Sunday, August 21, 2016

335. Explaining

 It’s a rainy day with no chance to go outdoors. The family is off doing things, and I’m left alone with C.W. The politics are oozing from the bizarre to the ridiculous and we don’t care to watch the Olympics on TV. I’ve settled in with a stack of magazines, wanting to catch up and enjoy the respite, and, you guessed it, it’s “Splainin’ Day.”

First clue? C.W. entered in his best Ricky Ricardo form and in a highly agitated state. “Hey Big Dope,” he yelled, “you got some splainin’ to do.”


He sat across from me. “I’m confused,” he said. “You gotta tell me ‘bout some tings.”

“Like what?” I laid the magazine on a table.

“Let’s start with these races,” he said, holding up the sports section of the paper. “What difference does it make if one person gets to a point a fraction of a second before the rest?”

“I suppose it’s a test of excellence,” I said.

“Ain’t they all within what you call one standard deviation?”

“I suppose so.”


“What else can I explain?”

“You ain’t ‘splained that yet,” he said, “but here’s another. I been talkin’ to the Galilean.”

“You are the Galilean,” I said. “At least when you want to be. Try explaining that.”

He looked at me with a quizzical expression. “Don’t you never talk to yourself?”

“Only when I question why I put up with you.”

“So I axed the Galilean …”

“You didn’t ‘axe’ the Galilean. You asked him. There’s a big difference. Let’s adjust your Galactic Universal Translator.”

“You leave my GUT out of this,” he said. “it is just fine ... don’t need no meddlin’ with.”

“Next question,” I said.

“The Galilean says divorces, they suck.”

“He phrased it that way?”

“I tink so.”

“So he is against divorces?”

“Oh yeah. He says they …”

“I know. They suck.”

“You been talkin’ to him too?”

“So what about divorces?”

“You ever heard of this Franklin Graham man?”

“The evangelist?”

“The one say he talk to God.”

“Yes. I’ve heard of him.”

“He say God tell him Americans got to vote for a man done had two divorces and, like Mrs. Big Dope say, ‘the crack of dawn ain’t safe around him.’ What’s up with this?”

“Mr. Graham is a sick man.”

“He got cancer or sometin’?”

“No, he’s deranged,” I said. “Next question.”

“Why you got such a small house?”


“Why you make me live in such a small house. The Falloonian over in Virginia lives in a 10,000 square foot home. Plenty of room.”
Vote for a man endorsed
by the KKK? Que? - C.W.

“Maybe he lives with a large family.”

“Just a man and his wife.”

“Maybe they are rich.”

“They both work two jobs. Know what?”

“No. What?”

“She got a desk in her bathroom in case she want to write a letter or sometin’”

“Americans like big houses, I said.

“Mrs. Big Dope say they be compensatin,’” he said.

“Next question.”

He thought. “Why your Doctors give their patients antibiotics for viruses? They don’t even do that on Rumpamundovia?”

“I think because their patients demand it,” I said. I started to say more but I heard noises from the next room. Someone was listening. Then a high-pitched, mocking, female voice yelled out.

“Honey, I’m home,” it said.

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