“Yes?” I was all ears. After all, I was listening to a 16-year old whiz kid about to tell me what my country needed. Actually it was C.W. the Alien taking on the form of a whiz kid, a young African-American youth with thick glasses and a pocket full of pencils. Back in the day, he would have sported a pencil protector, but this was modern youth, no frills.
“What you need is a good source of insults.”
“Quite so,” he said, nodding his head like an Oxford Dean.
“I don’t understand.” And I didn’t. He was busy pecking away at my laptop and I was lounging on the couch in our high-rise condo. Off to the west, our city’s skyline darkened in the evening gloom.
“Seems to me to be a real opportunity for a young man filled with a strong desire to do or to achieve something, typically requiring determination and hard work.”
“Why do you repeat what I say?”
“Your Galactic Universal Translator confuses me at times.”
“Leave my GUT out of this. I need to work.”
I sighed. “At creating insults?”
“Your people love them.”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“Oh,” I said. “I can see how you might. That fake news channel again?”
“In exact terms; without vagueness.”
“Well what, precisely, will you call your enterprise?"
“I think ‘The Bitch Slap Store’ or something like that.”
“Uh,” I said. “Maybe you ought to give it some more thought. But anyway, you’re going to create insults for sale?”
“I’ve already created some. I’ll let you hear a few, but you may not understand them. After all, you’re so dumb that Sarah Palin wouldn’t even pick you for a running mate.”
I stared, as you might expect, in complete disbelief.
“You should see yourself,” he said, “You’re so ugly I can’t look at you for fear of déjà vu.”
Shaking my head, I said nothing.
“You got a look on your face like a monkey in church needin’ to pee real bad,” He said.
That made me turn and look at him.
“Did you get your brains on sale at Walmart?” he said.
It was impossible for me to say anything. I just stared more.
“If you ask me,” he said, “stupid, lazy, and confused is your default mode and you ain’t got no reboot key.”
It was then that I tried to speak, but no words came out.
“You’re so sorry,” he said, “that someone would have to pay Joel Osteen to take your money.”
“Now wait a minute.” I finally found my voice.
“Besides,” he said, “if an idea ever came near your head, it would take one look and fly on to the next galaxy.”
That was it. “Look, C.W.,” I said, “you know about as much about our culture a pig knows about the rhumba.”
He was about to speak, but stopped. Pain covered his face like curtain had been drawn over it. “Why do you want to hurt my feelings?” he said.
“Are you serious?”
|This is how Big Dope looked the moment that|
he learned where babies came from. - C.W.
He looked down. “I have a sensitive nature, you know. I need love and you give me grief.” He actually sobbed slightly.
“Look, C.W.,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Well you did.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He looked up and said, “I know.” Then he laughed and said, “You’re also as gullible as a teenage girl choosing a boyfriend.”
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