Friday, October 30, 2015

Ask The Alien: Science and Logic

Dear Ask the Alien:
My brother is saving every cent he can find to pay for joining an expedition to find something called Noah's Arc. Supposedly, he says, a pair of every species on our planet lived on it for weeks during a worldwide flood that killed all other living creatures. He says modern scientific methods will now guide the expedition to it. He is becoming obsessed. What can I do?

Dear Distressed:
You might point out to him that they might find it, by simple mapping and without travel expense, by simultaneously re-tracing the DNA trails of all living species and the fossil trails of the extinct ones. The converging lines should lead them right to it. If it doesn't, you might suggest that he enroll in a community college that offers a course in logic.
Your Friend,
The Alien C.W.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

291. Seriousness

We were walking along talking when C.W. turned and asked a strange question. He was in the form of Ozzie Nelson, one of his favorites.

Don’t ask.

At any rate, he turned quite somber and seemed to take a long time framing his question.

“Why,” he said, “does your species not take itself more seriously?”

“Say what?”

“More seriously. You seem to make a joke of the most vital aspects of your existence. Politicians become entertainers. Spiritual leaders become greedy hate-mongers, or start passing deadly snakes to one another. Physicians dream up imaginary syndromes, allergies, and disorders in order to make money. Your pharmacists join them in an unholy symbiosis. You force educators to become test givers. You sedate young people by connecting them with hand-held devices.”

I needed to escape from this line of talk. “Don’t your Falloonian teenagers have cell phones?”

“Our gestation period is not as long as yours,” he said. “It’s the longest in the galaxy,” he said, avoiding my question.

“The what?”

“Homo sapiens. They have the longest gestation period in the galaxy. I’ve recorded it as long as 30 years before your offspring are cast off to survive alone.”

“But …”

He interrupted. “And there is an alarmingly high rate of recidivism beginning to develop.”

I tacked the sails of our conversation. “But what makes you think we don’t take ourselves seriously?”

“Oh please,” he said. “Read the news.”

I bristled. “But I do.”

“Then, about whom do you read?”

“Well, there’s the President. And the Pope. And foreign leaders. And prominent artists.”

“And the Kardashians. And the professional players of children’s games. And the commentators on that fake news channel. And people who have been driven insane by your so-called religions, including the ones who worship firearms. And people pretending to be political candidates in order to become wealthy. And people who think cats are cute. And …”

“Now wait a minute,” I said. “You’re being unfair.”


“Yes,” I said.

“Unfair in my analysis?”

“Yes. You aren’t taking this conversation seriously.”

“Exactly how am I not taking this conversation seriously?”

“Well,” I said. “Some cats are cute.”

“Mrs. Big Dope makes you say that.”

“Well,? I said. “It …”

Now who, in his right mind, would say
that these are more fun to watch than
someone like Bill Moyers? I ask you. - C.W.
“I understand,”  he said. “But to my original point. Equal billing is equal billing.”

I hate it when he gets like this.

He continued. “Your attention- span arcs from the sublime—a Neil deGrasse Tyson—to the pathetic—say that half-witted and sexually promiscuous daughter of a failed political candidate.”

“Bristol Palin,” I said, almost absentmindedly.

“See,” he said. “Your mind identified her immediately as a person of interest.”

“Are you trying to torture me?” I said.

“No,” he said. “Your species seems quite capable of undertaking that task on its own.

 Please click some ads. I need a new cell phone. Oh, and see
And ...
Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

Available at major on-line retailers, or

Saturday, October 24, 2015

Ask the Alien: Smuggling

Dear Ask The Alien
How does all that (2 tons per month) Heroin get from the Afghan to Philly (where I live)? As an alien, you must know if nonhumans are getting this toxic material past the NSA.

Dear Anonymous:
First, allow me to dispel an odious rumor. NSA agents are not aliens. They, particularly their TSA cousins, scarcely ever exhibit the Alien-like characteristics of charm, poise, empathy, intelligence and good humor. No, they are ordinary Americans. Now, as far as nonhumans getting the material into the country, have you considered the never-ending stream of congressional fact finding missions to the Middle East?
Your Friend,
The Alien C.W.

Friday, October 23, 2015

Ask the Alien: Addiction

Dear Ask The Alien:
My teen-aged son has become addicted to watching a program on cable TV called Fox News. I fear this will have a long-term negative effect on his mental health. I suspect that his interest has to do with the fact that all the female actors on the show are attractive blonds. In fact, my son has taken to draping a large blanket over him while he watches. Nothing on my part seems to work. For example, yesterday I told him that I had read where watching that particular channel would make a person stupid and that he should stop watching it—stop it immediately. He looked at me with that precious face and said. “Can I just do it until I need remedial English?” Any advice?
You know, I think I need to do more research on this channel.
Anyone know where I might find it? - C.W.

Dear Distraught:
You have taken the wrong approach. Teenagers embrace stupidity. They don’t eschew it. Have you listened to their music? For better results, tell him that you read where watching the show causes acne.
Your Friend,
The Alien C.W.

See also

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Ask the Alien: Insanity

Dear Ask The Alien:
My Husband drives me crazy. Any suggestions?
Losing It.

Dear Losing It:
You haven't told me how long this has been going on. My research shows that this phenomenon can begin as early as the honeymoon when a husband first reveals the list of, shall we say, intimacy techniques, that he has dreamed of since his high school days. Or it may develop slowly in behavior such as the continued practice of sticking his fork into his cheek when an attractive young female walks by. I have even heard that it can develop in the so-called "golden years" with a developing habit of responding to any and all comments or questions with a dumbfounded "Huh?"
Of course if the problem is more serious such as the habit of hiding fruit in his nightstand in the fear that you may begin starving him, I suggest immediate action. Otherwise, I would simply talk to other women about the problem. In all likelihood, you will find you aren't so bad off after all.
Your Friend,
The Alien C.W.

Sunday, October 18, 2015

290. Horror

“Think I’ll return to my writing career.”

I burrowed my head deeper into the book I was reading and pretended not to hear.

“Are you listening? I’m resuming my writing career,” C.W. said.

“What writing career?”

“The one you keep discouraging with your lack of the action of giving someone support, confidence, or hope.”

“My lack of encouragement is for your own good,” I said. For the first time, I looked up. There sat Edgar Allen Poe, or at least how the historical biographies picture him. Oh no. Halloween is approaching. I braced for the worst. “You should consider new careers,” I said. “What happened to your plan to become a country parson?”

“Nevermore,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I tried it.”


“I quit after preaching goodness, love, respect for one another, forgiveness, understanding, and all that for months.”

“What happened?”

“Darkness there and nothing more." He stopped, looked around, and said, "The sons of bitches wouldn’t pay me.”

“I see. So now you are going to write?”


“About what?”

“Gothic horror. Creating dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

“I see. Do you have a plot in mind?”

“A dreadfully frightening one it seems, just in time for Halloween.”

I quickly returned to my book.

“I’d love to share it with you,” he said, as if I had requested it.

“Oh that might be bad luck,” I said.

“A true modern gothic villain,” he said. “He will become as feared among children as Montresor in The Cask of Amontillado, a truly terrifying creature.”

“Good,” I said, “now why don’t you go and work on it and leave me in peace.”

“I’d be glad to,” he said. “It goes like this.”

I laid the book across my stomach.

“There is this children’s entertainer, puppets, music, and such, who goes from village to village making children happy—only a child himself. His name is Parabello.” He stopped and looked to make sure I was listening.

I nodded, giving in. “Go ahead.”

“So he does this for years.”

“And no one seems to realize that he is getting older. He keeps applying makeup, more and more makeup, to make it appear that he doesn’t age.”

I nodded.

He continued. “So he becomes more and more famous and wealthy entertaining the children. He takes some of his money and builds a vast park where he takes selected and fortunate children to entertain them on special outings. He calls it Fairyland, and creates a wondrous experience for the children”

“You might want to think on that name a bit,” I said.

He ignored me. “Then one day, years after he has been entertaining children there for days on end, a mother stops him.”

I began to doze. He continued. “She asks him how old he is. He says, ‘Beat it.’ She says ‘I want to know how old you are.’ He says, ‘Leave me alone.’ She says, are you listening to me?” This time he screamed.

I woke up.

He yelled, “I said are you listening to me?”

“Of course,” I said. “I just nodded, nearly napping. What happens next?”

“The mother unlocks the fact that Parabello is not a child but a man nearly 50 years old.”

“Oh my. And he has been having bunking parties with his little fans?”

“His claim is this, that they only played games and frolicked, nothing farther then he uttered.”

“Does it work?”

“Hardly. The people send him away saying he will remain nameless here for evermore.”

“So his memory becomes a thing of terror?”

“What else? I mean, imagine a forty-something year-old man dressing up in heavy makeup and pretending to be a child as he frolics around with real children. How else could his image be recalled? An icon? Someone to be emulated? A man who never left his childhood state, merely this and nothing more?”

My poor idol only made money on one thing he wrote.
It was a scientific work on spiders. Me? I intend
to get rich despite Big Dope's lack of help. - C;W;
I sat stupefied.

“So what do you think?”

“I think you and I need to have a long talk about my species.’

“I have another,” he said. “It starts many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea.”

“Please beam one of us up,” I said. “Please.” Then I swear I heard this voice boom down from somewhere up above.


 Please click some ads. I'll have advertising costs. Oh, and see
And ...
Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

Available at major on-line retailers, or

Sunday, October 11, 2015


We took C.W. to the state fair yesterday. Maybe we shouldn't have. He showed up to go as a gangly 12- year old boy with a "Cowboys for Jesus" tee-shirt, faded jeans, and those old wide-top cowboy boots that they used to wear in the 1940s western movies. His jeans were carefully turned up an inch and a half at the bottoms. He looked a fright, but refused to change.

"It's a cowboy-themed affair, isn't it?"

We both simply sighed and put him in the car with my mother-in-law. She wasn't sure where he came from, but she was certain that she didn't care for him. "Stay on your side," she warned.

"She keeps looking at me," he said as we entered the freeway headed for the state capitol.

"I'll take you both back home," I said. They were quiet until he started whistling "Home on the Range."

"Make him stop," she said.

"C.W," I said, "can you please be quiet until we get there?"

"I thought I was supposed to enjoy myself. Are we there yet?"

"Not yet," I said. "Just be quiet."

He muttered something I couldn't quite understand but I think it was Falloonian. Anyway, we made it to the fairgrounds without incident until we reached the entrance whereupon he began insisting that he was a visitor from another planet and should be allowed in free. Just as the ticket seller reached to call a security guard, I slapped our money on the counter, grabbed our tickets, and ushered him through.

That's when the real fun started.

He spent twenty dollars shooting targets with a cork and the attendant finally gave him a stuffed Koala Bear, more out of pity than reward, I think. My wife insisted later that it was simply to get rid of him. I think she was right. At any rate, he insisted that my mother-in-law carry it for him so he could, as he explained, it. "Keep my hands free for other displays of skill."

Then we came to the "Tsunami."

It was a ride consisting of a row of seats attached to a long arm with a weight on the other end. The attendant would begin swinging it back and forth until momentum took it in a complete rotation.

"Oh," he said, "come ride it with me."

I said, "Are you crazy?"

He looked at my wife and she gave him that "battered Falloonian" look that she has perfected so well over the years.

"If you want to ride it, you'll have to go it alone," I said.

"That's no fun," he said.

"I'll go with you," my mother-in-law said.

"No," I said.

"Come on," she said, thrusting the Koala Bear into my arms, and they were gone. My wife just stood shaking her head.

What can I say? I became a little nauseated just watching them rock back and forth until the weight took them in their circle. When it stopped, the lady sprang from her seat and fairly pranced down the steps, scarcely assisted by the operator.

"Can we do it again?" she said.

Then we looked back to see a couple of men helping C.W. from his seat. He exited like a sailor leaving a Subic Bay beer joint, literally bouncing off each side of the exit. For some genetic reason, Falloonians tend to glitter when they turn green. As a crowd began to gather, we hustled him away. The Dairy Barn was the closest thing that didn't cost money, so we ushered him in and looked at the cows until he regained his composure.

Boy, did he.

The rather huge bags on the cows transfixed him. "What on earth are those," he demanded.

A rather pretty young girl of 18 or so was tending the Holstein that drew his attention. She first looked at him as though he was crazy. Then she looked at me. I shrugged. She looked back at C.W. "That is her udder," she said, "the teats where the milk comes from."
Despite what Big Dope says, I think I'll look
great as a cowboy. - C.W.

He stared at them, then at her, then back at he cow, then back at her. "Why are they so much bigger than yo..."?

"Got to go now," I said. "Thanks for the explanation."

As we sped away, my mother-in-law said, "Is he really that stupid or is he just showing off?"

My wife said, "I told you not to bring him."

C.W. said, and everyone within fifty feet heard him, "Gee this is fun. Can we do it again next year? Hey, there is the Angus Bull building. Maybe they have oversized things too."

For those who may think it couldn't get much worse after that, trust me. It could. Let's just say that a fun day at the fair is no fun day with a Falloonian.

 Please click some ads. I spent all my money having a great time at the fair. Oh, and see
And ...
Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

Available at major on-line retailers, or

Monday, October 5, 2015

Ask the Alien ... banishment

Dear Ask the Alien:
My trip to Walmart yesterday started off wonderfully. My wife didn't accompany me so I was able to shop in the appropriate direction which, as everyone knows, is counter-clockwise. She has been known to, without consulting me or without even offering a "fare thee well," sail off in the wrong direction, to my great distress. This makes the "produce" section the last stop and creates a most unstable experience.
Anyway, I enjoyed my shopping. A young associate even listened politely to my suggestion that the Raman Noodles would best be placed alongside the condoms for more effective marketng. The world was a pleasant place.
Then ... catastrophe.
My cashier of choice wasn't working yesterday. Upon inquiry, I learned it was her day off and that they had failed to notify me beforehand. Consequently, I was forced to check out with a complete stranger. That's when it happened. This, this, this ... person began to rotate the grocery bag carousel in the wrong direction. Can you believe it?
Well believe this then. A screaming man attracts a good deal of attention in Walmart. After I explained her transgression, of all things I was told that I am banned from Walmart. I'm not sure if it is all Walmarts or just the one that is the appropriate distance from where I live, but I am devasted.
Please advise me as to how I can resume my shopping at Walmart.

Dear Banished:
On your next visit, wear a freshly laundered pair of khaki pants and white shirt with a fashionable tie. Polish your shoes, tend your nails. make sure any tattoos are covered. Brush your teeth and, if any are missing, keep your mouth closed. Make sure you are wearing your pants high enough to cover the upper terminus of your buttocks, that your hair has been recently cut, and you are sans baseball cap.
You will never be mistaken for a past Walmart shopper.
Your Friend,
The Alien.

Oh ... and ditch the ear buds and cell phone. - C.W.

See also:

Sunday, October 4, 2015

288. Pickup Lines

This morning, I caught C.W. reading The Song of Songs, aka the Song of Solomon again. He was even in his common shape of an ungainly 15-year old boy in faded jeans, a long shock of blond hair, a Metallica T-shirt, and faint hints of acne. He was reading earnestly and eating a pomegranate—with a little too much gusto if you ask me.

“You’re going to end up needing glasses,” I said.

“My beloved is to me a pouch of myrrh which lies all night between my breasts,” he said. Then he added, “Wow.” Pomegranate juice dribbled down his chin.

“May I ask what you are doing?”

“Studying scriptures, man,” he said. “Ain’t that what you told me to do?”

I thought for a moment, then recalled. “I was rather thinking of the New Testament,” I said.

“The old is father to the new,” he said. “Besides, this is much more fun than a bunch of do-gooder parables.”

I sighed. “Is there a way I can have you sent back to Falloonia?”

He crunched a bite of pomegranate and, reading from the text, said, “Did you ever tell a girl that her body was like a rolling landscape?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Or that her breasts were like spiced mountains?”

“Certainly not.”

“Someone told me,” he said, “that you once compared a pair of them to a couple of watermelons hanging from the back of a wagon in a tow sack.”

“Who told you that?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Here’s some good ones: ‘Her neck is like the Tower of David, set with warriors’ shields. Her eyes are pools in Heshbon, her nose like the tower of Lebanon, her head crowns her like Mount Carmel.’ Ever try any of those?”

“I’m going to report you to the Falloonian Elders.”

“Hey,” he said, reading, “did you ever tell Mrs. Big Dope that her hair looked like ‘goats leaping down the slopes of Gilead’”?

“I hardly think so.”

“You did, as I recall,” he said, “tell her one morning that her hair looked like a band of mice had held a square dance in it.”

I said nothing.

He laughed. “You never did that again, did you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Here’s a sure-fire winner,” he said. “’Your teeth are like a flock of newly shorn ewes which have come up from their washing, all of which bear twins, and not one among them has lost her young.’ I’ll bet that one would work out well for you.”

“C.W.,” I said, “I don’t think the Song of Solomon was intended as a dating guide, sex manual, or source of pickup lines. In fact, some Biblical scholars don’t believe someone should read it until they are over 30 years old, lest they kindle ‘the flames of lust.’”

“Thirty years old? Yuck. A lot of good it will do them then.”

“Someday,” I said, “I think we need to have a long talk.”

Some Biblical pickup lines seem to
work better than others. Trust me. - C.W.
“Your long talks,” he said, “confuse me more than your Bible.”

“Are we finished?”

He ignored me. “So what is your take on it? This Song of Solomon.”

“I haven’t a clue. Some say it was written by King Solomon to his wife, or lover.”

He consulted some notes. “Which one? Says here he had 700 wives and 300 concuines.”

I groaned.

He continued. “So this crazy dame over in Kentucky will issue 700 marriage certificates to the same man as long as none of them are for another man?”

I closed my eyes, then opened them as thoughts began to flood my head. “Let me take a look,” I said. “What was that about a pouch of myrrh between the breasts?”

 Please click some ads. They help pay for my studies. Oh, and see
And ...
Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

Available at major on-line retailers, or

Saturday, October 3, 2015


Dear Ask The Alien:
My wife won't let me post the following work on social media. I worked all morning on it but she says no. She claims that Gomer Pyle left a lasting positive image on the public and that image should be preserved. I say that Gomer, along with all mortals, is not above levity. And I don't care who you are, this is funny. What is your advice?

Besides, I fail to see the resemblance. - C.W.

Dear Humorist:
I think you should say ten "Hail Gomers" and choose another hobby. Also, you should be thankful for having such an insightful censor as ... well ... as your wife.
Your Friend,
The Alien

See also:

Thursday, October 1, 2015


Dear Ask the Alien:
My wife drives me crazy when we go shopping. After we find what we came for, she continues to look. No matter how much I try to explain to her that there may be a good football game on TV, she insists on wasting my time by looking at items she has no intention of purchasing. How can I get her to leave?
Missing Kickoff

Dear Missing Kickoff:
Recently I saw something at a park that might solve your problem. It was designed for a child, but should work with a wife. It is a halter with a leash attached and allows one to control the movements of a …

Please pardon the delay. Someone disagreed with my answer to your question and I had to wait until my knuckles quit hurting before I could type again. I would simply say to you, let your wife have her fun. I’m sure she deserves it. Mrs. Big Dope certainly does.
Your Friend,
Have a question for “Ask the Alien?” Send it via “comments,” below.
Fans tell me that men have actually grown old and passed
 away while waiting for their wives to finish shopping. - C.W.

See: to order Big Dope's book
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