I can’t tell what shape he has assumed this morning. It
sounds a lot like the character of “The Beaver” on the old TV series.
I tried reasoning with him. “Come on out, and let’s talk
about it,” I said.
“Go away,” he said. “I’m sick of earthlings.”
“Whatchew mean?” I said in a feeble attempt at humor.
“Are you pretending to be African-American?” he said.
Oops. Not a good approach. I tried another. “Let’s go for a
walk with our neighbor George,” I said. “He wants to come over.”
“Did you say, ‘He wants a comb-over,’ like that comedian in
New York?”
“Uh, … what comedian in New York?”
“The one pretending to be running for President.”
Oops, again. Another poor choice.
“Oh come on,” I said. “Let’s go out for a cup of coffee.”
“I’m afraid someone will shoot me if I go into a coffee
shop.” I distinctly heard him sniff, then say, “It ain’t safe for a man out
there.”
“Like that athlete did?” he said. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You’re really upset, aren’t you?”
“Are you seriously asking me that? There isn’t a country on
a planet in a galaxy in this universe that could think up the crazy things that
your news reports. I want to go back to Falloonia.”
“Look,” I said, “maybe you need some quiet time. Let’s go
sit in the church down the street for a while and meditate on things.”
“Ooow,’ he said. “A church? Haven’t you seen what just
happened in Charleston?
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Please click some ads. I need to buy a ticket home for a rest.

Available at major on-line retailers, or
www.wattensawpress.com
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