Ask the Alien: Sulking

Dear Ask the Alien:
My husband sulks. I’m too ladylike to confide in you why he sulks. Let’s just say that he does. I’ve learned to ignore him but it puts the whole house in a somber mood and I don’t get to laugh a lot, and I love to laugh, mostly at my husband, but that only makes him sulk more. Any advice?
Distracted

Dear Distracted:

First, don’t feel as though you are alone. One of the overwhelming characteristics that I have documented about the male of your species is its tendency to sulk when it doesn’t get, let’s just say it doesn’t get its way. A close— call her an acquaintance—shared her treatment with me and other relief-seekers agree that it works. When the husband goes into what she calls. “full sulk mode,” she simply says, loudly enough for all to hear, “Oh, is de big bad booty mansey wansey upsy set cause him didn’t get his way? Whatsa matter little oopsy doopsy? Can’t you make a smiley-face for mommie?”

As you can guess, it does nothing to change his behavior, but it delights the family cats to the point where they giggle, chortle, and dance around the sulker until gloom is chased from the premises.

Of course, another sure cure is a sulk-induced shopping spree at a super-swank shoe shop.

Your Friend,
The Alien C.W.

If all else fails: remind them that John Wayne didn't sulk. - C.W.

See also:
www.wattensawpress.com
www.allhatnocattle.com

Sports

Dear Ask The Alien:

Our state loves its football team like Donald Trump loves a headline. The problem is that the team is currently losing every game it plays. My husband is near suicidal. One night he woke up in the middle of the night screaming, “No, no, they’ll spend the money on something stupid like science labs.” Our home life is becoming unbearable. Last evening, I walked in and stood between him and the TV, completely nude with my hands on my hips and my feet wide apart. He just looked, shook his head sadly, and said, "We can't handle the spread offense." Believe it our not, he was talking about football. Please help me.

Loser’s Wife

Dear Loser’s Wife:

On Falloonia, when a sports fan becomes over-agitated, we have members of the team come over and read to him passages from our classic literature. I’m afraid that won’t work in this case for a couple of reasons. So I suggest a substitute to watching football games. Finding one of comparable worth was difficult, but no problem is too great for “Ask The Alien.” So I am forwarding you, under a separate post, the location of a TV channel that consists of a camera trained on a large tropical aquarium 24 hours a day. In one week, your husband should be back to abnormal. If this doesn't work, contact me for a personal counseling session.
Your Friend,
The Alien C.W



Oh, that your species could get this
excited over matrix algebra. - C.W.

See also: www.wattensawpress.com

278. Optimism

Found C.W. I guess I should more appropriately say I found C.W. looking like a cross between Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp scrolling through my computer. I started to speak, “What the …”

“Shhh,” he said. “I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to find her.” He changed screens. “She’s free, you know.”

“Who?”

“Why Big Bang’s Penny,” he said. “Haven’t you heard?”

“You mean Kaley Cuoco, the actress?”

“No, Big Bang’s Penny.”

“Okay,” I said. “So what about her?”

“She and her husband are divorcing.”

“Oh, and we are happy for what reason?”

He beamed. “I need to let her know that I’m available.”

“C.W.,” I said, “she is an actress who plays a part on television, not a real person.”

“But she is available.”

“The actress will soon be single. That doesn’t mean that she will be available.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Is she lighthearted and carefree, tending toward the happy and good-spirited?”

“She is not 'gay' as far as I know.”

“Well,” he said. “Then I shall send her this letter.” He held a sheet out toward me.

“And what will you say?”

“That I’m willing.”

“You’re willing?”

“Heck yes.”

I groaned. “C.W., you’re an illegal immigrant, a shapeshifter, and a Falloonian. What do you mean you’re willing?”

“I mean a man from outer space could put a smile on her face.” His eyes widened. “Oh …,” he said and turned to type on the computer.

“I’m not even sure that you are a man, if they have such things as male and female on Falloonia.”

He looked up, thought, and tacked. “Why do couples among your culture get divorced?”

“I guess they realize they made a mistake in choosing a mate.”

“Why do they get married again?”

“Optimism, I suppose. They think maybe they’ll get it right the second time.”

“Then why do some get divorced a second time?”

“They choose poorly again?”

“Then remarry?”

I shrugged. “Is this conversation going somewhere?”

“You and Mrs. Big Dope never divorced, did you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“We love and cherish one another, I suppose.”

“That’s not what she says.”

“Oh?”

“I think I remember the phrase, ‘not worth the trouble’ in her explanation.”

“When did she say that?”

He ignored me. ”But back to divorce and remarriage, four times seems a lot for someone, even with your belief in optimism within your species.”
 

“Yes. Four times is a lot.”

“And according to your dominant religion, once is considered a sin?”

“Very much so.”

“Like loving money?”

“Yes.”

“And proclaiming your faith in the public square instead of in your closet?”

“Ditto.”

“And being judgemental?”

I'm optimistic that some women can find the right
mate after one unsuccessful marriage. - C.W.

“Are you going to take up “The Cloth” or something?”

“I already tried that. By the time I got to ‘Blessed are the meek’ half my congregation had walked out. ‘Blessed are the peace-makers’ got the rest of them.” He took a deep breath. “But tell me something.”

“I’ll try.”

He handed me the beginning of a letter he had been writing. “Do you think this will work? I’m betting it will.”

I read. It said, “Earthlings got you down? Look to the Cosmos. Once you go stellar, you’ll not want another feller.”

I was stunned. “You are giving me a headache,” I said. I’m sure you’ll give her one.”

“No,” he said, “I’ll give her the hope that comes from faith in a higher life-form, a real sexy one.”

 Please click some ads. They help pay my postage. Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com
And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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

Ask the Alien: Careers

Dear Alien:
Our son had, until this week, planned on becoming a porn star, partly because of inclination and partly because of natural attributes. We weren’t ecstatic over his decision but, on the other hand, it elicited a certain amount of family pride and we were so worried that he might otherwise become a hedge fund manager. Our problem is this: after watching television all week—with the news dominated by the Pope’s visit—he now wants to become a priest. Should we be concerned?
Partly Pious

Dear Partly Pious:

I can't see a problem as long as his robes are loose enough.
The Alien C.W.

How can you not love and adore a man who
looks this much like Jim Nabors? - C.W.

See also: www.wattensawpress.com

Interesting People

Dear Alien:
I read today of the passing of one of the most interesting baseball players who ever lived. This prompted me to do a search of all the current baseball players. I didn’t find a single one who would, in my opinion, qualify as interesting. I am a young sports writer. Whom will I write about in 50 years?
Worried

Dear Worried:
If you want to write about interesting personalities in future years, take my advice and change to writing about classic Rock and Roll. You’ll always have Keith Richards.
The Alien C.W.

So long. It's been good to know you. - C.W.
 

Ask the Alien: September 21, 2015

Dear Alien:
I so much want to be part of the crowd on social media. I know the best and fastest way to do this is to post cute-cat videos. This should be no problem for me as I have four cats and a nice video camera. I have one problem, however. None of my cats are cute. In fact, they are all surly, lazy, and self-centered, spending the entire day eating or sleeping, not a cute move among them. I have considered swapping them for others, but my friends' cats are worse. I've had them watch movies that might induce them to levity, but except for some rather listless "high-fives" when Old Yeller died, nothing. Any advice?
Perplexed

Dear Perplexed:
Hmm. Cute cats. Have you tried beautifying them with makeup? Now that's funny. Not the makeup, but the process of your trying to apply it. Have a friend ready with the camera, grab one of your hitherto un-jocular felines and pop out the lipstick. Make sure you have a second camera and operator standing by to film the reactions of the other cats. Put your dogs out of doors. Their howling and guffawing could be a distraction.
I've heard cats are partial to your cocktail known as a "Grasshopper." Be careful though, an evening's jollity may not be equal to a day dealing with cat hangovers. Nasty. Nasty.
Have you considered paying them? Cats are one of the most mercenary creatures on your planet.
Avoid the clichés such as the cat-in-a-bikini, the cat with sunglass, the cat with a hat, etc., although I haven't to date seen a cat wearing a Greek fisherman's hat. But, on second thought, maybe not.
All else failing, print off, and leave lying around, some food recipes from Asian countries in which cats are considered a delicacy and just happen to mention that those people don't think cats are very cute. You'll have one doing Groucho Marx in no time.
Your friend.
The Alien C.W.
www.wattensawpress.com

It still makes me laugh to think that someone
on your planet thought this was cute. - C.W.

277. Answers

C.W. may have discovered his true vocation this time, or as he put it recently, “I have found my strong inner impulse toward a particular course of action especially when accompanied by conviction of divine influence.”

“And,” I said, after thinking this over momentarily, “what do you perceive your ‘calling’ to be?

“I have begun an advice column.”

Now I understood why he appeared as a toned-down version of the actor Morgan Freeman. I couldn’t stop myself from playing along. “And what, exactly, are you going to offer advice about?”

“All things related to living among your species,” he said. “It is one of the most difficult tasks in the Galaxy. There are dynamics difficult even for us to understand, so I suspect it may be impossible for you, yourselves.”

“You think our civilization is complicated and confusing?”

“Sarah Palin,” was all he said.

“I see,” I said. “But how would an outsider like you be in a position to explain it?”

“I am smarter and more analytical than you.”

Upon hearing this, the urge to mention his frequent career changes and seemingly constant stream of reprimands from the Falloonian Elders came to mind, but I withstood it. “So what makes you think you would be successful at this latest endeavor?”

“I sense your cynicism but would invite you know I have already begun, with great results.” With that, he produced the briefcase that he carries around and began to retrieve papers. He thrust one at me. It read:

“Dear Ask the Alien:

“My wife was always a wonderful traveling companion, cheerful, agreeable, and willing to lead a spirited conversation aimed at whiling away the hours of travel. A year ago, however, she purchased a new cell phone that accesses the Internet. I haven’t heard a word from her since. When we travel, she sits and stares at the darned thing, punching messages and laughing to herself. I might as well travel solo. What might I do?” It was signed “Lonely Traveler.”

“Well,” I said. “I can’t imagine problem like that. What advice would you offer?”

“Oh,” he said, “I already have. Here.” He handed me another sheet and I read:

“Dear Lonely Traveler:

“Throw the offending instrument out the window.”

“That’s all?” I said.

“My secret lies in the quality or condition of being easy to understand,” he said.

“Simplicity is one thing,” I said, “suggesting a course of action that could lead to bodily harm is another. Do you have more?”

“Glad you asked,” he said. “Here’s a problem from another person.” I read:

Men: you just have to face facts. There are things in life
 more interesting than you. Many things. Sorry - C.W.

“Dear Ask the Alien:

“My husband was always a wonderful traveling companion, calm, agreeable and even tempered, until recently. We were on a trip, each minding our own affairs, when he suddenly reached over, grabbed my Smart Phone, and threw it over a bridge railing into the Arkansas River. What should I do? The last time I wrote you of a problem, you advised me to ‘cut him off.’ I should tell you that we are in our 70s, so I don’t think that advice will work.” It was signed, “Seeking Revenge.”

“Hmm,” I said. “And your advice?” He handed it to me.

“Dear Seeking Revenge:

“Go to his computer, pull up the browsing history, print it off, and send it to each of his friends and business associates.”

“Man,” I said. “You’re tough.”

“Check this one out,” he said, handing me another. It read:

“Dear Ask the Alien:

“One of my best friends is so excited that he was at last able to marry and have a husband. I am, of course, happy for him. But now he is making a spectacle of himself. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries (monthly), not to mention Valentine’s Day are so extravagantly planned that he is making the rest of us look cheap and tawdry. How can I cool the enthusiasm of this marriage so that it is more like a normal one?” It was signed, “Suffering by Comparison.”

I could hardly wait for the response as he passed it to me. I must say, it was a beaut.

“Dear Suffering:

“Before the next event, tell him in greatest secrecy that you happen to know what his husband wants most as a gift: a banjo.”

You know. I think the Alien may have found his calling at last. Feel free to seek answers for yourselves.

 Please click some ads. I hope to syndicate the column. Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com
And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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

Laughing Stock

Dear Friends and Followers:
I’ve enphased back in time to when Big Dope was young and performed some research. It seems like when there was a “fallen girl” in his class: her parents shut her away and pleaded with her for redemption, true friends prayed for her, her teachers shamed her, the other girls avoided her, the boys lined up for a (very secret) date, and the father(s) of any unforeseen results ran for cover.

Nowadays, your species will air her statements in the national media like she was Moses come down from the mountain.  The fact that she seems to have no education, knowledge, analytical skills, or moral foundation seems not to matter.

 

Now it even seems she is allowed to comment on the fate of a young genius who is a role model for all young students, a young man whose book satchel she shouldn't even be allowed to carry. As Big Dope would say, "Ya'll got some 'splaining to do."

Do you realize that this sort of thing is making your species the laughing stock of the galaxy?

Your Pal C.W.
(Don't tell Big Dope I posted this.)

276. Why oh Why?

C.W. is worrying the hell out of me. That’s not unusual, but this time he has assumed his shape of the teenager he calls Ronald Chadsworth, the National Merit Scholar. He appears as a youngster of color with piercing eyes, curly hair, countless questions, and a voice that would remove wallpaper. He always tests my patience.

The first question he asked illustrates my point. “Mr. Big Dope,” he began—when he is polite, I shudder, “why do the media report on what people ‘tweet?’ Isn’t that a bit like reporting on what one sees written on a bathroom wall in a truck stop?”
 

“Who knows,” I said. “Doesn’t it seem easier than actually going out and digging up news?”
 

“Why wouldn’t they want to go out and dig up news? It couldn’t be that difficult.”
 

“Have you ever tried it?”
 

He thought. “No, but all you would have to do us exchange text messages with the right person. Isn’t that right?”
 

“What if the right person didn’t text back?”
 

That stumped him, so he altered course. “Speaking of the right person,” he said, “when you were my age, did they print the ramblings of a sl … uh … a … a … what you called a ‘loose woman’ as news?”

“Only if she were arrested standing over a dead body with a smoking gun in her hand.”

“So bad girls with very little education weren’t considered experts?”

“Well maybe,” I said, “in certain fields, but they certainly didn’t discuss those things in the media.” I stopped. “Why so you ask?”
 

He didn’t respond, just opened a binder he was holding to a picture of Bristol Palin.

“Why don’t you go read Shakespeare?” I said.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“May I ask you another question,” I said, “and the answer is no.”

“What’s with the lady in England that wears all the funny hats?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why is that newsworthy? Wouldn’t it be more interesting to find a turtle that could do the ‘two-step’ and report on that?”

“Find one and we’ll see,” I said.

“Or a group of cats that have formed a Mariachi band?” He stopped. “Oh wait,” he said. “I did see that in the news.”

“In the news?”

“On Visage Page.”

As I understand it, the marriage
contract says she must look silly
at all times. Weird. - C.W.

“What’s on Facebook is not news,” I said.

“Back to the lady with the hats,” he said, “why do they report on what she does?”

“She’s the wife of a prince.”

“So he buys her the hats?”


“With his allowance, yes.”

“Oh,” he said, “and what does one do to be born a prince?”

“Be the son of a prince.”

“Is that the only way?”

“Or,” I said, “he could be the son of queen.”

He employed one of his sudden shifts in attention. “What does it mean to ‘pull yourself up by your own boot straps?’ I see it in the news all the time? Wouldn’t that defy the Law of Gravity? And,” he said, “your species is quite concerned with observing the law, I understand.”

“It’s a metaphorical saying,” I said, ignoring his sarcasm, “indicating the social desirability of taking responsibility for your own success in life.”

“Like the lady with the hats?”

I thought. “Yeah,” I said, “like the lady with the hats.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Now …”

I interrupted him. “Have you mastered matrix algebra yet?”

“Oh,” he said, “that was easy compared to understanding your species.”

He had me there. “Well what about so-called ‘String Theory.’ Couldn’t you go work on that?”

“I knew all there is to know about that before I came to your planet,” he said. “Now tell me about birth control.”

Oh hell. “Some people don’t like it,” I said.
 

“So what do they do?”

“They try to get rid of it.”

“So there will be more babies born?”

“Yes.”

“Some to women who can’t care for them?”

“Yes.”

“Who cares for them?”

“We don’t worry about that, as long as it isn’t the taxpayers.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. Saves money I suppose.”

“Oh,” said, nodding his head. “I understand. Now,” he said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be exploring the writings of Kant?”

He ignored me. “Tell me,” he said, “about the high cost your country pays for incarcerating prisoners.”
 

 Please click some ads. Mrs. Big Dope needs a new hat.Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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

Nightmares

It's this way... I never know whether C.W. sleeps or not. He pretends to, but then he may just be having some fun at my expense. In either case, he slides in this morning as I was writing, looking much like a sleepy, confused teenaged boy, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
"I had a nightmare last night," he said.
I continued typing. "That's nice," I said.
"It scared me."
"That's nice."
"Are you even listening?"
That got my attention. I stopped and looked at him. "What's up?"
"I had this scary dream."
"About what?"
"That weird preacher who's running for president."
I thought. "The one that acts a little crazier each day?"
"That's him."
"So what did he do in your dream?"
"It was about that bizarre woman in Kentucky, too."
"There are lot of bizarre women in Ky...." Then it dawned on me. "Oh," I said. "That one."
"Yeah," he said. "The one they locked up."
"Yep. But what did she have to do with the crazy preacher?"
"Did you see where he offered to take her place in jail?"
"Seems I read something about that. Why?"
"In my dream they took him up on his offer."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. They let her out and locked him up."
"A real zero-sum exchange," I said.
"He got out after awhile, in my dream."
"None the worse for wear, I hope."
"Oh no. He seemed very happy."
"To see his wife and family, I suppose."
"Oh no," he said. "Just the opposite."
This really got my attention. I turned and said, "Tell me more."
"He was holding hands with someone."'
"Really?" I said. "His lawyer."
"No, another inmate."
"No. Who?"
"A big, ugly, mean-looking man."
"Get out of town."
"Really," he said. "You won't believe what he told the reporters."
"What?"
"He said, 'I have quit ignoring this thorn in my side, and I'd like to introduce you to my fiancé, Rufus Lee.' Then he started to leave."
"What happened next?"
"He said, 'I'd talk more but we're going over and get my divorce papers and a marriage license. You can get them both at the same place in this county.'"
"C.W," I said, 'why don't you go back to bed?"

See also: www.wattensawpress.com
www.allhatnocattle.com

Labor Day Special

This morning C.W. walked in, having assumed one of his more somber shapes, that of "Perry C. the Ph.D," a thoughtful man in a tweet jacket and smart bow tie. He wanted to question me about a man I had introduced him to, a person to whom I had been close my entire life.

“I’m still curious,” he said. “Are you telling me the truth—that he is retired on a comfortable company retirement?”

“Yes.”

“He was a Union man?”

“A Union Steward.”

“So his retirement grew from Union membership?”

“Yes.”

“And he enjoys the benefits of what you call ‘Medicare’ in his retirement?”

“Yes.”

“And you tell me that he is a closeted gay man?”

“Yes.”

“How closeted?”

“Not entirely.”

 

"And he professes to be very religious?"

 

"Yes."

 

"So he would consider homosexuality a 'thorn in his side' and a sin?"

 

"Yes."

“You’re saying he didn’t ‘cure’ himself through his religion?”

“Yes. I’m telling you that, and believe me when I tell you.”

“Then tell me something else,” he said.

“What?”

“You say that he votes conservative now, not progressive?”

“Yes.”

“And he refers to the President of your United States as that ‘Ni …”

“Yes,” I said, interrupting him.

“Tell me,” he said. “Does it have anything to do with the 52-inch television that he sits in front of all day?”

“Yes.”

“The one that is turned to that Fox, so-called, ‘News’ channel each time we visit?”

“Yes.”

He sat and thought for a long time. “Then tell me,” he said, “are there many like him?”

“The country is full of them.”

“I may need to go home soon,” he said.

 

See also: www.wattensawpress.com

www.allhatnocattle.com

 

275. Role Models

What in the h…? I couldn’t believe it dear reader and neither will you. I woke up long before the rest of the family and wandered into the living room with a cup of coffee and, oh dear, words are inadequate.

There sat Hattie McDaniel behind my computer. Or, there sat Hattie in her role as Mammy in Gone With The Wind. Or something.

It was C.W., but why?

“It’s Labor Day Weekend, Hon,” she … it… he said.

“So?”

“I’m givin’ you the day off.”

“The day off?”

“I done wrote your weekend piece for you.”

“You,” I said, stammering, “wrote my weekend piece?”

“I did.”

“And you want me to post it?”

“Just come look at it.”

I did. It’s not what I would have done. Too controversial. But, I had to appreciate the thought. Here it is just as he, she, did it.

 Dear Friends and all:

Your actions, as reported in your popular media, indicate that you tend to choose role models to enhance your personal beliefs. This is unusual for me, since Falloonians choose to base our beliefs on logic and analysis. Anyway, I have analyzed your choices of role models, as indicated by recent postings in what you call social media, particularly VisageDocument. (Editor’s note: He means Facebook.)

Now it seems that, at one end of the spectrum, many of y'all have chosen this face as a role model.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the other end, many of y'all have chosen this face as a role model.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After much thought and analysis, I have come to a conclusion.

Babies, y’all need to work on y’alls' role models. Real bad.

If you wonder why I say that, just think about it for a minute. Would you like for me to report back to the Falloonian Elders that these are the kinds of people your species looks to for guidance in their personal lives?

I didn’t think so either. Why don’t y’all let me make some suggestions?

Here is one. She is Captain Kristen Marie Griest, of your United States Army.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is another. She is First Lieutenant Shaye Lynne Haver of that same army.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now these two women just graduated from the United States Army Ranger School and they would make fine roles models. At least it seems so to me.

 

At any rate, don’t y’all be messing around with either one of them. And have a good day.

“Well,” he said, after I had looked it over, “reckon it would offend anybody?”

“Only just about everybody,” I said. “But what the heck?”

Please click some ads. I worked hard on this for you.

Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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

274. Scriptures

What’s this all about over in Kentucky.” C.W. looked up at me when I walked into the room and found him in one of his rare moments of watching TV, looking a lot like his Grandpa Amos McCoy character.

“What, over in Kentucky?” I said.

“This county employee that won’t do her job. She’s a pill, by golly.” He cackled.

“Oh the woman who doesn’t like gay couples and won’t give them marriage licenses?”

“That’s the one. She says it’s not because she don’t like gays.”

“Yes.” I said, “and Robert E. Lee said he didn’t wage war against his own country four years because he didn’t like black people.”

He looked at me funny. “He always said that violating his oath had nothing to do with slavery,” he said. “In fact, he was agin’ it.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I suppose that’s why, when his army marched into Pennsylvania, they rounded up all the free African-Americans they could find and sent them South to be sold, according to the scriptures.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “But about this sister in Kentucky.”

“What about her?”

“She says it ain’t Biblical for a person to marry gays.”

“Well,” I said. “It ain’t Biblical for one person to judge another person, either.”

“She thinks she’s acting on higher authority.”

“So did the World Trade Center bombers.”

“You don’t like her much, do you?”

“I don’t know her,” I said.

 “But you don’t thinks she would pass the pass ‘The Trip To the Calvinasian Galaxy Test,’ I reckon.”

“The Trip To the Calvinasian Galaxy Test?”

“To take a long trip confined in a spaceship with a nutcase.”

“We call it,” I said, “The Trip To California Test.’ And no, I hardly think I would like to make it with her. Besides, she’s breaking the law and violating her duty to observe it.”

“But she cites a scripture to support herself.”

“So do parents who beat their children to death.”

“Are you telling me,” he said, “that your species is free to cite any scripture that supports their insanity and ignore those that don’t?”

“That’s pretty much it,”

“That’s Kopapilakrapuhdae,” he said.

Making sense of things in Kentucky is
as hard as making sense of banjo music. - C.W.

“No doubt,” I said.

“So, say I … uh … say a woman was to bust up all her husband’s guitars and banjoes, based on the scripture that says ‘Make a joyful noise,’ and the sounds y…, uh, the man was making wasn’t very joyful, there would be spiritual absolution?”

“Not at all,” I said, “any scholar of the scriptures knows that a woman exists solely to serve her husband, and that would hardly be serving him, now would it?”

“Have you explained that to Mrs. Big Dope?”’

“She doesn’t need to understand it. As Job said, ‘Can anyone understand the spreading of the clouds, the thunderings of his pavilion?.’”

He started to cackle and said, “That’s purty good, so …” he stopped and turned toward the TV. “Wait,” he said, “they’re going live to Kentucky. Hey … can you hear that banjo music playing?”

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Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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