Sunday, October 23, 2016

344. Confusion

C.W. is caught in a loop. He’s settled on one shape for a while. He’s sticking with “The Galilean.” Seems it suits his fancy and irritates the Fallloonian Elders at the same time.

I did get him to modify the robe. He shortened it into a loose fitting white 1960s era pullover with linen trousers and sandals. He gets a few stares but so far we haven’t been arrested. So, I took him for a walk one day last week so we could talk. He looked fairly normal until he pulled a Chicago Cubs hat from a drawer and screwed it down over this long hair.

“What?” he said when I looked at him and shook my head. “Look pal,” he said. “I, for one, can sure tell you that miracles can do happen. Don’t start in with me. Remember what I did those stupid pigs?”

I shrugged and we took off from our condo on the east side and walked toward the tall buildings. Two blocks later, we met a young woman walking a small, but well-groomed young poodle. C.W. stopped, tipped his Cubs hat and said, “Afternoon ma’am. Taking Tiger out for his afternoon walk?”

She pulled the lease tight, and crossed the street at a right angle to us. Halfway across, she stopped, looked back, then hurried on.

“I like to greet my people,” he said. “They do love me so.”

I said nothing and we walked on. Our conversation had drifted to drone warfare. “I told them,” he said, “that the peace makers were blessed as far as I was concerned. What the hell part of that do they not understand?” He stopped, turned to me and asked for a quarter. I handed him one. He walked to the curb and inserted it into and expired meter. “Like the candidate says,” he said as he returned. “Do it to them like you’d want them to do it to you.”

“Uh ...,” I said, but he interrupted.

“I’m thirsty, let’s stop in for a cold one.”

We were in front of a local pub and diner with a loyal clientele and a nice view of the busy streets outside. We went in a took a seat. A nice young person of indeterminate gender immediately came to take our order. “Do you have Gitztusmilinga beer?” C.W. asked.

“Never heard it,” the server said.

“Oh my child,” C.W. said, “You are so deprived. It’s a favorite where I come from.”

“I can’t help that,” the server said. “We have Bud, Bud Light, Mil …”

“Just bring me a glass of water,” he said. “I’ll make my own drink.” Seeing no response, he added, “That’s supposed to be a joke.”

“Miller Light, Dos Equis, Mich …”

“Just bring us a couple of Stellas,” I said. The sever looked relieved and scurried off.

When the beers arrived, he took a long drink, lowered the mug to the table, and said, “I’m pissed off about this divorce thing,” he said.

“I’m not sure,” I said, “that you’re supposed to be using that sort of language.” I stopped. “What divorce thing?”
Hell, next thing you know, they'll be talking about
how much I love rich people. - C.W.

“Didn’t I tell them it was a sin?”

“Very plainly,” I said. “I agree, but …”

“Stick your ‘but’ where the sun doesn’t shine,” he said. “I told them it was a sin and now they say it’s being taken out of the discourse that surround a word or passage and can throw light on its meaning.”

“You mean taken out of context.”

“That’s what I said. Don’t change the subject.” He took a long drink and signaled to the server to be preparing another. “I told them divorces really got on my nerves and these … these … these … what was it I called them last time we discussed it? Holy-rotators?”

“Evangelicals,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said. “The ones who claim to talk directly to me. The server sat another beer in front of him, took the empty away, and hurried back to the bar. “Now ain’t that a joke?”

I was having a good time playing along. “So you don’t talk to them?”

“Hell no,” he said, slamming his mug on table so hard that a bit of beer spilled out. He wiped it with a finger and licked the finger. “I wouldn’t talk to them if they knew where Scarlett Johansson lived.” He took a drink. “There’s someone else who talks to them. I’ll tell you about him someday.” He paused took a breath and lowered his voice. “Anyway,” he said, “I understand that these … these … these … what did you call them?”


“Yeah, evangilistas. I understand they intend to vote for a man who has had two divorces. That’s crap if you ask me.”

I shrugged.

“Ain’t that a bit,” he said, “like a Cubs fan rooting for some team in, oh, I don't know ... Ohio?”

Click on some ads. It costs them money and makes me some.

Also check out

And buy Big Dope's book at Amazon

or .

No comments:

Post a Comment