Tennyson who spoke of “Nature, red in tooth and claw.”
I would hope that you will eventually realize
that bigotry can take you to dark places
to where you should not return. - C.W.


Sunday, March 22, 2015

242. Promises

“So you’re telling me,” he said, “that this is all coming about over the ownership of land?”

“Pretty much.” I dread questioning like this since I know he is practicing what he calls ‘The Dead Greek’ method of debate.  He even appeared as Socrates, complete with robe and beard.

“And these feelings are new or old—this obsession with owning the land?”

“Old by our standards,” I said. “It goes back nearly 3,000 years.”

“Odd,” he said. We were taking a break from the spring rains to walk in the woods of our farm. ”So the land must be very productive.”

“Not really,” I said. “It is arid and prone to be rocky.”

“Oh,” he said. “So its value lies in its beauty?”

“Not particularly.”

“So your species finds it worth fighting over for what reason?”

I thought. “Some of it does have oil.”

“And that was useful for what, say 3,000 years ago?”

I stopped and pretended to admire a young white oak sapling.

He continued. “Would you say this obsession is rational or irrational?”

“It seems,” I said, “that the people involved, the current inhabitants, believe they were given the promise of ownership some time back.”

“Ah,” he said, picking up a piece of dried cow manure and examining it. As if it provided some clue, he turned to me. “A promise from some legal entity that controls ownership records I suppose?”

“Uh, no.”

“No? Who made this promise?”

“Their god, so their written records say.”

“Their god is a real estate agent?”

I ignored him.

“Tell me,” he said. “Why, being half way around the world, has your country become so mired in this ownership dispute?” He tossed the cow manure toward me. I let it fall to the ground.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“Is it of such importance that the future of your country depends upon it?”

“Some think so.”

“Ah,” he said. “The land contains a valuable resource vital to your way of life?”

“Uh,”  I said, “not exactly. Actually the other side has the most valuable resource.”

“And that is?”

“Remember the oil I mentioned?”

“Yes, that resource that had no value?”

“It has value now,” I said.

We walked in silence. He stroked his chin after a while and stopped, facing me. “There is something you are not telling me.”

I sighed. I knew this would make the electrodes in his Amalgamated Scientific Synthesizer spark. “Religion is involved,” I said.

Sure enough, the smell of wires burning told me that his ASS was getting warm.

“Religion?” was all that he could manage.

“The current inhabitants of the land are culturally and spiritually connected to an ancient religion that requires, so they say, that they inhabit the area.”

“Even if inhabiting it threatens another world war?”

“Perhaps.” The smell of electrodes frying was stronger.

“So the inhabitants of your country support them because they share the same what you call religion?”

“No, only a small portion do.”

“And the rest?”

“Mostly neutral except for politicians and a group of highly energized zealots who would support the current inhabitants at any cost.”

“For what your species calls love and sympathy?” he said.

“Not exactly.” I heard the sound of sparking.

“They admire the inhabitants and their brethren in your country?”

“Nope,” a faint flume of blue smoke rose from beneath his robe. “During most of modern history they have hated and despised the culture and its people, even, until recently, depriving them of some civil rights.” More sparking.

“They want to assure their survival out of a new sense of justice?”

“Hardly. If you must know …,” I began.

“Oh, I must,” he said, interrupting me.

“Truth is, this band of fanatics in our country plans to destroy all the current inhabitants of that troubled land of which we speak on what they believe is some pre-ordained date in the future.”

I had to step away to avoid the smell of burning rubber.

“So your, uh …"
Doesn't ownership of land on a planet that is
five billion years old seem a bit strange? - C.W.

"Evangelicals,” I said.

“Whatever you call them,” he said. “They need to keep the currently chosen inhabitants alive until it is the proper time to kill them?”

“More or less.”

“For what reward?”

“Promises,” I said.

“Promises? From whom?”

“From their god. Sounds strange, doesn’t it?” I said.

“My child,” he said, “after all this time, nothing on your planet seems strange to me anymore. Now if you will allow me to take a break, my ASS needs some relief.”
Click on those ads. I need electrical repairs badly.
- C.W.

Saturday, March 21, 2015


Dear Friends and Followers

 I got the biggest blow or forceful thrust with the foot out of this cartoon from my friend Lisa at today. (Editor’s note: he means “kick.” His Galactic Universal Translator has tricked him again.).

See also: 

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Tales From The South

Dear Friends and Followers

Big Dope received notification today from the popular radio show "Tales From the South” that his entry My Short Life of Crime was selected from hundreds of entries to be read on the March 24th show. He’s strutting around like a rooster on steroids.

Since I have had to listen to his stories for years, I think it is only fitting that you enjoy the … uh … treat. Yeah, it’s only fair. But seriously folks, as they say on TV, it’s a pretty good story and a pretty good show. I hope to see you there.

Here is the note he received from the producers. It gives all the details.

 Thanks again for your stories. We're excited about our upcoming show on Tuesday, March 24 at Stickyz in the Rivermarket District in downtown Little Rock.

The schedule for the night is:

 * Doors open at 5pm

* Dinner is served from 5pm-7:00pm. Dinner and drinks purchased separately from admission.

 * Live music from 6:00pm-7:00pm

This show is $15.00 admission in advance, $20 at the door if seating is still available, and open to the public. All guests (except writers) MUST purchase a ticket before the show (and as soon as possible). Seating is very limited, and we tend to sell out 2-3 days before each show, so be sure to invite lots of people and to tell them to go to the website ( to purchase their tickets. The direct link for tickets for this show is: Tickets are non-refundable.

Seating is first-come, first served. Everyone will purchase dinner and drinks separately from the admission. Keep in mind that once we are sold out, there won't be any more seats.
For info and samples from the show, click here.

So, better hurry. This ought to be good.
Well, it sorta looks like Big Dope. - C.W.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


Dear Friends and Followers:

I'm filing some last minute reports. Can anyone tell me why some of your species puts 10 or more pillows on a bed made for two?

- C.W.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

241. Merit

“You got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

Oh no. C.W. has become fascinated of late by reruns of “I Love Lucy,” on TV. Unbeknownst to us, he ordered a complete set of the episodes and has been watching them on TV. He even took on the form of “Ricky Ricardo” this morning to ask me some questions about our language.

“Whaz this mean?” he said, plopping into a chair and reading from a notebook. “He was bornded on third base but goes through life tinking he hit a triple.”

“It’s and idiom using baseball terminology.”

“Say what?”

“In baseball, the second best hit a batter can get is called a triple. It allows the batter to make it all the way to third base.”

“Thaz good?”

“Very good.”

“Means the batter has accomplished something good?”

“Yes. The batter has done very well.”

He made notes. “So if someone is ‘bornded on third base’ they just happen to be there?”


“And they ain’t done nothin’ to make it there?”


“But they may claim they did?”

“They may indeed.”

Hey started scribbling notes and muttering to himself. I made out, “George W. Bush, Romneys, Kennedys, Waltons,” and a few other names. Then he said something strange, “White males,” and “northern Europe.” It caught my attention.

“Wait” I said. “You may be getting this all wrong.”

“Splain,” he said.

“You’re not accusing white males of the ‘born on third base’ analogy, are you?”

“No,” he said.

“Good,” I said, nodding and sighing in relief.

“Just the ones,” he said, “whose ancestors came here from northern Europe.”

“Now just a dad gummed minute,” I said.

“QuĂ© pasa?”

“You’re not lumping me in with the privileged set are you?”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t born rich,”

“You were born of the color of milk or fresh snow weren’t you?”

“I was born white, yes.”

“And a male?”


“Second base already,” He said. “Now, Latin, Mediterránean, African, Asian, Eurasion, …

I interrupted him. “You know darn good and well that I am of northern European descent.

Where you start can sure go a long ways
in determining where you will finish, eh? - C.W.
“Yes, Mrs. Big Dope had your DNA analyzed, didn’t she?

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Third base,” he said. “All the way to third base.”

“You are crazy,” I said. “Muy loco.”

He ignored me. “Let’s move on to another idiom,”he said.

“Let’s,” I said. “That one is silly.”

He flipped a page in his notebook, smiled, and looked up. “If the shoe fits, wear it,” he said. “Whaz at mean?”
And check out an ad. Big Dope needs new baseball shoes.
Oh, and buy his book. It's not bad.
- C.W.

Saturday, March 14, 2015


Dear Friends and followers:

I’ve been working on a report to the Falloonian Elders on the difficulty your species in this country has with identifying problems. I mean, you have a major problem with addiction but you seem to think the problem is the addiction element. You have a problem with crime and you think the problem is the number of incarceration facilities. You have a problem with ignorance and you think the problem is the lack of skill in taking tests.

I just don’t know.

I finally figured out how to describe it. My counterpart in Spain once described a bullfight to the Elders.

They were disbelieving at first and then aghast.

Anyway, since they were familiar with this barbaric practice, I used it to illustrate my report.


This bull comes into the ring and, correctly perceives that he has a problem.

He thinks the problem is that red cape they keep waving at him.

So, he applies the correct solution to the problem as he sees it.

But, the first real problem is the man on the horse with the long spear in his hand.

Strategic Analysis Gone Bad - C.W.

Still, he remains stubbornly convinced, (See DEA) that the problem is the cape and he applies his solution again.

This time the problem is the man with the barbed sticks. The bull is getting tired now.

Still, he remains convinced that the problem is the cape. Again, with one last burst of energy, he applies what has become an obsessive solution.

And … after the final charge at the red cape, he discovers, to his everlasting regret, that his greatest problem all along was the little man behind it with a sword in his hand.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

The Blame Game

Dear friends and Followers:

Has anyone but me noticed the new conservative way of explaining things? For example

- A racist rant by a college fraternity is blamed on Hip Hop.

- An Arkansas legislator who gave his adopted daughter to a sex offender without telling anyone blames the state agency in charge of adoptions.

- A group of U.S. senators, 47 in all, commit an act of treason and, get this, they don’t say the “Devil” made them do it. No it was President Obama.

I suspect this is a new approach fed to these folks in their daily briefing memos. If it works then is this the way Tea Party conservatives would work history?

- Charles Manson could blame Sharon Tate for getting pregnant before he decided she needed to die.

- Lee Harvey Oswald could blame President Kennedy for getting in his way when Oswald was carrying a rifle and having a bad hair day.

- Timothy McVeigh could blame the feds for building a building beside his van full of explosives.

- Ted Bundy could have blamed the press for offering him fame.

- Charles Whitman could blame the University of Texas for building that tower.

- Adolph Hitler could blame the Jews. Oh wait. He did. Never mind. Say … you don’t suppose that is where they got the idea, do you?

- Your Forever Pal,



Sunday, March 8, 2015

240. War and Peace

Talk about being in a bad mood. C.W. hates Daylight Savings Time. I think they programmed his functions in Falloonia without taking our twice-a-year changes into account. It really sets him off course for a few days.

Come to think about it … it does the same for everyone. Oh well.

Anyway, here he comes, in critical mode. For this no form will suit him but Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Here they came and I began mentally to batten down the hatches. I could hear them arguing fifty yards away. We suffered a late winter storm and I was enjoying the first time it had been warm enough to sit outside and watch the snow melt.

“Asshole,” I heard.


“I told you we needed overcoats.”


It continued this way until they stood in front of me. I nodded and braced for the worst. “What’s up boys?”

“I think snow is beautiful,” Lucky said.

“It hurts my feet,” Lefty said.

I tried to bring peace. “Don’t you fellows agree on anything?”

“I try to,” Lucky said.

“Why should we?” Lefty said. “Do you think just because we were born attached that I have to listen to this prick?”

“You could try,” Lucky said.

“Bite me,” Lefty said.

I said nothing.

“I’m going to slug this moron if you don’t make him shut up,” Lucky said. “I’ve had about all I can take.”

“You try, you numbskull,” Lefty said. “Remember what happened last time.”

I couldn’t stay neutral any longer. “Fellas, fellas,” I said. “What has happened to put you in such a state?”

“Might as well tell him,” Lucky said.

“Go ahead,” Lefty said. “You do it.”

“Screw you,” Lucky said. He actually phrased it a bit more directly but you get the picture.

“Cut it out,” I said. “Go ahead, Lucky.”

“Some Xenaprichians landed not far from here yesterday for a reconnaissance mission.”

“Really?” I said. “They landed on our farm?”

“They do it all the time” Lefty said. “They stay around awhile, making extra money doing things they call energetic meetings intended to revive religious faith.”

I was confused.

“He means ‘revivals,’ and they are good at it.,” Lucky said. “I enjoy hearing them preach on love and the joy that grace brings. It is very soothing to one’s spiritual well-being.” He turned to Lucky, “I told you to get that goddam translator fixed.”

“Jump up my ass,” Lefty said.

“Stop it guys,” I said. “So why are you so upset?”

“We hate Xenaprichians,” Lefty said.

“I don’t,” Lucky said. “I want to visit with them more to discuss the way our planets can live in harmony.”

“I want to blow their goddam spacecraft up with their sorry asses in it,” Lefty said.


“Crap for brains.”

“Now look,” I said. “It doesn’t seem wise to do harm to them. They may then want to damage to you in return. The rest of us may suffer in the process.”

“My feelings exactly,” Lucky said.

“Chickenshit peace-weenies,” Lefty said.

“Now let’s calm down and discuss this rationally,” I said. “We don’t want to start an interplanetary war on our farm.

“There you go again,” Lefty said. “You’ll never learn.”

“Why don’t we give freedom from disturbance; quiet and tranquility a chance?” Lucky said, turning to Lefty.

It seems to me that your species should try to find
a philosophy that teaches peace instead of war. - C.W.
'“Put your ‘peace’ where the sun don’t shine,” Lefty said. “Anyway, I’ve already talked to Mrs. Big Dope and she has agreed for us to wipe them out. That’s where we were headed now—to talk to her about the details.”

“Wait just a minute,” I said. “My wife won’t make such a decision without consulting me.”

“Poor deluded child,” Lucky said.

“Dumbass,” Lefty said.

They both laughed, spun three circles to the left then three circles to the right, settled on a course, and headed toward the house.

Hey ... click an ad. Big Dope is taking us to a revival, he says.
See also:

Sunday, March 1, 2015

239. Intimacies

Saturday is usually “explanation day” as C.W. calls it. He persisted for some time in calling it “making something clear” day until we adjusted his translator. Anyway, it’s the day when he forgets his get-rich schemes and practical jokes and quizzes me about specific aspects of our species. His appearance and behavior at such times would be best described as a mix between Mr. Rogers and Glenn Beck.

Anyway, you should have been there the day he tried to penetrate the puzzle of how the simple act of procreation, apparently somewhat of a drudgery on his planet, had become such a pervasive theme on ours.

“Let’s see,” said. “Am I to understand that it all starts with fore-activity engaged in for enjoyment and recreation?”

“Uh,” I said, “We actually call it ‘foreplay’ and that, according to some females of our species, is considered optional by some male members of our species.”

This set his electrodes to sparking and he wrote in his notebook for a long time. Then he looked up with a combination of curiosity and disgust. “Frequency?”



I turned suspicious. “What about it?”

“Why would not once a year be the absolute maximum frequency?”

“Are you serious?” I said.

“I am always serious when probing about things,” he said. “Wouldn’t once a year maintain the population of your species?”

“Not in a very happy state, I’m afraid.”

He wrote in his notebook and then looked up at me. “Explain,” he said.

I turned serious. “I think frequency has to do with statistical probability,” I said.

“Like the law of larger things?”

“Large numbers,” I said. “It’s the Law of Large Numbers.”

“Your species seems to be intrigued by large things in many facets of its daily life,” he said.

“Could we talk about something else?” I began.

“Guns, for example.”

“Anything else. Please.”


“Anything at all.”


“I have to go now,” I said.

“Wait,” he said. “It is my understanding that too much attraction to what you refer to as sex is thought to cause problems.”

“Yes,” I said. “They say it can become addictive to the point of an obsession.”

“So that a member of your species even wants to sit around and watch …”

“C.W.” I said, “surely there is some other aspect of our species that we could discuss.”

He sighed and stopped writing. He flipped through his notebook, found a page and read. “Okay,” he said. “Religion.”

“Oh no,” I said.

He ignored me and read. “It says here that some religions develop extremely stringent and bizarre doctrines about sex.”

“So I understand,” I said, my antennae going on full alert.

“It says also that some of these attract followers that seem to be forever wanting to kill someone.”

“Where,” I said, “did you find that?”

“From notes left over from my predecessor.”

“Oh my,” I said. “You had a predecessor?”

“We don’t talk about it much,” he said. “He turned to acting and wasn’t doing his job of investigating.”

“Is he still here?”

He ignored me, made a note, and looked up. “So about sex,” he said. “Am I to understand that too much can be dangerous and too little can be dangerous as well.”

“Seems to be the case,” I said, turning it over in my mind.

“So how much is considered optimal?”

We were suddenly interrupted by a female voice from the next room. “You are actually asking a man that question? Why don’t you ask how often the wind blows?”

I rose quickly and closed the door. “C.W.,” I said, “can we talk about something else?”

So you had really rather do this than read a book?
Think of the sand, the salt water, and grit.
The horror. The horror.  - Your confused alien friend, C.W.
He placed his pencil on his pad, ready to write. “Is this making you feel uncomfortable?”

“Something else,” I said. “Anything else.”

He looked disappointed, but turned to a blank page and said. “Okay. Guns.”


“Yes guns,” he said. “What sizes do you own?”

Please click an ad. Big Dope wants to buy me something called a "Swimsuit Issue." For research only, he says.
See also: